Tag Archives: clit

Paradise By Ty Vossler

An island paradise, all-inclusive, water sports, yoga, massage, aromatherapy…

The advertisement went on to describe a rich, natural experience waiting for adventurous couples.

After fifteen years of marriage, we deserved it, needed it. Lucia and I lived busy lives trying to balance work with family so that our three-year-old, Rita, would have memories of energetic, fun-loving parents when she was older. Yet, sometimes our best efforts weren’t sufficient to stave off evening lethargy. Lovemaking became ritualized, so that that every two weeks Lucia obligingly opened her thighs and said, “This’s just for you, Mr. Costner.”

Sixteen years ago Lucia obtained an educational visa from her native Mexico. I had just published my first novel, and was invited as a guest speaker for an English class at an adult school. I noticed Lucia right away sitting in the back, flashing her thousand-watt smile. She had inscrutable almond-shaped eyes, and short-cropped black hair. It all boiled down to chemistry—even as I delivered my lecture and started the class on writing project. There was just something about her. I pursued, she let me chase, and after a good amount of time, she slowed down enough for me to catch her.

# # #

After all these years, Lucia and I still love each other. After time, marriages evolve into a series of agreements, and sometimes they’re not healthy—companionship without passion, a sexless friendship. We were determined never to allow this. Middle age was upon us and we determined not to evolve into old fogies.

We live on a small family ranch in Tlaxcala, Mexico with Lucia’s mother, her stepfather and a younger half-brother. As teachers, we enjoy a simple life. Our combined earnings allowed us to travel a bit. Yet, disconnectedness had crept into our relationship—a natural consequence of responsibility. Occasionally, Lucia’s mother babysat, allowing Lucia and me to catch a movie, enjoy a quiet dinner, or sneak off to a motel for a few hours. Those stolen moments were spiritual, magical, yet far and few between. Just as we reacquainted, the date ended and we were thrust back into our busy worlds.

Clothing optional, said the ad, rekindle your passion, make new friends––couples only…

“It’s worth a try,” I said.

“Two days and nights—but it’s so expensive.” She countered.

“We’re worth it.”

“Rita will be in heaven. She’ll be the center of the universe for her grandparents.”

“Spoiled rotten when we return.”

“I’m going to try and lose my belly,” Lucia determined. Her figure was matronly after the birth of Rita.

“I think you’re just right,” I said.

“That’s because you still love me. I don’t want to walk around naked on a beach looking like this.” She went into the kitchen.

As Lucia blended a green drink to begin her diet, I set about booking tickets, and with a ceremonious final click our decision became irrevocable.

# # #

It was surreal, departing from temperate Puebla and arriving to the humidity of the Mexican Riviera. We boarded a ferry in, Playa del Carmen, which floated us to Paradise Island, a tropical spit of private land cut off from the mainland by ten miles of turquoise water.  Dressed in a thin, flowery skirt and a red cotton blouse, Lucia looked younger than her forty-five years, and I was still fit at fifty-five.

There were about ten other passengers aboard the ferry. We conversed with an elderly couple that said they’d been returning to the island for the past fifteen years.

“What’s it like?” Lucia got right to the point.

“The fountain of youth,” said the woman.

“Like being a kid again,” said the man.

Lucia and I went to the front railing of the ferry and let the ocean spray mist our bodies. Rita dominated our conversations until we docked at the island. What was Rita doing at that moment? She was getting so tall, wasn’t she? We’ll have to find something to bring back for her. Should we call to make sure everything’s all right? It took some time for the jungle atmosphere of the island to trickle its way into our consciousness.

Attractive young men dressed in linen shorts and a Hawaiian shirts welcomed us at the dock. Waiters carrying a tray loaded with extra large margaritas followed him closely. Each visitor got the royal treatment. They all spoke Spanish, yet my grasp was good enough by then to understand.

Our host had large, brown eyes and an easy smile. “Mr. and Mrs. Costner, on behalf of our entire staff, welcome to Paradise. I’m Mario, and I’ll be showing you to your bungalow.”

“Thank you. Please call me, Wyler, and this is, Lucia.”

He shook my hand and kissed Lucia on the cheek. We gratefully sipped as Mario took us on a walking tour.

“Your things will be placed in your room for you.” He pointed out gravel trails leading to various locations on the island. We saw naked couples, young and old, walking hand in hand. Most were just like us—imperfect bodies. Yet none of them seemed self-conscious.

“I feel better now,” Lucia whispered. She had managed to lose some of the puffiness in her tummy, yet not as much as she’d hoped. Squeezing her hand, I smiled and bumped her hips with mine.

We were led to our bungalow, a handsome whitewashed stucco affair with a thatch roof, French doors, and large windows all around. Dominating the bedroom was a king-size bed covered with colorful throw pillows. Snuggled in an ice bucket was a bottle of champagne. The ambiance was beginning to humidify any concerns we may have had. The bathroom boasted a walk-in shower that doubled as a wet sauna, with a tiled bench wide enough to lie on.

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy the garden,” Mario said, opening double doors to the back yard. Orchids dripped from privacy walls—there was a large outdoor table with cushioned chairs and a private Jacuzzi surrounded by thick candles. Between two ancient Jacaranda trees hung a hammock built for two.

“Here’s my card,” the Mario smiled, “If there’s any way I can be of service, don’t hesitate to call.” He gave Lucia an uplifted eyebrow and excused himself.

“Mario wants to service you,” I chided.

“Mmm,” she moaned, “shall I call?” She held out the card.

I shook my head, “You’re all mine, Mrs. Costner,” and took her into my arms. Of course, I wanted her straight away. Lucia suggested that we stroll the island to allow the champagne to chill. We followed a trail—not remembering where Mario said it would lead. The island was small enough that we couldn’t get lost.

Being surrounded by so much flesh was intimidating at first. Yet everyone was very friendly, stopping to ask where we were from and how long we’d be staying. One man was strolling alone and he stopped to smile at us.

“Bit hot for clothes,” he said, “isn’t it?’

Lucia didn’t skip. She was out of her clothes in less than a minute. I followed her lead, not wanting to appear prudish.

Much better,” the man said, nodding at Lucia.

We continued on the trail. Songbirds filled the perfumed air and we heard the chattering of monkeys and parrots.

“Wonder what Rita’s doing?” Lucia asked.

