Tag Archives: flash

Flash Fiction: Cut

Black and white nude of a woman with a long braid down her back by Jeanloup Sieff for Flash Fiction: Cut by Malin James

Photograph by Jeanloup Sieff

They’ve played with knives before – sliced through rope and tape. Her second favorite bra. Blade on her clit. Blade on his cock. Pressure. Testing. Implication. Never a cut though. Never quite a cut….

But they’ve talked about it. They’ve talked a lot.

“Would you really let me cut you?”

She asks again one night. They’ve fucked each other senseless and she’s tucked in his arms, lulled by the scent of his skin.

He’s quiet. She waitsthe answer in his pulse.

“Yes,” he finally says. She feels it land, like a penny in her palm. Yes,” he says again. “But don’t fuck around.”

She nods, keen and bright as a fox.

“Of course. You know I won’t.”

The knife they usually play with is in a drawer by the bed, but she doesn’t get that knife. Instead, she goes to the bathroom. The straight razor is old, perfect and old, made when things were meant to last. It unfolds in her hand like a memory…gnarled hands, lather, a boar bristle brush…. This razor has a history. It’s touched a lot of skin. Now, it’s going to touch more.

He props himself up on his elbows when she comes back in. The razor is folded, snug and safe, like a slender bird sleeping in her palm.

“Tape,” he asks.

“No.”

She knows he won’t like it – he’d rather be restrained. It’s so much easier when you pretend there’s no choice. But she likes him unbound and he knows it. He knows and he’ll do it for her.

He nods. Her eyes soften. She straddles him and pins his arms wide. Her own Vitruvian Man.

“Thank you,” she murmurs. “Keep your arms here. Now, be very still.”

His hands look relaxed but they’re not. She can tell. But he’ll keep them where they are. It’s a matter of principle. She’s done the same for him. She’s done it before, and she’ll do it again. But not tonight. Tonight is for her, and the razor waits in the pocket of her palm.

He stretches out beneath her, all angles and shadows, like a poster for a film. Beautiful, she thinks. Her belly is tight as she moves down his body dropping a kiss on every rib.

One. Two. Three. Four… 

She stops and nuzzles his skin. This is where, she thinks. She traces his ribs with her fingertips before pressing her tongue between two. Then, she slowly opens the blade. It settles in her hand. A fine, familiar weight.

Ripples under his skin though his body barely moves. There is no playfulness, no showmanship, no levity in her now. Afterwards she’ll smile and laugh with him, but for now, she’s blank and calm. For now, she’s holding a razor like a natural part of her hand.

On either side of his body, his fingers tremble.

Fuck. Get on with it.

She ignores his impatience and touches the blade to the tender place she’d kissed, waiting for it to breach his skin. And then it does and his skin isn’t skin anymore. It’s the silk and thread and rope.

He flinches and stills, palms flat against the sheets while her steady hand guides the edge along his rib. Once inch…two…and then it’s time to stop. She blinks as her focus widens back out. Then she sits up, resting her cunt against his cock while she folds and locks the blade.

Nothing at first. His skin looks untouched. But then blood wells up, almost black in the darkness, darker than red should be. She looks at him. He looks at her. They’ve talked about this too. He nods. She smiles and presses her tongue to the wound.

It tastes like salted metal, like blood should taste, but better because it’s his. But the cut is shallow and there isn’t much, so she worries it with her tongue, lapping and pressing and sucking up what his body naturally gives. She’s soaked and sliding over him when she sinks down on his cock.

Her hands clamp over his as he starts to thrust, pinning him with her weight. Then she kisses the wound. When she comes, her mouth is red, red and full of him.

They rest afterward, his hand in her hair. Her lips are red as berries but her teeth are shining white. She smiles against his skin.

“Next time, it’s your turn.”

 

 

Flash Fiction: Mind the Gap

May is Masturbation Month, which is a big deal in the sex blogging, erotica writing, sex positive community. I’d been thinking about writing a post for it when Tabitha Rayne, who is talented enough for five people, organized a blog hop to mark it. There are some first-rate writers participating in the Self-Love is in the Air blog hop, so click the badge below to read more. And please, enjoy yourself….

