Tag Archives: sex

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.

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.”

Muscle Memory

Earlier this week, I realized that I’ve run at least thirty minutes every day (often more) for a month. I’m not doing it to challenge myself, or even meet a private goal. I’m running every day because I’m dealing with quite a lot right now and running is, quite frankly, one of the ways I cope. I’m also doing because my body wants to, which is curious and cool. I haven’t felt that kind of habituated craving for movement in years, but it’s settled over me like a cozy, comforting sweater because so much of my early life was spent feeling it….

Partial of image of Malin James with feet in fifth position for Muscle Memory postI took this photo while I was playing with ideas for a Sinful Sunday, but this shot wasn’t intentional despite how contrived it looks. In fact, it wasn’t until I saw myself that I realized I’d inadvertently put my feet in fifth position and held my body in a way that was standard for me when I was dancing. Something about the corset reminded my body of my old training and my muscles obliged by putting me in that position without my even knowing it.

That subconscious physical response got me thinking. My dance training, though dormant for more than twenty years, surfaced unconsciously in what looks like a very unnatural pose, but which was, in fact, extremely natural for me ages ago. In a similar way, my running every day has woken up my old craving for movement, rhythm and that headspace you go into when your body is working like a well-oiled machine.

With all of that milling around in my brain, I started thinking about sex (of course). Aside from the obvious—that thinking about sex is lovely—sex is super relevant because the development of muscle memory is a feedback loop, and sex is full of feedback.

Think of the things that work for you every time – the way you spread your legs extra wide when someone goes down on you or rub the underside of your clit when you really need to come. All of those tiny movements that you instinctively know feel good? They’re anchored in muscle memory, honed with huge amounts of positive feedback –>

If I do this I get that crazy, awesome pleasure?? Goddamn! I’m going to do it more!

So you do, over and over again, until your body associates that movement with some crazy, awesome pleasure. Then, BAM – muscle memory becomes your sexy little friend.

It works in the converse too, unfortunately. Trauma gets physically internalized as surely as pleasure does. It’s one of the reasons people flinch if they’ve been hit in the face too often. Those negative physical memories play themselves out even more powerfully than the positive ones, which is part of why recovering from trauma is such a challenge.

Having said that (because it’s important to acknowledge that muscle memory can cause as much pain as it does joy), I want to drift back towards the positive, if only because that feels important right now.

Everything we experience physically, from running and dancing to stress and sex, impacts us in ways that may not be obvious at the time. I haven’t thought about tilting my hips since my first orgasm, but my body remembers how good it felt the first time I did, just like it knows that, if I do it, I’ll come twice as hard. Down in our cells, our bodies store experiences, almost like a physical archive. The lovely thing about it that, when those memories engage, our bodies let us feel good all over again.

We get that connection to our bodies for free, thanks to instinct and evolution. I haven’t thought about muscle memory in years despite having it drilled into me when I was young. Now that I have, I want to be more aware of it again. If reinforcing the physical memories we want (and gently disengaging those we don’t) means more joy and pleasure, more keenly felt, that can only be a good thing.

The Goblin Market

A pre-raphaelite painting of a woman holding a pomegranate for The Goblin Market by Malin James

“Proserpine” or Jane Morris & the Pomegranate by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1847)

I’ve been sick the past few days, which has given me an unusual amount of time for listless thinking and wool gathering. In and amongst the drift of fairly useless thoughts came the realization that, for me, there are two kinds of erotic reading – stories that focus on sex, and stories that achieve a raw, nearly sexual intimacy, despite the absence (or near absence) of sex.

The first sort of reading is pretty obvious. It’s best characterized by stories like this and this. In fact, a lot of what I write for this site would fall into that category. The other kind of eroticism is harder to qualify, but it shows up in pieces like this, as well as in many of my non-erotic stories, which is why they’re often read with a sexual undercurrent, even when there’s no sex in them.

Instead of being expressed in an overtly sexual way, the intimacy in those stories comes out as a sort of shared ache – a sympathy between characters that is, hopefully, transferred to the reader. That affinity triggers something like an erotic response, one that’s subtly sexual and emotionally intimate. The latent sexuality in that response is what comprises the second sort of eroticism – one that’s emotionally sexual and not obvious in the text, but simmering beneath it.