“Enjoying a vacation away from her parents,” I said.

“Touché.”

The humidity made us perspire, yet the ocean breeze cooled like a ceiling fan. The trail terminated abruptly at a lushly forested oasis, fed by a ten-foot waterfall. On a manmade flagstone embankment beside the cascade, a couple was making love. We spied from a camouflage of orchids. A handsome middle-aged black man was attending to a beautiful brown-skinned Polynesian-looking woman. She groaned deeply and dug her heels into his lower back as he plunged forward.

“Oh god, that’s good,” she moaned, “I love your cock…mmm.”

They were sweating and oblivious to rest of the world. I stepped behind Lucia to put my arms around her. Their primitive utterances meshed seamlessly with the forest sounds of water, birds, frogs, and the clattering forest animals.

We watched for another minute before withdrawing soundlessly and finding the beach trail.

“That was—

“Pretty sexy,” I finished.

“Yes. Did you see his—?

“Very impressive.”

“She liked it.”

“Like to try it out?”

“Let’s find the beach.”

Along the way, I stopped to kiss her beneath a canopy of trees, smelling the ocean and feeling like Adam. I wanted her on the forest floor, yet she tugged me toward the sound of the sea.

There were about two-dozen others laying beneath the sun, or shaded by large umbrellas at wooden tables. Others swam in the clear waters of the Caribbean. A quaint little grass hut bar served refreshments, and cheery waiters kept everyone hydrated. It was all part of the package.

Lucia drew plenty of notice as we walked. Her large brown nipples were stiff and the gentle swell of her tummy curved down into a dark, natural thatch.

We walked to where the sugary beach ended in a border of large boulders. A natural stone archway led through to a thin, sandy path. We followed the weaving footpath around more boulders and stumbled upon another couple blocking the path.

“Oops,” Lucia said.

The woman stopped churning over her partner, “Hi…oyyy,” and she resumed, sending him in and out of with graceful, ballet-like movements. “Don’t go away…mmm!” She was a beautiful black woman with straight dark hair flowing midway down her back. Her Latin lover urged her on in Spanish.

“Que rico, ay si, eso se siento bien!”

“Like that baby?”

“Ay si…me vengo!”

“Yeah baby, cum…let me feel it!” She gave us an enigmatic smile as he growled and spurted. She lay for a moment on top, and then lifted off of him. “Let’s let these people by.”

The man got to his feet and smiled as Lucia and I walked past and found a plot of sand between two boulders by the end of the trail. I kissed her, and the memory of what we’d seen so far made my cock into stone.

Lucia and I assembled our clothes into a makeshift bed. Yet, rather than lying down, she bent over, placed her hands on top of a low boulder and splayed her legs. I opened her ass-cheeks, bent my knees and slipped in easily between the mocha-colored folds of her lips. She groaned deeply and reached a hand between her legs to massage her tiny pearl- drop. Within minutes her pussy was quivering. She gasped and I felt her flex around me. I watched her asshole contracting with each successive spasm.

“Ay-ay-ayyy,” her pussy squeezed as I drove to the hilt, tapping at her  tissue boundary.

The other couple watched. Lucia bent her knees so that I slipped out, and then she lay on the makeshift bed. I settled between her brown legs and she waved over my shoulder to our audience.

Provecho,” said the man.

I lifted Lucia’s knees, scooted forward and pushed inside. The natural sunlight illuminated every detail of her snatch. Again, Lucia found her tiny clitoris. Our climax coincided and I cupped her ass, pushed in all the way and growled, spurting over and over. I stayed hard until her final shivering follow-up. When I pulled out, a stream of semen tangled in the pubic hair around her slit, and dripped on our clothes. We were both sweating profusely.

The onlookers blew kisses and walked back toward the beach. I brushed sand from Lucia’s backside and she wiped semen from her trickling snatch with my underwear.

“Hey, why not yours?” I complained.

“You’re responsible for this mess, Mister Costner,” she reprimanded.

We followed the trail to the beach. Ironically, both couples we’d seen earlier were cooling off in the shallows. The black woman waved for us to join them.

“I need to rinse off anyway,” said Lucia.

It seemed odd being introduced in waist deep water to people we’d just watched fucking.

The waterfall lovers were William and Tasha. Enrique and Maribel were the beach couple. The men’s eyes roved over Lucia and I have to admit, she was the prettiest fish in the sea.

Lucia is able to carry out a conversation about almost anything, captivating others with intellect, humor, and her unconscious sensuality. She has what the French refer to as, je nais se quoi. I’m more of a listener, although I can hold my own if I have to. We briefly shared personal essentials. William was a retired professional baseball player. I knew enough about baseball to recognize his name, and impressed him by recalling that he’d won a batting title. Maribel was an architect, Tasha owned an import store, and her husband, Enrique, was a real estate broker. Obviously, they’d come to an adult understanding regarding the sharing of spouses. William laughed when Lucia told him she was a math professor.

“When I was playing ball, I couldn’t even figure out my own batting average.”

I shared a blog site where they could purchase or download my books and short stories.

“Brought my Kindle,” said Maribel, “I’ll check you out tonight.”

“Not tonight, baby,” reminded William.

“Oh, that’s right,” she nodded.

Enrique turned to Lucia, “We have the leisure hall reserved for tonight. Would you and Wyler like to join us?”

“What’s happening there?” The look of innocence on Lucia’s face was priceless.

“Ah, well, you never know what might happen,” answered Tasha.

Lucia smiled and waited for my input. The warm water was full of colorful fish and the moment was intoxicating. “Sure, we’d love to,” I answered.

The island leeched anxieties from our minds and a crisp, cool breeze whispered of adventure in Paradise. After a time, we said our farewells and agreed to meet at nine in the leisure hall.

On the journey back to the bungalow, we wondered about Rita. After a cold shower, we called home and listened to her adorable rendition of, Somewhere Over the Rainbow. Then my mother-in-law gave us a delightful summary of her day with Rita.

We optioned for clothes to have dinner. Lucia wore a spaghetti-strap red dress that showcased her smooth brown back, cut low in front to reveal other assets. I’m admittedly biased, but Lucia was the most delightful looking woman in the dining room. I opted for a simple pairing of beige linen slacks, and a black cotton shirt. We sipped a cold, refreshing white wine and ordered seafood dinner salads.

“What do you think will happen tonight?” Lucia asked as the setting sun painted the sky a bright orange.