There’s something about traveling…. There’s a tension to it, as if you’re moving along the length of a taut thread. While you’re balanced on the thread, you’re in a space all your own. You aren’t home, but you also aren’t where you’re going either. For the length of your journey, you’re physically removed from your context, which also means that you’re temporarily freed from the identity you wear every day – good girl, rebel, parent, partner… For the length of that journey, you are simply you.

This is prime daydream time for me. That’s why, unsurprisingly, travel of often features in my fantasies. So, I’m going to share one with you…in story form, of course 😉

 Mind the Gap

Sepia print of a vintage travel bag for Mind the Gap by Malin JamesI know you’re watching me when I get on the tube. It’s crowded but not too crowded so I’m able to find a seat. Coincidentally, it’s right across from you. You’re attractive and you have the good grace to pretend that you aren’t still watching me, but you’re pretty terrible at it. Just because you watch a reflection, doesn’t mean you aren’t watching the person. But it’s fine. I let you think I don’t know.

I look at the book in your hand, a thriller I read last year and liked. You haven’t turned the page in five minutes. The window and the woman reflected in it (ie; me) keeps pulling your attention away. Which is good, because I’m suddenly very turned on.

It happens like that. One minute, I’m impassively watching you “not watch” me, the next I’m wet and humming. Luckily, I carry a very big bag. I put this very big bag on my lap and meet your eyes in the window. I smile. You almost smile. You’re embarrassed at being caught out. But then I slip my hand into my running pants and I have your full attention again.

I love the way your embarrassment narrows down and becomes a sharp, focused point. You’re focused on my shoulder – not on my face, though your eyes keep flicking back. You’re watching the rhythmic way my shoulder moves, just a little, as I stroke myself behind the bag.

The other passengers don’t know what’s going on. It’s not that I’m being all sneaky and subtle because I’m really not. It’s more that you can always rely on people being too interested in themselves to notice anything at all. Except you. You noticed me the minute I got on, just like you’re noticing my cheeks flush now.

I’ve gotten very good at this – coming quick and quiet in a public place, a moving, rocking public place between two static points. I use the rocking of the train to lull my body into drowsy softness while my mind stays sharp and quick.

My eyes are on yours. And then I come, a melting, delicious, buttery warmth. It fills me from my fingers to my toes. It feels so good that I nearly moan and tilt my head back. But I don’t You’re still watching me and I’m watching you, and the rocking and the rhythm and the woman reading her book and the guy three seats over glued to his phone, fill up my lungs and my skin and I come again.

And then it’s my stop. I pull my fingers out of my pants, loving how wet they are, like they’ve been dipped in clear honey. Suddenly, I want to touch your face. I want to mark you with it. But I don’t. The voice says mind the gap and I get off without looking back. There will be time for more when you get home.

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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.

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. 

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.

 

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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.”

Fiction: Bluebeard’s Clever Wife

Gary Cooper & Claudette Colbert in Bluebeard's Eighth Wife (1938)

Gary Cooper & Claudette Colbert in Bluebeard’s Eighth Wife (1938)

A few week’s ago, I wrote a post called Death and the Maiden in which I mentioned Angela Carter’s story “The Bloody Chamber”. That story is an adaptation of the Bluebeard fairy tale, my favorite fairy tale in the entire world…which probably says a lot about me. 

Given that it’s been a bit serious around here lately, I decided to lighten things up with my own adaptation of the Bluebeard story. I wrote “Bluebeard’s Clever Wife” a couple of years ago and it’s been languishing in a file ever since. It’s not erotic, sexy or even remotely hot, but I do think it’s kind of romantic…in an Addam’s Family kind of way. At the very least, writing it made me smile. Hopefully, reading it will do the same.  

Bluebeard’s Clever Wife

Once upon a time, a girl married a man. He had a shady reputation, but he gave her flowers and she thought that was nice. Plus, he was rich – not that she noticed, of course. So they married, and went to live at his castle, which was large and very isolated because he liked his alone time.

One day, shortly after they married, he told her that he was going on a business trip. He gave her the keys to every lock in the house and said that she could open them all, except for one.