“Goblin Market”, by Christina Rossetti, drips with limpid, super sensual imagery and includes a final scene that could be a portrait of sexual ecstasy, except it isn’t. The ecstasy isn’t sexual. It’s the culmination of devotion, sacrifice, and love between two sisters whose affinity is so strong it pushes their bond to lover-like levels of intimacy while remaining uncompromisingly platonic.

How Rossetti managed to blend the sensual with the sisterly is a bit of a mystery to me, even now. There’s nothing concrete that I can point to in the poem, no line on a map marking the territory between sexuality and emotionality, but it exists all the same, which is why I think of that shared territory as the goblin market. The goblin market in narrative creates a tension that works on the reader without any conscious effect, yet you put the book down feeling lush and keenly aware, like Persephone when she finally gives in and eats the pomegranate’s seeds.

For me, one author achieves the goblin market better than anyone else. If you read anything by Angela Carter you’ll feel it, but it’s especially effective in her collection, The Bloody Chamber, which I’ve pushed mentioned before. The title story is fantastic I’ve already fangirled all over it so I’ll focus on a different story from the same collection – “The Tiger’s Bride”.

“The Tiger’s Bride” is one of the sexiest stories I’ve ever read, yet it contains no sex.  What it does have is massive amounts of emotionally charged intimacy unpinning a story in which masks and identities are stripped away. It isn’t until a tacit understanding is reached between the tiger and his captive that a shared ache develops, but when it does, it makes something that should have been ghastly, (the tiger licks her human skin away, revealing golden fur), unbelievably erotic.

The narrator’s affinity for her captor can’t be expressed in words (he speaks in low growls, translated by a simian valet), which is just as well. It’s the silence of their understanding that transforms what could have been yet another variation on “Beauty and the Beast” into a story steeped in animal sexuality. Its lack of obvious eroticism heightens, pretty fantastically, the latent eroticism of the text.

I’m finding more and more that I need this second, more subtle, emotional component for the erotic aspects of a story to work for me. While I still love straight up filth, it doesn’t tend to stay with me. It’s the stories that weave tapestries of sex and emotional intimacy that I come back to again and again, whether they’re called erotica or something else.

This shift in my reading is something relatively new. While I appreciated the goblin market from an intellectual perspective when I was younger, it never touched me the way that raw sex did. Now it’s quite the opposite. It would be easy to say that this shift is the result of getting older, but I suspect it has less to with age and more to do with me. I’ve always had an emotional intensity that I was never completely comfortable with, especially in conjunction with sex. I suspect that my growing attraction to stories steeped in this kind of emotional sexuality is, more than anything else, a sign that I’m finally comfortable with my own goblin market.

Here’s a list of some of my favorite goblin market stories, along with links to where you can find them (some for free!). And if  you have any books you love for this kind of read, tweet me or leave them in the comments!

POETRY:

“Goblin Market” by Christina Rossetti

COLLECTIONS:

Winter’s Tales by Isak Dinesen – “The Invincible Slave Owners” and “The Heroine”

The Bloody Chamber by Angela Carter – “The Tiger’s Bride” and “The Bloody Chamber” (and most of the others, to be honest).

Lips Touch Three Times by Laini Taylor (The first story is a really subtle, really sexy adaptation of Rossetti’s “Goblin Market”).

The Lure of Dangerous Women by Shanna Germain

Kissing the Witch by Emma Donoghue

NOVELS:

Atonement & The Cement Garden by Ian McEwan

The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon

The Magic Toyshop by Angela Carter

The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje (I fangirled the film here. And to be fair, there is fairly explicit sex in this book, but its punch lies in the emotional intensity behind it).

Affinity by Sarah Waters

Angels and Insects & The Game by A.S. Byatt

A Severed Head by Iris Murdoch

The Griffin & Sabine Trilogy by Nick Bantock

The Vintner’s Luck by Elizabeth Knox (courtesy of Tamsin Flowers, who was lovely enough to give me a copy!)

Guys & the Girls Who Want to Watch: On Homoeroticism

A black and white photograph of two men embracing for Two Guys and the Girl Who Wants to Watch: On Homoeroticism by Malin James

Erotic postcard by Jim French

Roughly two years ago, I wrote a post asking this question:

What is it about two men having sex that turns so many women on?

