Tag Archives: charles langley

Stabbing Pleasure By Sunni Brock

I smell your desire
Inhaling your breath
As our tongues touch then embrace
And I reach downward
Smoothing the warm mist of perspiration
Over the tingling hairs of your navel

You rise suddenly and
Your arrow pricks my finger
Leaving a single drop of sticky sweetness
On my throbbing fingertip

My nipples are racing
To escape their bindings
I feel my thighs trembling
My stomach tightens

I am clenching
Moist, warm, and waiting
Engorged with the thrill
Of your immanent entry

Maneuvering my hips over yours
Freeing my full breasts
And cupping them
Into your face

Biting, teasing, nibbling
A direct nerve
Between my bosom
And maidenhead

I feel your arrow tapping
Ready to accept my invitation
I am so swollen it aches
Engorged to the edge of ecstasy

Breath held for a moment
My lips part in anticipation
Then the tip barely probing
I feel myself spreading slowly
You gliding gently, firmly in

In…

In…

Deeper,
Slowly,
Ever deeper
Until I can hardly –

Your
Arrow
Plunges
Deeply
Into
My
Open
Heart

…and I gasp as I teeter on the brink

and you retreat

then stab again

and again

and I die a little

again

and again

Until I break open
Gushing love from my legs
in a torrent release of rapture
flowing down the creases of our bodies
into rivulets over the sheets

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Temptation: The Anthology is out now!

Temptation: The Anthology. is out now!

Temptation: The Anthology, a diverse collection of erotic fiction from around the world. From the sensual caress of a lover, to S&M torture, fantasies and filth… A wild ride, a passionate embrace, all of it awaits you…

Featuring:

Seven Foot Two, Fur of Blue By James Hartley

Charlie’s Room By A. A. Garrison

Sister Patience By Jerome Brooke

Bird of Paradise By Jax

Finding Elsbet By Peter Baltensperger

Don’t Go By S.L. Johnson

For The Love Of Rachel By Laura J Campbell

Shoot Me By Albert Tucher

A Pound of Flesh By Charles Langley

Inspiration By Ken Goldman

A Little Bit of Lovin’ and a Bushel of Winter Wheat By Charles Langley

The Collar, The Leash and The Wife By Aiden Mulane

Nympho Librarian By Mike Sharlow

A Good Night’s Sleep By Franklin Sr.

Down By Ralph Greco

Barbara’s Waterboarding By Sandy George

The Art of Women By Jerome Brooke

For The Love Of Legs And Feet By Michael F.

Ms. Welsh After the Interview By Paul Henry

Devil’s Delight By Matthew Wilson

The Muse By Jerome Brooke

Kamalia By Kara Leigh Miller

The Hangover Cure By Holly Day

Olivia’s Ordeal By DirtyMartini

Grey By Caitlin Hoffman

After Dinner By Jerome Brooke

Original fiction and the very best reprints from the successful Temptation Magazine blog: https://temptationmag.wordpress.com/

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A Little Bit of Lovin’ and a Bushel of Winter Wheat By Charles Langley

The Lincoln Town Car pulled up in front of  Millie’s Boarding House and State Senator Misty Garth got out without waiting for the driver to open the door for her. She stepped gingerly

around the mud puddles and mounted the steps. Millie came dashing out the door, drying her hands on a dishtowel as she ran.

“Is it all right to hug a Senator?” she asked.

“It’s all right to hug an old friend,” Misty said, grabbing her in a bear hug.

“Bill with you?”

“Left him in Raleigh to take care of things. Since he sold the farm, he mostly just cleans up business matters for me.”

“Best thing you ever did, marrying that man. I knew when you moved out on Jed Purdy and went back to school, you were going places. Marrying Bill cinched it.”

“Bill got me started off in politics. They wanted him to run for Councilman. Told them he didn’t have the time. Suggested they offer it to me. Backed me all the way ever since.”

“You sure look different now from the way you did when you came here offering to work for room and board. You still have that little girl look, but now it has authority attached to it.”

“Still have that little girl feel. Especially with Bill’s arm around me. Nothing  like a good man to convince you life is worth living. And nothing like a no-good one to let you know it isn’t.”

# # #

When Jed Purdy brought home a bride from the backwoods of Mittford County, neighbours took bets on whether she would freeze in front of  the fireplace without a sufficient supply of logs or starve in the lean-to that served as an ill-equipped kitchen. There was the third possibility that she would work herself to death trying to clean up the mess and grime that had accumulated there since  Purdy had taken over the hardscrabble farm. Whatever her future, they felt sorry for the fourteen year old waif who arrived with her entire wardrobe on her back and a pair of ill-fitting brogans on her sockless feet.