“Don’t, under any circumstances, open that door,” he said, pointing to a large, black door with a big iron lock and a No Trespassing sign. “If you do, I’ll have to kill you. Fair warning.”

Then he left.

The bride was an obedient and dutiful soul, so she waited until he’d left to go to the forbidden room. What she found shocked her. Bits and pieces of his former wives were scattered about like puzzle pieces. Hands, torsos, heads… the place was a wreck. Unable to stand the mess, she went to work reassembling the ladies until they were all lined up, neat as pins.

She was just congratulating herself on a job well done when her husband came back home. Apparently, the whole thing had been a test! When he discovered her in his secret room, he was understandably upset, but she impressed upon him importance of keeping things tidy. Then she showed him her improvements, which included a clever little bucket for miscellanious parts.

Bluebeard was so struck by her logic, and by the convenience of having everything close to hand, that he quickly forgave her with a hearty laugh. From that day forward, he left the door unlocked, while she, inspired by her husband’s hobby, took up the study of anatomy. They lived happily ever after.

Erotic Fiction: Should You Stay Or Should You Go

Oil painting by Serge Marshennikov.

Oil painting by Serge Marshennikov.

She can’t sleep. She isn’t used to having someone else in her bed, but there he is beside her, hand draped over her hip.

The gray area they occupy is not at all safe. She wants to fit her body around him so badly she nearly rolls away, turns her back, curls up into a ball at the edge of her own bed. She stares at the ceiling, paralyzed, afraid his hand will move. She wants him to stay. She wants him to leave. She wishes she knew if he’d meant to fall asleep. He never has before. He always goes. They had agreed he would.

But she loves that he is there, sleeping in her bed…it would all be so much simpler if he hadn’t drifted off in her pretty, white room.

She stares at the ceiling, feeling anxious and sick. She wants one or the other – mean to stay or mean to go. She does not like the question mark hanging over her bed. He could wake up embarrassed. Brittle, bright and false. Oh, fuck. I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant…. Or he could smile and hold her. They could see where this will go.

She doesn’t know how to play this and she can’t sleep, not with his hand burning heavy on her hip. She wants him. She wants to sleep. She wants to be safe. She doesn’t want to play the fool. She doesn’t know which way to go.

The clock on her nightstand sheds a soft red light over her tortoise shell glasses, her journal, and her books, her usual companions in her pretty, wrought iron bed. She listens to his breathing, times hers to his, calms herself, lulls herself, pulls herself back. There is time for her journal and time for her books. This is now. He is here. For now, he is here. Her hand drifts over her stomach, past his hand on her hip, a soft feather-light touch.

Her body is tender and restless, despite having spent the better part of the evening with his head between her legs.  She wants him. She knows that. It’s why she isn’t safe. But her body wants him too, and that’s simple enough. She makes a decision and shifts, gently moving his heavy hand before pulling back the sheets.

He mumbles, annoyed by the chill, but not enough to wake up as she moves down the bed. She doesn’t touch him. She just looks, soaking him in, so out of place among the shams and pillows, the empty mug, the small box of tissues besides her bed. This is her room and her life. He is surrounded by her minutia. That means he is her guest.

She hovers over him, still watching as he dreams, struggling through some imaginary place. Then she moves lower, fingers skimming, barely touching the hair on his chest, his stomach, the tops of his thighs, as she settles between his legs. He shifts, as if he can sense her, and she smiles. His cock begins to stir, though it remains soft for the moment, limp against his leg. She inhales, catching the scent of him combined with a hint of her own. Then, very delicately, she takes it between her lips.

He shifts again, still dreaming, but not so deeply now. Gathering her long hair off to one side, she cradles his cock with her tongue and starts to suck. She feels his fingers in her hair as he hardens, nudging the back of her throat. She moans. He moans. It thrills her. The raw, unguarded sound of him makes her wet.

She stops thinking about the alarm she’d forgotten to set, or how she’ll get her hair washed, or catch the train to work. His hips rise up to meet her. The question mark is gone. He’s balanced right on the edge where she holds him, saying her name in his pleasure-thick voice.