“You never know,” I repeated Tasha’s words, and arched my eyebrows.

Lucia glanced at her watch. I held her hand, kissed her fingers and told her how much I loved her. She returned my sentiments. After dinner, we took a trail that the waiter said would terminate at the leisure hall.

I wondered if the other two couples had children. The subject hadn’t come up. Lucia and I loved each other, and our beautiful Rita completed us. The island was bridging a gap. The others were probably patching up holes too. Their means were unconventional, yet Lucia and I had enjoyed watching the unfettered freedom of their pleasure, and our subsequent lovemaking was spontaneously stupendous.

“Darling,” Lucia said as we walked, “what if something does happen?”

“How would you feel about it?”

“We love each other, right? It would just be—

“For fun,” I finished. “Let’s see how it plays out.”

Two monkeys darted in front of us, chasing each other. I was reminded of three brittle threads: Fear, Ignorance, and Guilt—puppeteers of modern society. On Paradise Island, primitive instincts were encouraged to frolic and chase, like the monkeys. Eating, fucking, and sleeping were the only valid currency.

Dense forest, heavily scented orchids and jasmine vines surrounded the leisure hall. Forest noises filtered through a light ocean breeze. A double door entrance was open and the inside was illuminated by dozens of candles. Hidden speakers played ambient music.

“Wow,” Lucia whispered. A small man-made cascade splashed from a wall into a pool filled with freshwater tropical fish.

Centered in the room was a large, circular raised platform covered with supple, black leather padding and throw pillows. A hookah pipe with six hoses and an ember pot sat to one side.

“I want one of those,” I gestured to the pipe.

“You had your chance when we visited Istanbul.”

“They sell them in Mexico too.”

We heard distant laughter, and soon the others entered. They were also wearing clothes.

“I never grow tired of this,” William lifted his hands in the air.

They climbed the dais to greet us warmly with hugs and cheeky kisses.

“Ah, the pipe, have you ever tried?” Tasha queried.

“In Turkey,” Lucia answered.

“Are you Turkish?” she asked.

“Mexican. Wyler and I visited Turkey a few years ago.”

“You have such a great look,” Maribel added, “You could be Indian, Japanese, Italian, Middle-eastern…”

William set up the pipe with tobacco that he’d brought with him. “Ah yes… the pipe,” he said.

The fragrance of the pipe was sweet as we sat around it. I put the tip of a hose to Lucia’s lips and she inhaled deeply. When she exhaled, the cloud dissipated rapidly and she said it tasted of rose pedals.

The power of the vapor flowed quickly into our brains, and after three or four pulls the candlelight seemed to sway rather than flicker. Lucia leaned her head on my shoulder.

“What’s in this stuff?” I chuckled.

“Mind cleanser,” said Enrique.

“Spirit awakener,” added Mirabel.

“An aphrodisiac,” added William.

Lucia played her fingers in the air, “I’m floating.”

Enrique was kissing Tasha’s neck and shoulders as he slowly unbuttoned her blouse. Mirabel opened William’s shirt to trap a nipple with her front teeth.

I lifted Lucia’s face for a kiss. The mysterious vapor made our lips super-sensitive. I lowered a strap on her dress and took a brown nipple into my mouth.

Within the vaporous mist moans issued, along with sighs, and moist sounds. We observed each other. Enrique saw Lucia lift her dress over her head. Tasha’s eyes followed as I lowered my pants and Lucia leaned back on her hands and lifted her ass for me to pull her panties off.

“Gotta love that,” William smiled and nodded slowly as he gazed at Lucia’s snatch. Mirabel whispered something into his ear and his smile broadened.

I took Lucia into my arms and peppered her with kisses. My cock was pulsating— lifting with each beat of my heart. From the corner of my eyes, I saw Tasha take Enrique into her mouth. Lucia watched William lift Mirabel’s thighs to bury his face between them.

Time slowed to a single pulse. There were no questions, only answers lying everywhere around us. Moments focused and blurred as Lucia’s hand closed around my cock and jacked me back and forth. Then, there was movement—bodies shifting. Somehow I was on my back and Tasha was giving me head. Enrique was pushing into her from behind. Lucia was on my left with William between her legs. Her hands were flat against his chest as Maribel sucked her nipples. I saw William slide his knees forward. His mouth opened as if he’d found something he liked.

I didn’t remember us wanting this, yet we must have. Tasha was painting my cock with her tongue and I shut my eyes tightly. When I opened them, Mirabel was grasping William’s broad shaft and teasing it up and down over Lucia’s outer lips. She was thrusting desperately against him.

“Get inside…ohhh, get inside me,” she begged. Her eyes were glazed and she groaned deeply, rubbing her calves over his ass.

“You think you can handle this cock? You’re such a tiny little thing…” Mirabel teased.

“Ay, yes…I want it,” Lucia answered.

William pushed—Lucia’s head jerked back and her mouth opened wide. She gasped and drew a deep breath. Her eyes were tightly closed as William gradually disappeared down and in.

“Ahhh, now that’s some tight pussy…ahhh, Jesus.” He smiled over at me as reached Lucia’s boundary. She let out a long, staccato groan, and Mirabel kissed her.

“You did it…you took every inch of that big cock. Feel good?”

“Ayyy, yes…huh…ugh, ayyy…”

“Mmm,” William moaned. He pulled back and stroked forward.

Tasha paused on my cock because she was cumming. Enrique’s balls slapped against her ass and her orgasm was a high seagull cry. I reach up to twist her nipples and turned again to watch Lucia with William.

William drew back his impressive length and Lucia pulled him back in with her legs. He leaned forward for a kiss her and Mirabel was there—all three tongues lashed hungrily as he continued relentlessly, back and forth. Lucia was panting now—circling her hips—delirious.

“Ohhh… ayyy… huh, guh… oh, oh…” she crested and spilled over, “Oh guh… ayyy!” Her head thrashed side-to-side and she ground against him.

Tasha straddled me and lowered over my cock. Enrique put a dab of jelly on his cock and pushed into her asshole. I felt Enrique’s cock through the thin separating membrane. Tasha twisted her nipples and shouted, “Ohhh my god…ohhh, shit!”

Mirabel straddled Lucia’s face now, and Lucia was licking but had to stop when another climax loomed, “Hyyy, ohhh, ay, ay, ayyy!” Her climaxes was monumental. Her head jerked back, as William thrust harder.

