Grammatically incorrect, but c’mon whatever:

“You kiss good,” she purred against my lips.

I pushed her shirt up to expose her breasts. They were not as large as mine but beautiful with nipples larger than my own. I pressed my thigh between her legs and she let out a whimper. My head bent down to kiss her nipple as the other hand tweaked the free one. She told me she was coming as I started to bite on her hard nub. I pressed my thigh even more against her and I felt her cunt give way to me.

Yoga pants are wonderful, am I right?

My legs had straddled her leg as I pressed my cunt against her thigh. We were only wearing thin t-shirts and yoga pants. It was a perfect and planned stormed that erupted in my living room floor. She kept coming against my thigh, my hand slid down to feel her heat and she let out a gasp.

Sometimes, you stumble on something rather good.

I bent and bit into his chest, in a circle just around the boundary line of the areola. He made the kind of encouraging moan that could only interpreted as keep doing that, and harder. I’d have asked, “Are you serious?” but my mouth was occupied. While I already felt like I was gnawing the crust from a loaf of bread, his noises became louder and more furtive when I dug my teeth into his skin as firmly as I dared.

And sometimes you dare yourself more than you dare others.

Whatever I was doing (nothing more than hanging on for dear life) worked because he started swinging backwards and forwards, pushing his pelvis against mine with more determination and inadvertently adding a pulling effect to the grip on his nipple. He loved it. I hung on with my teeth and enjoyed the ride, trying to vary the grip sites in case I was breaking his skin.

Nicely done.

Some more thoughts of summer— on a chilly and rainy day in the city, no less.

Bare legs in a summer skirt. The wind caught and flipped the hem, showing just enough leg for me to see her tan fade to pale the closer it got to the top of her thigh.

Who doesn’t love those summer skirts?

She ran across the road just as the lights changed against her and waved her thanks to the impatient car drivers. I bet they didn’t care, a flash of her smile and a flash of her legs, a devastating combination.

She always seemed to be running, rushing to get somewhere or see someone, today it was me.

I sat in the window of the cafe and grinned as she saw me, her pace increasing, heeled cowboy boots ringing on the pavement. How did this woman manage to wear what every other woman was wearing and still make her clothes look as if they were alive on her. What magic did her body exhale into the fabric to make it weave and dance around her?

I don’t know the answer, but that is definitely a special kind of magic.

Part of the problem was that I spent too much of my adolescence in the worship of wanting her. I’m tempted to say that it was a waste of time— as much as any other crush really is— but that’s not entirely true or accurate; with her it was something else. Always something else.

She was the “smart” one, in all the same classes in our modestly small high school. Alphabetically, we ended up seated near each other. Socially, even in the isolating awkwardness of American adolescence, we weren’t not-friends, the small world of our educational existence ensnaring us both. And even later on— as seniors— we were in the same cubbyhole office, doing “teaching assistant” work for different Math teachers sometime between third and fourth periods, and often after class. We were both voted “most likely to succeed.”

…

Continue reading…

It is sometimes the withholding more than the gratification, that matters.

He is looking into my eyes, as if reading the words bouncing around inside my silent head. My eyes, pleading with him as my mouth cannot.

He pulls his cock from my lower lips, and straddles my hips, my waist, sitting back on my tits. His cock pulses just below my mouth, and i lick my lips in longing. My pussy is banging out her need, i feel the coil of juice sliding from cunthole to asshole, slipping up my crack until it pools beneath me.

Oh who the fuck am I kidding, you have to have both:

i am longing incarnate. Waiting, and needing, and though His patience is long, i can see the pulsing of his cock, the need building in him as well.

He slides back down between my spread thighs and spears me with his lance. His cock is hard, harder than it has ever been, and i feel him taking himself deeply into my belly, deeply, fully making me his.

Hard truths:

Oh, you thought this was enjoyable? A pleasant pastime? Think again. You don’t write well until you get to the place where you force yourself to squirm under an uncompromising demand for your own honesty.

It’s not a nice place. It’s a place of autopsy. In erotica, you had better own the most intimately humiliating parts of your own sexual self. This isn’t autobiography; it’s auto-evisceration. Writing is not about gratifying your own ego or literary exhibitionism. It’s about bruising yourself against the wall that separates your consciousness from that of your reader. And the lines of communication are never, ever going to be complete. You’re going to lose your nails and rip your fingers to shreds digging at the brick and mortar that are the cultural, perceptual and existential barriers that separate you from the person reading your work. If you can’t do it, or won’t do it, or are too damn lazy to go the distance, find another hobby.