That post got a lot of generous responses from men and women all over the sexual spectrum, including Exhibit A (though I had no idea at the time it would begin much more than a correspondence). His response, in particular, stood out because it underscored something I’d been suspecting – that the appeal of homoeroticism is, perhaps, even more common (and complicated) than I’d originally assumed. So I set the question aside to think about it.

Two years later….

I’m finally writing the follow-up thanks, once again, to Exhibit A, who retweeted the original post last month. While I’m usually a bit sheepish about letting a topic drop, I’m glad of it in this case. After two years, my thoughts on this issue have matured in ways that I couldn’t have anticipated when I first posed the question.

The biggest adjustment in my thinking was my realization that, while m/m sex clearly appeals to a lot of women, it also appeals to a lot of men who identify as flexibly straight (as opposed to bi). This realization made me curious about how it appeals across gender divides and sexual identities. But first, I want to address the question I originally posted two years ago. Why do women think m/m sex is hot?

As with so many things, the appeal of homoeroticism is intensely subjective, so there is no one answer, but I was able to slot the responses I got into three general categories:

  • Homoeroticism appeals because I like good looking men, so the more the better. 
    • Pretty self-explanatory.
  • Homoeroticism appeals because it gives me access to something I otherwise don’t have access to.
    • Not surprising given our cultural attraction to voyeurism, taboo or potentially transgressive sex; and our obsession with the mutual incomprehensibility of the opposite sex.
  • Homoeroticism appeals because it subverts a dominant paradigm.
    • Also pretty self-explanatory, but worth breaking down a bit.

That third category refers to the fact that, in mainstream porn and media, the traditional understanding is that there’s a power imbalance between men and women when it comes to sex. While this paradigm is shifting thanks to shows like Jessica Jones, Masters if Sex and American Horror Story: Coven, it’s been a standard for so long that this power imbalance is a cultural assumption for a lot of people. This leads to the common perception that men are sexually dominant (ie: guarded or inaccessible) while women are open, emotional and vulnerable.

The m/m fantasy subverts this expectation thanks to a different cultural assumption—one that presumes that two guys will avoid this paradigm more naturally than a straight pairing. Of course, this is ridiculous because sexual dominance and submission are about interpersonal dynamics and not about gender, (which is why M/m pairings are so hot). Regardless, a lot of women admit to being turned on by m/m sex because they assume the men involved to be enjoying a level playing field – both actors are sexually assertive while remaining emotional vulnerability.

This idealization of male sexual agency tends to lead to romanticized readings of m/m dynamics. I’ve read more than one study in which women thought m/m sex was because the guys were “equal” “open” “real” and “vulnerable” in a way that they hadn’t witnessed before.

Of course, we’re talking about fiction in most of these cases—specifically porn. The popularity of m/m pairings in slash, porn and erotica reflects a certain kind of female fantasy—one that subverts dominant paradigms and gives the illusion of emotional access to men in sexual contexts. And it does all this by appropriating a somewhat romanticized version of what people imagine happening when two guys fuck.

Sidebar

This form of appropriation is important but it’s also complicated enough that it requires its own post, so I’m going to leave it there for now and come back to it later. (Hopefully in less than two years).

End Sidebar

While the fictional portrayal of m/m sexual dynamics appeals on one level, the reality of gay sex appeals on another. So, while some women (and men) fantasize about general aspects m/m sex, others engage it more specifically. In otherwords, some women want to watch their man fuck and / or get fucked by another guy; and some guys want the same thing.

I can only speak for myself when I say this, but my desire to watch my partner with another man has nothing to do with the romanticization of m/m sexual dynamics, and everything to do with our relationship and all of the complicated, nuanced reasons that make it something we both think is super hot.

Which brings me to the selective appeal of homoeroticism across genders.

Awhile ago, I wrote a story called “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” about a woman who gives her boyfriend an m/m encounter for Christmas. It plays to a lot of my own kinks—voyeurism, dominance and, yes, homoeroticism—so I was really happy when women and men seemed to like it though they seemed to like it for different reasons.