“Uh, uh, uh, uh,” He grunted with every forward thrust.

Lucia gripped his shoulders, “Oh, uh, guh.”

Mirabel urged him on. I heard his balls slapping as he drove into her. Then Mirabel grabbed Lucia’s attention again. “Keep licking, baby…that’s it…yeah…don’t stop…lick my pussy!” Mirabel stiffened, shuddered and then bucked, “Yeah, ohhh yeah, oh right there… ooo, huh… ohhh, oh, oh, ohhh!”

Lucia’s tongue lashed at Mirabel’s clit. She tasted salty and smelled musky. She managed to free a hand and inserted two fingers into her cunt, curling them so that she could stimulate her G-spot. Lucia’s face was soaked with Mirabel’s juices. She turned her head and saw Enrique and Tasha watching her, mesmerized by the spectacle of so much primitive passion spilling out all at once into the room. She felt her juices traveling down her outer lips, into the crack of her ass. Her pleasure combined with everything that was taking place around her and she was surprised to hear herself crying out.

Within the misty vapors, a cacophony of moans sighs outbursts of pleasure. They were awash in the smell of sex—musky and intoxicating. They had become one, adding to the oneness. She heard Wyler growling as he spurted. Lucia transcended mere pleasure now. It was if she were experiencing a strong, continuous orgasm.

William shouted, “I’m gonna nut…oh Jesus…!” He arched his back, pumped his hips, “ohhh, oh shit…oh, oh, awww!” His ball sack lifted and flexed with the force of his ejaculation. Lucia was still cumming, forcing air and semen out from her taut lips.

Enrique grunted, pushed deep into Tasha’s asshole and let out a long groan. Cum dripped to my lower thighs and when he slipped out, it splashed on my legs. We collapsed into an exhausted heap of tangled arms and legs. William pulled back, and my ears were so sensitive that I heard the breaking of suction as his cockhead popped out of Lucia’s gaping cunt. Then there was the sound of semen-laden air frothing out of her. William lay on his side to watch.

Mirabel had her face there, watching her husband’s semen flowing from Lucia. “Dear god…that’s amazing. Push, Lucia…push it out honey.” Lucia pushed. There was the sound of more air escaping wetly. “Jesus, Will, you’ve been savin’ this up.”

“Come here you guys, you gotta see this,” William gestured.

The rest of us gathered to watch the spectacle of a seemingly endless flow of cum seeping from Lucia’s yawning cunt—stretched out by the thickness of William’s cock. Mirabel rubbed my back. “Don’t worry, baby, it’ll shrink back down in a few hours.”

Enrique used two fingers to gather a good amount of semen from around her cunt, and then placed it back inside Lucia. “Oh man, that’s so sexy.”

“Jeez,” said Tasha, Enrique’s ready to go again.”

Lucia’s mouth was still ajar. Her eyes were half open. She closed her legs and began wagging them side-to-side. “Think I’m finished,” she said.

Amazingly, I was hard again. Mirabel looked away from Lucia’s saturated snatch. “Wyler…somethin’ happening there?” She sidled toward me and pushed me to my back. Enrique stilled Lucia’s legs by placing his hands on her knees. Then he opened them and climbed between.

Tasha giggled, “After William… you’re gonna fall in.”

# # #

The cycle was sustained throughout the night. Whatever was in the vapor allowed continuity. When I finally had a turn with Lucia, her pussy was still gaping, and saturated with sperm. I easily slipped in and added more a short time later. Soon after, my cock was eased into Mirabel’s asshole with Enrique on bottom filling her cunt. It all became a blur after that. The last thing I remember was Lucia’s voice saying, “Slow… go slow… uhnn…”

# # #

I awakened within a tangle of arms and legs. Mirabel and Tasha were snuggled into William and Lucia was sandwiched between Enrique and me. She had her back to me with a leg draped over his hip. My cock immediately hardened, and I scooted closer. She twisted her head around.

“Wait,” she whispered. Lucia lifted her leg and I saw that Enrique was still inside of her. She gingerly disengaged and his cock slithered out to slap against his thigh.

Without a word, we wobbled to our feet, found our clothes and padded out into the beginning rays of dawn.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch,” Lucia complained with each step.

“You okay?”

“I think so. Nothing permanent.”

The sky was turning from pink to orange. Once outside, I took Lucia into my arms. She disengaged for a moment and used her panties to wipe fresh semen from her seeping snatch. Dry sperm covered her pubic hair, her thighs and ass. Even her tits were dotted with dried remains.

“Love you,” I whispered, holding her again.

“Te amo,” she returned, her head fitting against my chest so perfectly.

“Can you walk okay?”

“Think so,” she answered.

Returning to our bungalow, we showered and fell into a deep slumber, arms and legs akimbo. Late afternoon, we awakened and began the day with a long, lingering kiss. My hardness stabbed into her belly.

“How can you even…?” She pulled back and slapped at my cock.

“Guess the effect of the pipe hasn’t quite worn off yet.”

“That was––

“Amazing,” I finished.

“Can’t believe we…”

“Just did that,” I concluded.

“Wonder what Rita’s doing? Should we—?

“Let’s hold off a while longer.” I jabbed her playfully with my cock.

“Darling, I can’t possibly. I’m not even sure I can walk.”

“William,” I said.

“Mmm.”

“Did he fuck you in the…?”

“Mmm.” She nodded. “That’s the sorest part.”

The phone rang and Lucia answered.

“Hi…we’re both fine…tired and sore…yes, I think we can…okay…about seven… okay… ciao.”

“Let me guess—our new friends want to get together?”

Lucia nodded, “Just dinner. They’re exhausted too.”

“Don’t look at me,” I put up my hands defensively.

We took another shower, and as Lucia was soaping her pussy, she said, “It’s not as tender as I thought.”

I took her soapy body into my arms and kissed her. We were reconnected.

 

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Cabin By M. Earl Smith

All in all, I couldn’t help but laugh. After all, you were turning out to be bolder that I had imagined.

You responded quite well to the reduction of my paranoia, as well as a decrease in attention. Perhaps a lot of that was my worrying about losing someone as amazing as you in my life, but either way, I was an old hand at this game, and I should have known better. The old adage was true: when you were relaxed, and spending most of the time having a good time as opposed to worrying about what the future would hold, things went a lot smoother than when I was whining about this or that. For the first time in a long time, we were both having fun.