“With twenty more pounds on her skinny carcass and some tar soap for her hair, Misty would be beautiful,” Lee Petersen opined, “but as it is she’s just cute as a pearl button.”

If you were extremely kind you would say Purdy was a victim of hard luck and misfortune, but it you were at all truthful you would add that the hard luck and misfortune that accounted for his downfall was Jed Purdy himself.

Each Spring he either planted his crops so early that late frost killed them, or put them in so late that they didn’t have sufficient strength to survive the rains. What little crops he was able to reap went quickly to the society for the preservation of itinerant moonshiners or ended up an ante in the pot of Bud Hawley’s everlasting crapgame.

Misty decided on death by hard labour and set forth on the Herculean task of cleaning up the equivalent of the Augean stables. In no time at all the wide pine boards that were the floor gleamed from lye and hand scrubbing. The inside of the log walls was whitewashed. Years of smoke stains were removed from the mantle and fireplace front and the run down premises began to take on signs of human habitation.

Folks thought her habit of hard work would rub off on Jed, but such was not the case. He fished, and hunted, drank and gambled, but still had no time for chopping wood or tending the farm.

“Bill Garth got more of everything than he will ever use,” Jed told Misty. “I want you to go over to his place and git us some wheat for flour.”

“We got no money to buy anything,” she answered. “How you ‘spect to get wheat?”

“Garth ain’t had a woman at his place since his wife died four years ago. I’m sure you got something you can swap for food we need,” he told her.

She looked at him in astonishment.

“It ain’t like you was a sweet young thing never done nothing,” he continued. “You can give away all you want and still have plenty left for any three men.”

Next morning she walked the two miles to the Garth place.

“Jed wants to know do you have a spare bushel of wheat?”

“I don’t keep any more of my crop than I can use,” he said. “The feed store can accommodate him.”

“We got no money for the feed store. He thought maybe I could swap somethin’ for the wheat. Something kinda personal like.” She turned her face away from him while she was talking, so he wouldn’t see the blush on her cheek.

“You mean what I think you mean?” He saw by the look on her face that she did.

“That worthless son-of-a-bitch. Swapping your body for things he should have earned. I’ll give you the wheat, you don’t have to do anything. But tell him not to send you back again.”

“I cain’t take no charity. I cain’t swap for it, we’ll just have to do without.”

Misty went into the tidy bedroom and began undressing. She shed her housedress and petticoat and was taking off bloomers with the Gold Medal flour trademark still evident when Garth came in. She lay back on the bed to wait for the ten minutes of grunting, thrusting and moaning that was considered love-making in her home.

Half an hour later he was still kissing her on her eyes, her throat, her breasts. His hands were caressing her, bringing her to fever pitch, in a feeling she had never had before. When he finally took her it was with tenderness and care.

“I’ll leave the wheat at the millers,” he told her as breathlessly she was putting on her clothes.

“You can pick up your flour tomorrow.”

When she got home Jed was waiting.

“Sure took long enough,” he told her. “He have to grow the wheat?”

She said nothing, just went into the bedroom and closed the door.

Jed came in, pushed her backwards on the bed and climbed on without taking off his shoes.

Misty tried to push him off, but he was too strong.

“Don’t you even want to kiss me or put your hand on me first?” she asked.

“What other whore things he teach you?”

“He didn’t teach me nothing. It’s jest there’s more to it than wham, bam.”

“You ought to know, Whore.” he spit out the words. “No, you ain’t even a whore. Whores git money. All you’re good for is a bushel of wheat.” He grunted and groaned for a few minutes, then rolled off and went into a drunken sleep.

Two weeks later Jed had needs again.

“Bill Garth got cords of dry firewood under tarpaulins. More’n he’ll ever use. I want you to go over and git us a cord of that wood. Gittin’ cold in here with jest picked up branches.”

“You got as much timber on your place as he has. All it takes is cutting and stacking.”

He struck her across the face with the back of his hand.

“When I tell you to do something, do it. Or else I’ll  larn you a thing or two.”

Next day he came back from a hunting trip with a fruit jar of corn squeezings but no game. A pot of pinto beans simmered on the stove, but Misty was long gone. He unscrewed the jar top and started on the liquor. More important things to do than worry about a woman.

Misty went to the boarding house with just the scanty clothes on her back. Good help was hard to get and Millie greeted her warmly. Weeks later when Misty went to the town’s only lawyer to inquire about a divorce, she got a surprise.

“No record of you ever being married,” he told her. “No license taken out and the preacher who married you was never ordained. You’re free as a bird.”

But not for long. Bill Garth came courting as soon as he heard she was free.