Women liked it because the idea of watching their man with another guy is goddamn hot (because it is). Men seemed to like the wish-fulfillment aspect or it. The male protagonist wants to suck cock and get fucked, and his girlfriend makes it happen. It’s a portrait of the gray area between gay and straight, set against the backdrop of a loving, if unconventional, relationship.

That gray area is where homoeroticism appeals to me.

Don’t get me wrong – homoeroticism is hot for a lot of reasons, and it can subvert dominant paradigms. But that’s not why I love it. I love it because it breaks a barrier—one that often sits between a man and a woman, as well as between two men.

Unless you bury the needle at either 0 (exclusively straight) or 6 (exclusively gay) on the Kinsey scale, sexuality is more fluid than we tend to realize. The sexual behaviors sanctioned by mainstream society don’t always allow for safe experimentation within the gray areas. Homoeroticism, whether engaged as fantasy or more directly, is one way of experiencing a fuller range of sexual possibilities than might otherwise be available to strictly heterosexual pairings. What’s more, it makes those possibilities available in a relatively unthreatening way.

Homoeroticism is a way of romancing “the other”, whether “the other” is a partner of the same (or opposite) sex, or some unexplored facet of yourself. Ultimately, humans crave understanding and connection. We’re curious. We want to know and touch. A fascination with homoeroticism is one way we can taste things we don’t normally find on our plates.

The Joy of Sucking Cock

Black and white picture of a kitten with a bowl of milk staring into the camera. Tongue in cheek illustration for The Joy of Sucking Cock.Last November, Girl on the Net posted this in response to an article by a guy who felt that, while going down on a woman is tricky,  “the penis is a simple thing – it’s hard to get things completely wrong.”

Girl on the Net did a brilliant take-down of that bit of silliness, which I totally recommend reading. So, why am I bothering to write a post about this when GotN already did it so well?

I’m not actually. Her article got me thinking. One of the things I love best about oral is that anyone can do it in a way that is authentic to them. Here’s what I mean….

Sucking cock is often thought of as a form of submission, but it can also be a spectacular way to top someone (“I don’t care how badly you want to come down my throat. Don’t.”). It can be a sweet, Sunday morning blow job or a filthy face fucking in a bathroom stall. It can be a homecoming or a good-bye. It can be reverent or carnal. It can be anything you and your partner need it to be. In fact, some of the most memorable sexual moments of my life have been blowjobs because they were authentically perfect for the finite moment we were in.

I’ve written before about how my first time giving head wasn’t fantastic and that it wasn’t until I was in my mid-twenties that I gained a real understanding of what I call The Joy of Sucking Cock ™. Up to that point, my experiences with giving head were tinged with insecurity. I approached each one feeling as if I didn’t know what I was doing, but that I’d better figure it out, which is why those early years were more about experimentation than enjoyment.

It wasn’t until I made a sloppy, chaotic mess of it that I really understood how wonderful sucking cock can be, because my sloppy, chaotic mess turned him into a writhing, desperate shadow of his control-freak self. That’s when it finally clicked and a feedback loop formed – his pleasure gave me pleasure, which gave him pleasure and so on…. It’s that feedback loop that I crave now when I give head (or have any kind of sex) – the mutual enjoyment that turns us both into animals until someone comes.

That’s why I rarely think about what I’m doing. Sort of like how you’re not supposed to ask the caterpillar how it walks, I try not to pay attention to anything but my partner and what feels good at the time. If you ask me to do that thing with the roof of my mouth again, I probably won’t know what you’re talking about but the odds are that I’ll accidentally do it again because it feels good. That’s The Joy of Sucking Cock.

Screen Shot Google Search "blow jobs" 1/19/16

Screen Shot Google Search “blow jobs” 1/19/16

So, let’s drill down into why this is important. We live in a culture where, for better or for worse, the emphasis in mainstream media has been placed on prowess rather than enjoyment, which is why newsstands are full of women’s magazines selling the arcane wisdom you’ll need if you want to “blow his mind”.

Even if we set aside the subtly toxic, hetero-normative fact that these articles place the emphasis on the woman’s ability to perform [insert sex act here] like a pro, the paradigm is still problematic because these articles aren’t nearly as empowering as they initially appear to be. They are, in fact, disempowering because underlying the conveyance of the must-have information is the implication that if you’re not doing it “like this”, you’re doing it wrong.