It was of little surprise, then, when you texted me and asked me about having a drink. You bragged a few weeks ago about having moonshine at home, but I was skeptical as to if you had ever partaken. I, on the other hand, was familiar with drinking. It had bothered you, you said, so I was careful with the scenarios that I allowed alcohol to become a part of.

I was already at the cabin, sitting at the table, thinking, when you arrived. I smiled, and hugged you before putting my hand around your waist, to lead you in. Once inside, I placed an arm gently on either side of you and grinned, leaning in to kiss your neck. You moaned softly, letting this go on for a few minutes before placing a hand on my chest, slowly moving me back. I did as you wished. You smiled, and offered me one kiss before nodding at a brown bag on the table. “Did you rent this place for the night?”

I grinned, and nodded, handing you my keys. “Put these with yours. If we are drinking, nobody is driving.”

You laughed, as if you knew something that I didn’t know, and walked towards the table. Looking in the bag, you pulled out two bottles. One was a simple bottle of vodka, one of my favorites. The other, you noticed with a chuckle, was a bottle of chocolate liqueur.

“I guess I know which one is for who,” you said, removing two shot glasses from the bag.

I laughed, and removed my jacket and tie, tossing them over a chair. “Given your relative inexperience, I figured you should start light. After all, this is just a little fun. Speaking of which, let’s turn this into a game. We will each pour a shot, and one asks the other a question. If it’s true, the person who was asked has to drink, and if it’s false, the person who asked the question has to. Fair enough?”

You giggled, and sat down. “I have a feeling you’re not going to fare well, old man” you teased, filling each glass up to the brim with the chosen drinks. “I get to ask first. You kissed your first girl before you were sixteen, right?”

I smiled, and reached for the vodka. As I did, you put your hand over mine, a fierce look in your eye. “Merle, you’re not a mean drunk, are you?”

I tried hard to restrain my laughter. “Mean? No. I’m actually a silly drunk. I grew up in a family of mean drunks, and I went the other way with it. Why be angry when you’re giddy? Truth be told, I rarely get drunk at all.”

You smiled, and moved your hand. I picked the shot up and downed it, wincing as I did so. The vodka was smooth, but strong, and it sent a warm shock through my system as it went down. Shaking my head, I poured myself another shot and looked straight into your beautiful blue eyes.

“You’ve tried smoking at least once in your life” I said slowly, asking a question that I won’t mind hearing the answer to.

You giggled, and nodded towards my glass, pushing yours away slightly. I shook my head, a little surprised, but, of course, I believed you. With a grin, I raised the second shot in a mock toast and downed it. The second goes down much smoother than the first, and the sting of the alcohol brought a flush to my cheeks that is noticeable even with my beard. Wicked delight danced through your eyes as you refilled my glass.

“Your turn to ask” I said, trying to conceal my giddiness. I was far from drunk, but I felt the effects of the alcohol. The next question, however, sucks all humor out of the room.

“You fell harder for me than you did her, didn’t you?”

All I could do, for a long minute, was stare, so much that you started to reach for your glass, a bit of disappointment in your eyes. I cleared my throat and shook my head, reaching for my own glass, admitting to you that you had a greater hold on me than anyone else ever had. As I went to drink the shot, you reached across the table, pulling it away from me. As you set it on the table, you pushed my chair back from the table and straddled me.

I sighed, saying nothing. I wrapped my arms around your waist and started kissing your neck, hitting the spots behind your ear and along your jawline that made you quiver with anticipation. As I leaned in, you whispered the words in my ear that you knew drove me to the brink of madness with passion for you.

“Quit being a chicken and kiss me.”

The green light given, my lips locked with yours, holding the first kiss for a long time as our jaws worked in unison with one another. Soon, my tongue slid into your mouth, intertwining with yours as you softly pressed your body to mine. I ran my hands under your shirt, along your hips and sides first, before gently reaching up to unsnap your bra. Pulling it loose, I sat it aside and ran my hands along your breasts, feeling your nipples harden at my touch. You tensed a little, as if unsure what to do, before wrapping your arms around my neck, to continue kissing me.

I stood, cupping my hands on your ass I did. You emitted a little gasp of surprise, only to grin and kiss me with more force. It was so intense that I had to stop for a moment to catch my breath, and to reposition my hold on you. The kissing intensified with each step, your legs wrapped around me as you pushed your pussy against me, fabric on fabric. Finally, I made it to the bed, to gently lay you down.

Free from my grip, you slowly crawled to the top of the and looked at me, curled up, not sure what to expect next. I crawled up next you, face to face, and start kissing you again. You returned my kisses, as my hands run up your legs, softly rubbing your pussy through your jeans. You pressed yourself into my hand and kissed on. I slowly moved one of my hands up and unbuttoned your jeans. You froze, reaching your hand down to clasp over mine as you, in a rare moment, looked me in the eyes.

You stared at me for a long second before you slowly started to work your jeans off of your slender, curved hips. It was with a faint surprise that I noted that your panties came off at the same time, and as you slid them past your ankles, to carefully be set aside next to you, I gently started to slide the tips of my fingers up and down your thighs, allowing them to trace occasionally across your pussy, leaving you to wonder if it was intentional or not. This went on for a few minutes before I started to slowly trace circles around your pussy, rubbing along your lips and your clit softly. Another moan of pleasure escaped from you, and you bit your lip as you stared at me in anticipation.

My index finger focused on your clit, rubbing it softly in slow, circular motions as I tickled along your opening with the tips of my fingers on the opposite hand. By this point, your pussy started to grow wet, and it was plain to see that you enjoyed being teased in this way. My hand rubbed up and down on your clit, and, with a steady hand, I slid two fingers into your pussy. You moaned softly, and started to work your hips against the soft thrusts of my hand.

My hand never left you. In a swift motion, I positioned myself between your legs and, with a chuckle, my tongue moved in, to nibble at your thighs for a second before moving northward. In a matter of moments, my tongue replaced my fingers on your clit, and you quickly grew wetter as the tip of my tongue flicked softly against you. You growled in delight, and ran your fingers through my hair.