She cups his balls with one hand and slides the other between her legs. She wants to come from sucking him off, but her clit is so hard and slippery that she can’t get the friction she needs as her mouth continues to move, guided by instinct more than art. She becomes her tongue, her skin, her cunt and her mouth, straddling his leg and rubbing herself while she works his cock.

He pushes up to meet her coiled frame, and she moves with him, barely aware. She is bent on the way he fills her mouth, his taste, the hitch of his breath. His balls tighten as she drags her lips over his length, suckling his head, teasing his slit, before sliding her tongue back down. It’s enough. She wants him to come. He groans and jerks as she swallows, sucking hard as she rubs her orgasm out.

Her crisp, fresh covers are everywhere; her soft, scarlet blanket has fallen to the floor, but she’s feels peaceful and good, resting her head on his thigh as he softens in her mouth.

“It’s late,” she murmurs, looking up at his face, which is lit by the numbers on her bedside clock. “Do you want to stay?”

A pause and she feels something in him relax.

“Yeah,” he says. “I would…if you don’t mind.”

She sets the alarm and pulls up the covers.

“No. I’d like you to stay.”

 

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Erotic Fiction: Packing Light

Image courtesy of favim.com

Image courtesy of favim.com

So much of what I gravitate towards is dark or taboo or intense, that it’s easy to forget that sex can be funny and ridiculous and completely unexpected. Because of that, I don’t write stories that make me laugh nearly often enough.

This story, “Packing Light” is one of those fun bits of silliness that I wrote completely by accident. The notion of a small man in a suitcase would never have occurred to me if it hadn’t been for Exhibit A‘s excellent prompt last week, and though I wrote a very different story for that impromptu competition, this one kept tugging at my sleeve. So here it is – “Packing Light.” A bit of silliness for a Monday morning. Enjoy..

 

“PACKING LIGHT by Malin James

“You’re not Bob.”

Leonora blinked. There was a very small man in her suitcase, and she was fairly certain he wasn’t hers.

“Sorry lady, but who the hell are you?”

Leonora cleared her throat.

“I’m Leonora. Who the hell are you?”

“Rumpelstiltskin,” he replied.

The very small man stuck out his hand. Leonora shook it, reflexively.

“Wait. Bullshit,” she said. Then she covered her mouth with her hands.

Leonora didn’t like to swear. The very small man grinned and climbed out of the suitcase, landing lightly on her hardwood floor.

“Okay, you got me. My name’s Nate. Where’s Bob?”

Leonora shook her head.

“I don’t know a Bob.”

Nate looked at her. His eyes were sharp and appraising. Suddenly, Leonora knew that she couldn’t lie to him if she tried.

“We are in L.A. though, right,” Nate asked, still holding her gaze.

Leonora shook her head. For the first time since she’d opened the suitcase, he began to look concerned.

“Where the hell are we, then?”

“Denver, Colorado.”

“Denver, Colorado? What the fuck am I doing in Denver, Colorado?”

“How should I know?” Leonora shrugged. “Why were you in my suitcase? I wasn’t going to L.A.”

Nate gave her a look and began to pace. “I wasn’t in your suitcase. I was in my suitcase.”

Leonora sat down. She was getting a headache. She must’ve picked up the wrong bag.

“Okay, fine” she said. “Why were you in your suitcase?”

Nate stopped pacing, and looked at her as if she were simple.

“If you were three and a half feet tall, would you pay full price for a seat on the plane, or would you take a shitload of sedatives, pack yourself in a suitcase and have your buddy check you in at the airport?”

Leonora rubbed her temples absently.

“I would buy a seat in the cabin.”

Nate gave her a look.

“Sure, babe. Pretend you’re a little person and then we’ll talk.”

“Isn’t “dwarf” the correct term? I thought “little person” was insulting.”

Nate rolled his eyes “What the fuck ever. I need to get to L.A. Do you have any

Klonopin?”

Leonora shook her head.

“Xanex?”

“No.”

“Valium? Seconal? Phenobarbital?”

“No. Nope. Sorry.”

“Well, shit,” Nate said, exasperated. “What the hell do you have?”

Leonora thought for a second.

“I think I have some Benedryl…it might have expired though. How long does it last?”

Nate shook his head. “Never mind. I’ll do without.” He started to climb back in the case.