“Like this” can be anything from using vise-like suction, (thanks, Cosmo), to looking at him while you suck his cock because “he’ll think it’s hot”.

What’s wrong with using (non-injurious levels of) suction or looking up at him while you give him head? Absolutely nothing. Those are legitimately awesome (and super hot) things. What I object to is the emphasis on her performance rather than their mutual enjoyment.

That’s really at the heart of this for me – the mentality that sex is, in the end, something you perform, rather than enjoy. It’s as if we’re all supposed to be mainstream porn stars rather than regular people engaging in a super pleasurable, shared activity. This emphasis on performance is the biggest reason for my ambivalence about oral when I was younger. Without even realizing it, I’d absorbed the assumption that there is a “right” and a “wrong” way to do it, which fed my insecurity, which got in the way of our mutual enjoyment, which blocked the feedback loop, and so on.

I mean, let’s face it, outside of keeping your teeth off his cock (unless that’s been negotiated beforehand), there is no one perfect, blow-his-mind technique. There are only the things you try and he loves, and that changes with every partner and, quite possibly, every blowjob. Knowing and discovering those individual ticks is a massive pleasure that has nothing to do with performance. It has to do with pleasure – yours and his. That’s where The Joy of Sucking Cock is.

On the Value of Fantasies

Japanese shunga erotica painting being eaten out by an octopus

The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife by Hokusai (1814)

Recently, Emmanuelle de Maupassant posted a link to an article called “The Art of Dreams”. The art in that post contains two prominent themes – mortality and sexuality, which makes sense since sex and death have been cultural obsessions for centuries.

As I was looking through the pieces, two of them stood out. The first was the one above – “The Dreams of the Fisherman’s Wife” by Hokusai. The other is of a girl dreaming that she’s being carried into the woods by a bear. Both have obvious sexual overtones and, given the nature of my own dreams, my mind wandered from dreams into fantasies.

I have always had extremely vivid sex dreams, even as a girl. In fact, I knew I was bisexual before I understood what that meant after dreaming that I was kissing Sleeping Beauty and her prince. I woke up wanting more of both, a feeling I internalized as normal but never talked about. That dream led to my first sexual fantasies, and their influence on my sexuality as it developed can’t be overstated.

Years later, a friend and I were talking about fantasies in college. Her opinion was that if you’re in a relationship, (she was and I wasn’t), having fantasies about someone other than your boyfriend is cheating. I understand now, on an intellectual level, what she was saying, but fantasies were so integral to my sexual development that hearing them spoken of as a form of infidelity left me feeling vaguely bereft, as if what was natural to me was somehow immoral to normal, relationship-having people.

Side Note: I should state that there is a difference between fantasizing to explore your sexuality, and fantasizing to escape an unpleasant or unsatisfying relationship. If you’d rather be in your head than with your partner, that’s a sign that something could be off in the relationship. While I still don’t consider this cheating, it probably isn’t something you should ignore either.

Even though I lost my virginity relatively late, I had a massively active fantasy life, so much so that, by the time I finally did have sex, I jumped into new experiences with an enthusiasm that I may not have otherwise had. I fantasized about threesomes well before I had one. Same thing with group sex, oral, anal, strap-ons, D/s, sex in public and pretty much everything else I’ve ever done.

But it wasn’t just the exploratory quality of my fantasies that formed my sexuality. As I experienced new things, more and more of those experiences were incorporated into my fantasies, so that I began to understand what worked for me in greater depth. Everything, from my love of prowess to shaving (and being shaved by) a lover, was nurtured by an increasingly varied collection of fantasies.

Even impossible or transgressive fantasies are valuable. Some may get explored in real life, while others can’t (or won’t), but the fact that they can be played out safely is important. I want to understand what makes me click because I can bring that understanding to my partners. 

Fantasies are also a surprisingly accurate way to gauge how your sexual focus may have changed. Early on, my fantasies, much like my erotica, were highly situational – getting off on a Maytag dryer, being watched, making someone do something that makes them uncomfortable (but that they also undeniably want). These fantasies explored different situations and helped me understand my various kinks and predilections.