I took my time, my fingers working in and out of you slowly as I built you towards your climax. My tongue never ceased in its endeavors, and you soon started to softly buck your hips against my mouth and hand as anticipation built within you. You moaned louder, and I felt your thighs tighten around my head. Arching your neck and back, you let out a shriek of pure delight as you reached your climax, coming all over my face and hand, as well as the sheets below. I chuckled, even as my mouth was soaked with your juices, as I continued to lick and finger you for a few more moments, even as you ran both fingers through my hair and trembled under my touch.

I laughed as I finally pulled away. As I looked up, I saw a smile on your face, even as your skin trembled under the effects of what you just experienced. As I crawled into the bed next to you, I grinned, and took you into my arms.

“Worth it?” I said.

You nodded, saying nothing. After all, no words were needed.

Moonshine Ember By Charles E.J. Moulton

My lusciously rich beauty. My fabulous cocksucker kitten.

I secretly wondered if the museum now worked on displaying live and moving artwork. In that case, I would probably have walked up and touched the treasure. What parts? Well, I would’ve started with the knockers and slowly fumbled myself down to her ass. The crowning glory would then be trying out her damp snatch. Ah, artistic bliss. Ah, wet pussies.

The living artwork in question? More opulent than a 9 feet by 9 feet Rubens painting, more tranquil than a Monet, more exquisite than a William Turner and more crazy than a Jackson Pollock galaxy spread. Her beauty certainly outshone most artworks that I had seen in my days. And I had seen a lot of art in my young life.

At that point, though, when I saw her first in that art museum in Vienna, she was all new, all sexy, all cockraising and all flabbergasting.

I would’ve fucked her right there on the spot.

I had done quite a bit of tit examination in my day. Having chosen to specialize on baroque art was no coincidence: my love for buxom vixens really went into the extreme. I just loved big tits and round asses.

This time, I hit the jackpot.

Damn it, I told myself. I had come here to do some research for my thesis, study the details in Rubens paintings, take notes and map out a plan for my literary work. After all, my final exam was coming up and I needed to get plenty of material for my paper. Vienna’s Art Museum provided me with all I needed, including several experienced colleagues with inside information of all those fantastic baroque painting techniques and anecdotes as to who painted what in which of Rubens’ artworks? Snyder, Jordaens, Bruegel?

Rubens’ art was like sexual intercourse: a collaboration.

Well, I put my thesis on hold that spring day. My cock only cared about making itself comfortable inside its new home: her wet pussy.

I had to have her. It was as simple as that. I saw that woman and I was lost.

I wondered why the guards didn’t ask her to stand back and watch the paintings from afar. Her inspection of Rubens’ rather voluptuous and naked second wife Helene Fourment, wearing only a fur, bordered on the obsessively meticulous. Somehow, though, something told me that the guards had hard-ons as well, every male trouser in this room bulging like crazy. I could actually see them drooling.

Okay, I drooled, too. Her tight black skirt embraced her ass in a way that had my sperm factory working overtime. I really didn’t know where to look first: her ass, her boobs or her long flowing hair? It also really did not help that her skirt ended in stockings with patterns of flowers and butterflies, elegantly positioned silvery decorations squirted on the fabric. They reminded me of cumdrops or small droplets of flowing clit juice. It made me seriously wonder if her panties were as pink as her pussy. On the other hand, pussies never had the same color, but all of them tasted good.

I really did try to go back to the studying of the painting. I worked really, really hard at it, too. I even went to the length of actually turning away from the woman and going to another part of the museum just to spite myself. I mean, I couldn’t be gawking at her like a silly sophomore, could I? I mean, I was no teenager. I was close to my Master’s Degree in Art History. An art master with a hard-on? Okay, we men all have hard-ons, but during scientific research? Sexual research, maybe. Stranger things have happened.

No matter how hard I tried, though, and I did try hard, I constantly went back to where she stood. Every time that woman bent over to look at a painting, I swooned. I could see the buttcrack and it sung an aria by Mozart to me:

“Oh, art thou sweet, thou noble derriere. My rock of ages in her cleft so fair.”

It made me want to rip that skirt apart and stick my dick inside her wobbly ass, pumping her like a fucking rabbit, watching the buttcheeks bounce like two balls in unison.

It got stranger and stranger, actually. I kept finding reasons to follow her just so I could study the size of her boobs. As I said, my reputation as a boob-man became renowned even early in high school. My best friend found a couple of copies of Penthouse in my sock drawer in my room, a magazine filled to the brim with big, luscious jugs. We ended up wanking all night, telling my mom that we were working on a school project.

Anyway, after following this incredible woman for about an hour I decided that I really had to fuck her. I didn’t know how, but my cock would definitely land in her cunt eventually. Oh, how fantastic she looked when she studied those paintings, her breasts dangling down, her elegant black blouse hugging her tits like crazy. Those things had to be C-cups. D? Mmh, I dunno. Getting my hands on those lucious breasts would, in any case, be like dying and going to heaven.

So, accordingly, I had discreetly glanced over and see if the blouse had a cleavage. When I realized that it did, I tiptoed over to where she stood more than once just to sneak-peek into that wonderful oasis of mammary love and cockteasing bliss.

Long and sensually curved hair, her black locks gently falling across her gold necklace, spilling over those large round earrings. It made that precum pop out of my dick with a happy: “Hello, swallow me!”

I knew what those big earrings symbolized, as well: her love-holes. Sexy women always wore these round earrings to show men how willing they were to fuck. This girl had big round earrings, so I felt fucking lucky.

The lipstick made me feel like shoving my entire manhood onto her tongue and shooting my loud load onto her tonsils, giving her wet stomach the protein dose of its life.

While my testosterone battled with my brain about whether to leave the museum and go home or just study her buttcrack for the rest of the day, her phone rang. Everybody in the room looked up. It wasn’t as if nobody had noticed her. She was probably the most fantastic looking woman in the room, the country, the planet, the universe, whatever. Some chick in the museum, a dowdy looking things, even gave her boyfriend a dirty look for giving that fuckable lady a half-smile.

When the sexy woman’s phone rang, however, it gave that other chick a reason to think how much of a slut this girl actually was.

She didn’t care, did she?

Any man would’ve been unfaithful for Miss Perfect. She knew that.

When the girl threw her head to one side, letting that marvelous head of hers float and dangle and curve and sway, I melted. I think I came twice, actually, my sperm making little squirts in my Gucci underwear.