# # #

“Thing’s turned out so well for you,” Millie told her over a pot of sassafras tea. “And to think the whole thing started so simply.”

“You’re right. My life and my career started at Bill Garth’s farm, with a little bit of loving and a bushel of winter wheat.”

A Pound of Flesh By Charles Langley

The plaque on the door said “Sam Eliot, Attorney at Law”. It didn’t say that Sam was Samantha or that she was five foot six inches of curvy cuddleness and that she was proud of her obvious assets. It also didn’t warn you that she had a black belt in karate and could protect herself from unwanted attention to those assets. Plaques on a door don’t usually give you all the information you need to know.

Inside the office, Sam was the only thing that made coming through the door worth while. Certainly the imitation oak desk wouldn’t have attracted you, nor would the cheap metal file cabinets right out of Office Depot have gladdened your eye. The only sign of luxury was a leather couch against the far wall. Missing were the rows of law books all law offices were expected to display. Sam’s reference materials were on the Macintosh computer on the table in the far corner.

You got to the office through a foyer where a single platinum blonde handled appointments and phone calls for the eight pint sized offices beyond. Although the girl at the desk had all the right assets in all the right places, one glance at Sam made the receptionist look like a runner-up.

When Arnie came into the office, Sam took notice.of this ruggedly handsome James Garner type and immediately wanted to know him better. Much better. Sam was like that. She never argued with her hormones.

“How can I help you,” she asked, running over in her mind all the things she would be willing to help him with.

“I’m not sure you can, but I certainly hope so,” he said, his eyes taking an erotic inventory.

If not love at first sight, it was certainly lust at first encounter.

“The whole thing is kind of crazy,” he continued. “We had a fraternity bash in my last year at Rutgers that made all drunken orgies look like Sunday school picnics. Under the influence, I made a bet with another senior. I lost, and now, five years later he is here to collect his pound of flesh.”

“You mean that figuratively, of course.”

“I wish. We had just finished ‘Merchant of Venice’ and thought it cool to bet in a Shakespearean manner. We both treated it as a drunken joke, but this week he showed up demanding his winnings.”

Sam composed her lovely features into a frown. It bothered her that this hunk could be so stupid. She looked him over carefully. There wasn’t anywhere on his torso where a pound of flesh wouldn’t be sorely missed.

“Have you offered him cash, instead?”

“First thing I thought of. But the son-of-a-bitch made a killing in software and has more money than he knows what to do with.”

“Give me his name and address. I’ll see if I can find an out.”

The meeting was over. Stupid or not, she hated to see him go.

It was a week later when Bill Evans seated himself across the desk from Sam.

“Glad you could make it,” she said. In looks he wasn’t at all a loser, but compared to  Arnie he came up short.

“Now what is this I hear about a joke bet gone sour? You know it would never hold up in court.”

“You have to hear my side,” he said. “All through school this guy was Joe College. He played basketball like a pro, took all the academic honors, had girls raiding the dorm to steal his shorts. He made me look like a born loser. Now I have money I don’t need, lawyers on retainer doing nothing, and the time to drag him through a case that will show he wasn’t as smart as everyone thinks he is.”

“In other words, this is a spite case that you know you can’t win?”

“You might say that”.

She sat back in her chair, shoulders thrown back, sure that he would appreciate the merchandise she displayed. It was obvious that he did.

“What if I came up with something that would have the same effect but would cost less time and money and still show him up as a loser?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Since Arnie first came into my office he has spent as much time hitting on me as he has preparing his case,” she lied. “He has a certain appeal, but all I’ve given him is the time of day. And I intend to bill him for that. What if you made out without trying where he worked hard and failed?”

Bill was grinning from ear to ear. He was practically drooling.

“You mean… ?” he stammered.

“You know what I mean. I know what I want, and I don’t waste time about it.”

“Let’s get this straight. You’ll give me anything I want if I let you win this case?”

“I won’t give you a damn thing. But I’ll let you take what you’re man enough to take, without any repercussions.”

He thought about it. This made it even more enticing.

“When?”

“Right now.” She walked over to the door and locked it.

His eagerness made the oft referenced eager beaver seem reluctant. He rushed forward, reached, but never grasped. Somehow he found himself landing flat on his back short of the couch. This had to be an accident. He charged forward again. This time he felt himself flying through the air and he knew it was over when his face encountered the corner of the desk. He stood up, painfully, and put on his coat.

“Sorry,” he said as he went out the door, “You win. I thought you were a woman.”

You’ll never know how much a woman, she thought as she adjusted her clothes.

Next day Arnie heard the good news. Case closed. No details of how it was done.

“What’s the fee?” he asked.

“A pound of flesh,” she answered, “but I don’t want you detached from it.”