In the past few years, however, my fantasies have changed. As someone close to me noted, I’m after connection more than experience now. That isn’t to say that I’ve done everything I want to do (because I doubt I ever will). What it does mean is that my sexual focus now prioritizes intensity and connection rather than situational novelty, a shift that is also reflected in my work.

If sex is the lens through which I view life, then fantasies are how I keep that lens polished. The notion that fantasizing about someone other than my partners would take something away from the depth of my commitment to them rings as false now as it did when I was eighteen. 

If anything, your fantasies give you access to more of yourself, knowledge that you can then bring to your partners. Whether it’s fucking against a wall because you can’t keep your hands off each other, or ravaging and being ravaged by some sort of subhuman beast, fantasies, dreams and memories help ground you in your sexuality, and it’s your sexuality that you bring to real life.

Woman in Repose

Woman with arched back lying on a dark bed

Woman in Repose by Steve Harris

The past few months have been challenging. A series of difficult things destabilized what had been a very stable foundation. It was a bit like playing Jenga. Each thing that happened removed a pin from my tower, until I was leaning and listing everywhere – nowhere near falling, but structurally unsound.

As a result, it’s  fair to say that I haven’t been myself. The people in my life have had to deal with me being unusually emotional and term bound while I struggled with a limited sense of perspective. I’ve been anxious, reactionary and far more taxed (and taxing) than I ever want to be. It’s a state of mind that made me want to unzip my skin and divorce my body from my brain until I got a handle on things. And that’s essentially, what I did. The result was a general disinterest in sex and, to a greater degree, D/s.

There are labels I use for myself, and others that I don’t even though they could superficially apply. The primary example of this is “Domme”. I never refer to myself as a Domme even though I am sexually dominant. (To be honest, I’m dominant in general though I try to keep that checked. I’d rather be accessible than in control…unless there’s a reason to be in control).

I make the distinction between dominant and Domme because, while I enjoy playing with power, I can just as easily not and be very satisfied. The label “Domme” comes with implications that I feel don’t quite apply because my dominance isn’t formalized, nor do I want it to be. My recent situational reticence with D/s underscored that distinction for me in a very concrete way.

Side note: Drawing this distinction deserves its own post, so forgive the broad brush I’m using now.

While I love playing games, I’m equally happy to meet my partners without a power dynamic in play. What keeps me from being even remotely switchy is the fact that I won’t submit sexually to anyone. Ever. My aversion to sexual submission is serious enough that I couldn’t do it for love or money. There are reasons for this, but I’m going to save those for a separate post.

I’d be lying if I said that I don’t enjoy gentle cruelties or imposing my will on consenting partners. I’d be lying if I said that there isn’t a carnivorous part of me that gets off on taking control. But I’d also be lying if I said that that particular kind of assertion is an integral part of who I am. It’s something that I do, not something that I am (unlike my resistance to submission, which is a fundamental part of my personality). That’s why I love sex with an equally dominant partner just as much (and often even more) as D/s play. 

The result of dealing with what I’ve been dealing with is that I haven’t really wanted to play in a D/s sense. I haven’t wanted to control, create or weave scenarios. So much of my energy was going to keeping myself under control, that the idea of taking external control in a play context was exhausting. Unfortunately, I didn’t consciously realize any of this at the time, though I wish I had. I was pushing myself in ways that I shouldn’t have.

In hindsight, I can see that what I needed was something else – good sex, balanced dynamics and, perhaps most lowering, a sense of safety so that I could get out of my head and back into my body. I’ve been sexually reticent and, though not passive (because I’m almost never passive), I’ve definitely been more cautious and reserved – what a friend of mine would call a woman in repose.

While I was in London, Exhibit A and I went for a short run. Afterwards we talked about how, after you’ve been injured, you tend to go more carefully and not push yourself as hard. It’s an understandable thing but, at a certain point, that self-protective instinct can get in your way. Then again, sometimes it’s what you need, even if only for a short time…the hope is always that you’ll return to running at speed.

To circle back to where I started, certain facets of my sexuality and personality have been feeling fairly injured of late – facets that are tied to my relationship with sexual dominance. In a sense, I needed to rest those muscles – the ones I use in D/s – because D/s is not my home base. Sex is. I needed to get re-grounded in sex while those other parts of me rested. I needed to feel, not think or plan. I needed to be spontaneous and basic, so I didn’t go out on available limbs or explore interesting possibilities. I played it safe because, as with running after an injury, I needed to respect my boundaries and get the lay of my land again.