“Natalie Imrie here,” the woman chirped. Her accent sounded British. Hot damn, I told myself. I am in the hands of an English lass. She gave the caller a sexy laugh. “Oh, yes. Of course. Well, if you want to, sure. Where are you right now?”

This girl spoke with a posh London accent that had me want her even more.

I think I flied and went to Brazil when that woman, whom I had wanted to fuck for over an hour now, actually came and sat down on the couch next to me. Yes, I’ll admit it. I had my notepad and my pencil in my lap and I had written lots of gibberish in silly letters about the paintings I had been looking at, just so anyone wouldn’t think I was just here to study how incredible an ass that woman had.

“Mmm-hmm,” she said and smiled again, throwing me a shot of her Chopard perfume my way just by throwing one of her sexy arms onto the seat next to me. “I’ll go right ahead. No, no, that’s no problem. Well, I’ll see what happens, okay?”

Who was she talking to? Her boyfriend? An associate? Her father?

What was she going to do?

“Maybe you’ll get some good ideas. Yes, dear. I know who you mean.”

The small pause and the obviously sexy chatter by some man at the other end – and it obviously was a man – had me wondering what she was talking about. Was she going to be unfaithful? British girls, however, had the reputation of giving spectacular blowjobs.

“Bye,” the woman that I now knew to be Natalie Imrie told bid her caller farewell.

As if she had just been given a signal of some sort, Natalie Imrie with the fantastic jugs turned to me and looked me straight in the eye.

I grew red in the face at first, but then I got lost inside the color of her eyes. They were brown, but with an interesting quality that had me think of ember, the glowing, hot coal made of greatly heated wood. Her eyes glowed like a campfire on the night of a full moon, the moon being the seas of white round her ember iris in each eye. Actually, her gaze made me feel like a werewolf. Natalie looked like a kitten, her long eyelashes curved outwards with more black visible toward the edges of her eyes.

I stammered a quiet: “Hi there!”

“Hi,” Natalie sing-songed, making me tremble. “You American?”

I nodded, giggling, now feeling that I rushed steadily into the welcome parade of Natalie’s cunt. “Yes, I’m from Michigan, but I am studying art here in Vienna. I’m about half a year away from my Master’s Degree. What about you?”

Natalie arched her back, obviously giving me a closer look at those absolute incredible looking breasts. She knew it, too. “I work here.” She shrugged once, glancing over at me with a knowing glance. “I am already finished with my Master’s. I came here a year ago. My mum’s German, although I grew up in London. When I was offered a position here as an Art Director, I took the job. I have the best of both worlds.”

She looked at me for what I really felt to be three hours, although it probably just amounted to three seconds.

“What brought you here?”

Well, although I looked at her boobs all the time and not into her eyes while I spoke, I told her that I had painted since childhood, that my family had taken me on a trip to Vienna when I was a boy and that I finally decided to move here in order to study art.

When I looked up at Natalie, she glanced at me with that disarming look that had me screaming for sex. She started chuckling. Out of nowhere, she put her hand to her mouth and giggled in such a knowing way that I almost felt insulted.

“What?” I asked, feeling ashamed of myself and not knowing why.

“You,” she finally said, putting her one hand with its long red fingernails on my leg, “are so easy to see through. Mr. Transparent.”

My mouth twitched a bit. I now felt insecure. Was she toying with me?

“Why?”

“Mr. Bulge-in-his-pants.”

I cleared my throat, feeling like someone just caught jerking off in a public place.

She shook her head. “What’s your name?”

“Uhm, Kevin.”

“Okay, uhm, Kevin?”

“Yeah?”

“You have been following me around this museum for over an hour!”

“You noticed?”

She laughed even harder now, her boobs jumping up and down as she did. A couple of visitors looked her way as she did, probably thinking she was just a stupid slut and not the Director of the Vienna Art Museum.

“Uhm, Kevin, the moment I walked into the Rubens Room, you made me feel like a painting by Rubens,” she added provocatively. “I bet,” she added, leaning over to whisper in my ear, making me smell that Chopard perfume even more intensely, “that you have had lots of fantasies about me over the course of this hour. Me, naked, pouring honey over your cock and licking it off with my elegant lips …”

I started chuckling nervously.

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Come on, uhm, Kevin,” Natalie whispered again, now touching my ear with red lips, “you wanna fuck me, don’t you?”

Her sultry gaze had me cum again.

I nodded.

Natalie continued: “I don’t know why I am doing this, but I might be willing to let you inspect my pussy a bit closer.”

She now put her hand on my lap and rubbed it gently.

“It’s shaved, you know.”

I giggled quietly and frantically, if such a thing is possible.

“Where do you want to fuck, Natalie? Here?”

I kept looking behind me, above me, to all sides, just to see if anyone overheard our conversation. Everyone seemed to be busy studying art, while I was studying Natalie’s C-cups. She shrugged.

“Let that be my concern. Fancy a shag, love?”

I giggled again and nodded, feeling like a little schoolboy.

“Then cum!”

Natalie stood up, shook her tits a bit, took my hand, looking like Venus. I literally felt like a school boy being pulled by his mom to art class. Natalie escorted me through the Monet rooms, the Rubens gallery, the Bruegel chamber, past the Van Eycks and Vermeers and Velasquez paintings of the Spanish Habsburg Infantas. When we arrived in a rather posh office with a large chandelier, Natalie closed the large white door and locked it.

Surrounded by silver trays and expensive art, I held a woman’s hand who had been just a wet dream a moment ago. Natalie still had not arrived where she wanted me to be, obviously. She escorted me into an even smaller room, equipped only with a bed-like couch, a nighttime table, a few books and a lamp.

She locked that door, as well, once we came in. I think I lost my nerve, because I started shaking. My legs shook, my hands shook and my shoulders shivered.

And I got the biggest hard-on of my life.

Natalie, who up until now had been amused by me, looked down on the growing bulge in my jeans and couldn’t stop groaning.

“What’s that?”

I shrugged.

“Something for you.”

“Look promising,” she mused. “Is it already Christmas?”

She wrinkled her nose a bit, making her cheeks dimple, her tongue licking her lips.

Slowly, she took a few steps up toward me, her high heels shuffling against the carpet. As she dwindled down upon her knees, her ass swayed in a way that reminded me of a flowers swaying in the wind. Using her long nails as tools to unzip my pants, she made me feel like a lamb on the way to the slaughter. If that hadn’t been enough, she now pulled down the trousers all the way to the ground using only her mouth.