“Wait,” Leonora said. “What are you doing?”

“I’m re-packing myself, so you can send me to L.A.”

Leonora looked at him. Suddenly, she was fed up.

“I just got off an eight hour flight that should only have lasted three. I’m tired. I’m cranky. And I don’t feel like going to work tomorrow because I just spent a week alone in Cancun without my boyfriend—who is now my ex, by the way—because he broke up with me the night before we were supposed to leave. I thought he was going to propose, so all my coworkers think there’s going to be a ring on this hand…”

Leonora shoved her ringless finger in Nate’s face.

“…but there ISN’T. And now you want me to haul you and your suitcase back to the airport in a blizzard so you can go to L.A.? No. I’m not going to. No. Not unless you can find my suitcase with my migraine medicine in it and make Ben stop being a jerk…Ben is my ex. And he’s a jerk.”

Leonora started to cry. Nate watched, mildly horrified, before pulling a handkerchief out of the side pocket of his suitcase. Then he jumped down and went to her side. Leonora took the handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. It smelled really good.

“Linda—“

“Leonora.”

“Leonora. Sorry. You’re right. It wasn’t fair of me. It’s not your fault that I ended up in Denver.”

“No. It’s not.”

Leonora blew her nose loudly. Nate winced, but carried on. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I doubt it…” she sniffed, pathetically.

“Well…” Nate said, studying her. Under the red face and rumpled misery, Leonora was a pretty sexy girl, in a sweet and wholesome kind of way. “There is one thing I can do.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

She bit her lip and looked at him. Something in his eyes, which were golden brown, make her stomach flip.

“Lie back, just a bit.”

Not quite believing what she was doing, Leonora did. Slowly, as if asking permission, Nate pulled down the ratty yoga pants that she’d traveled in. Then he parted her legs and, leaving her underwear on, licked gently up the inside of her thigh. Leonora jumped.

“Oh my god!”

Nate stopped, and looked at her.

“Is the okay?”

Leonora looked down at him. Her hazel eyes were drowsy and bright.

“Yes. Yes. Don’t stop.”

Smiling just a bit smugly, Nate went back to work, licking and nuzzling her thighs. When he drew down her cotton panties, they were damp. Surprising herself, Leonora raised her hips to make it easier for him to get them off. Ben had never liked going down on her, so this was a new experience—one she had a feeling she was going to like.

Headache forgotten, Leonora settled back, flushing and gasping as Pete ran the tip of his tongue up and down the length of her slit….

“Oh, my god….”

This time, Nate didn’t ask if he should stop.

It was right about then that Leonora lost track of time. Nate suckled and tongued her, teased her clit and the sweet, sensitive lips of her cunt, (and even the rim of her other hole, much to her shock and pleasure), for close to an hour before he brought her slowly up through layers of pleasure to the very edge of an orgasm. When she finally did come, Leonora shrieked and shuddered through a climax that out-climaxed every pale, starving little orgasm she’d ever had with Ben.

Hoarse and exhausted, Leonora’s legs flopped open as a very smug Nate finally surfaced from between her lovely, sun-kissed thighs.

“Better?”

Leonora watched Nate happily rub his jaw. He was smiling. In fact, he looked almost as satisfied as she felt.

“Yes, actually. I feel much better….”

They looked at each other for a moment. It was an awkward look. Awkward, but also shy and kind of warm.

“So,” Leonora said, not moving. Her bones felt soft and sleepy—she didn’t want to wake them up.

“When do you have to be in L.A?”

Nate ran a hand through his mussed up hair. It was kind of a sexy blonde, Leonora thought. Sort of gold and brown, like his eyes, which were also very nice.

“Yeah, uh, you know…. Not for a couple days, really.”

Leonora nodded.

“Would you, um. Would you like to spend the night here? I could send you express tomorrow. If you like…?”

Leonora held her breath, amazed at the butterflies trying to flutter past her throat. But then Nate smiled, and the butterflies disappeared.

“Yeah. I could do that,” he said.

“Okay,” said Leonora.

“Okay,” said Nate.

Then he climbed up onto the couch with her, ignoring the open case.