I didn’t realize it until I wrote this, but sex was, and is, the key to that for me. Good, connected, uninhibited, back-to-basics sex with someone I trust.  And now, on the tail end of what turned out to be a pretty difficult patch, I’m happy to say that I’m in better shape than I thought I was. The muscles that needed resting are stretching and waking up. I’m feeling like myself again, and it feels awfully good. I really am happiest on my feet.

On Virginity, or A Case For Not Throwing It Away

Image of a man and woman sitting on a fence. His hand is going up her skirt while she looks away.

A Voyage of Discovery by Jack Vettriano

I would love to say that the loss of my maidenhead* was a magical experience. I’d love to say that it set a healthy tone for the whole of my sexual career. In reality, it went more like this:

I was nineteen and deeply frustrated. I’d had boyfriends but none who would go past second base with me, (I dated a couple of Irish Catholics. Confession was a thing). I was sexually aware to the point of discomfort, but I’d never gotten close to do anything about the live wires beneath my skin. I was massively frustrated and burdened with this thing that I didn’t want anymore. So, one night I decided to get it over with.

I met the guy through an acquaintance. I knew him just enough about him to feel relatively sure that he wasn’t going to kill me and dump my body in a lake. I say “the guy” because I don’t remember his name…Jason maybe? I’m not sure. I was sober, so I assume that I must’ve blocked it out. In fact, I’m fairly certain I did – not because anything terrible happened, but because, even at the time, I knew I was making a subtle but serious mistake. It was the start of a pattern that would do me no favors. But more on that in a second. For now, let’s stay with “the guy”….

In the end, his name doesn’t matter because it wasn’t about him. It was about me and the fact that I was approaching twenty and the only virgin left in the city (not really but it felt like it). So, there we were in the back of his mom’s minivan in a mall parking lot. The foreplay was minimal and consisted mostly of my sucking his cock. After that, we moved to the back seat where I gave it up to the age old rhythm of my head whacking against his baby brother’s car seat.

I lost my virginity with less care than some people give to cutting their hair. At the time, I remember feeling a grim satisfaction, one that I now recognize as a defense mechanism. I knew even before he dropped me off (in the minivan) that I wasn’t going to see him again, even if I wanted to (I didn’t). The fact that I’d been a virgin had thrown him. I literally saw him panic the second his cock hit my hymen.

Holy shit! A virgin! They get hella clingy! Finish this and get out of there!

So, the grim satisfaction was both for a job well done (I was no longer a virgin – Ha! Take that, virginity!) but it was also because I needed to own what I’d just done. I knew that wasn’t how it could have been.  I knew it wasn’t a good start.

Now, looking back with roughly eighteen years of sexual experience to call on, I can see that I set a pattern for myself that night – one in which I disregarded the rounded whole of my needs in favor of satisfying temporary dissatisfactions. That pattern is pretty much broken now, but not without effort and a nice collection of regrets.

Should I have taken more time and given myself a positive, even loving, first time? Ideally speaking, of course. I should’ve. But the truth is that I was wired for sex and self-injury. I can’t pretend that a different decision would’ve saved me from years of mistakes. That said, if I had waited and not pushed, I might have developed a sense of myself sooner, and that would have made a difference. Who can say….

Virginity is not a magical thing, nor is it a marker of moral, spiritual or physical worth. The loss of it is, however, a pivotal event in a person’s life. Your first sexual experiences set a tone, even if only subconsciously. Would my sexual development have been different were it not for the minivan and the parking lot and the goddamn car seat? I don’t know. I honestly don’t. And that’s the thing that stays with me. I will never know.

I have wanted to write that phrase into something for ages and I missed the #EuphOff this time around.

NB: I drafted this over the weekend but wasn’t able to get it posted in time for Wicked Wednesday.  It’s still something I’m happy to have written though, so here it is – a little late, but hopefully better than never. Click this link to see all of the Wicked Wednesday posts on Virgin(ity) – there are some excellent pieces in there.

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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