“Holy shit, uhm, Kevin,” she moaned. “It’s huge.”

“9,4 inches,” I said proudly. “24 centimeters.”

Natalie carefully opened her mouth and wrapped her elegant cocksucker lips around my shaft, making little squeaking noises and smacking her lips in the process.

That fabulous sensation made me see stars. She licked my cock, gave me deep throat, sucked on my balls. She was ready to be a submissive whore, letting that game of hide-and-seek go and just become the cock sucking hooker that I knew she could be.

The helmet of my penis was now blue, all of the blood in my body pumping into my crotch. “Oh, ah shuhsst lovvve schucking your cockh,” she mused.

I banged my cock into her mouth, my big tasty cock dripping like crazy. I felt like flying, moaning and groaning in higher and higher tones.

With a thunderous plop and really sexy splash of a sound, it sounded like she had just finished a lollipop, she took out my long dick out of my mouth and wiped off her own saliva with an exclamation: “Show me how good a pussy licker you are, baby. Lick this sexy bimbo’s cunt like a good boy.”

I didn’t have to wait long in order to follow her dominating orders, my dick bobbing in its erect position like a flagpole in the wind.

In fact, Natalie Imrie stripped faster than I have ever seen a babe strip. Her boobs made my dick laugh, sing, holler, dance, squirt, love and cha-cha-cha all at once. I think I disappeared into that cleavage for an hour before moving down to drink me some pussy. I had the feeling that I buried my face deeper and deeper into her clit by the second. So deep, in fact, that I soon only saw her shaved pussy as pink as her knickers.

The sound I made was quite similar to the sound I made when I ate me some spare ribs: sloppy. There were liters of salty clitty juice in there and I was going to drink it all. I laughed to myself, aroused by this amazing sensation.

I heaved myself out of her crotch, my face dripping wet with cunt-liquid. When I thrust my prick into her cunt hole, Natalie sang, actually sang Gilda’s “Caro Nome” from Verdi’s “Rigoletto”. She seemed to ache with excitement, her grunting telling me that every part of her clit throbbing with pain, a pain that she actually enjoyed.

I withdrew my dick and stretched it out into the open air, jerking off like crazy, her insane gaze giving me the impression that’s she was in a sexual trance. Willingly, she crawled about on the couch toward my throbbing cock, looking like a seal, swirling around from her position on her back to a position under my dick, opening her mouth wide and sticking out her tongue, making little squeaking and horny tones.

“Give me your cum,” she moaned, sticking out her tongue. “Come on, baby. Squirt on my face.”

My hand movements now accelerated, my face grimaced, my head bobbing, my dick even bigger and bluer than before. Finally, my cock erupted, a long string of cum skyrocketing into onto her tongue. The second portion shot onto her left cheek, the final dessert of this three course sperm-dinner landing on her nose. Every portion of her face was covered in cum. She licked it all off, swallowing every drop. A stunned silence now came over the room, our mutual copulation inspiring us. The office became our symbiosis, the restful oasis of a green acre that had appeared after the hot fire of lust of our burning desire.

Then, she laughed.

There she was, naked, full of sperm, shouting with laughter.

First, it felt cool. Then, I wondered what she was laughing at.

Laughing with me or at me?

“Man, uhm, Kevin, you were the best fuck of my life. Wait until my husband hears about this.”

It felt like I had been stuck with a pin, my cock almost immediately shrinking down to the size of a peanut.

“Your husband?”

Natalie sat up, rubbing her boobs as she did.

“That was the guy I talked to on my phone when I came and sat down next to you,” she began. “We go to lots of swinger clubs in our free time and keep looking for things to spice up our sex life with. He called me on my cellular and told me to try to get you to fuck me. It wasn’t hard, though. I think he got some good tips in how to fuck me well.”

“He saw me watching you.”

She caressed my cheek. “He’s a security guard here.”

Natalie raised her voice.

“Wolfgang?”

In a jiffy, a back door opened and another naked man wandered in, holding a camera.

In a thick Austrian accent, he said:

“Fantastic fuck, uhm, Kevin!”

Flabbergasted by this turn of events, I started laughing as well.

Not only was Natalie’s husband naked, his equally long cock raised, a film obviously now available on DVD for our mutual viewing pleasure. He had also brought something else with him from the back room: three naked ladies, one blonde, one brunette and one redhead, all of them with huge boobs, all of them ready to have themselves some dick.

I definitely knew that if I played my cards right, I could get a job here.

After all, I would have fucking nice colleagues.

Ah, my moonshine ember and her wonderful friends.

La Corniche d’Or By Michael Ampersant

It was three days ago that Josh and Jason arrived in Cannes. We had to pick them up at the train station—a semi-lit location with password-protected toilets tucked away under an ugly overpass that divides the town into two. The announcement screen goes dit-dit-duuh-dit (d#gg#d#), the TGV noses into the station, I wonder briefly what would happen if I lost my balance and hit the tracks, but Josh and Jason pour through the sliding train doors in front of us just in time, or before anything can go wrong.

Josh has aged well since his last visit nine years ago. His hair is gray now and cropped very short, but it is still in place—he didn’t go bald as some of his email pictures would suggest. His regular Dutch features hold up, including the boyish profile and a flat tummy (we know about his gym visits). Jason is a charming oriental guy with heavy-rimmed glasses that accent his jug-eared looks, he must have a sense of humor. We get chatty immediately, it feels like a conversation left dangling an hour ago. I’m glad he’s a bit camp.

I’m chatty myself since I’m excited—all day I have failed to find a pretext for buying condoms. Josh, a pure rice queen, had been Chang’s lover back in Amsterdam at one point, and us, bored up here in the wilderness of the Esterel between Cannes and St. Raphael, had exchanged views on Josh’s reputation as a “sucker”—as Chang would put it in his innocent English—not meaning a loser, but somebody good at blow jobs. I had never had the pleasure, but Chang also mentioned Jason’s dick, which was supposedly large. So we had been discussing the pair’s sex life that reportedly took a turn towards “clubbing” and “play” in recent years. I mentioned condoms repeatedly during the last couple of days but Chang wouldn’t listen, and my last hope, a sex shop (“sexy” shop, in French) opposite to the train station was closed. So we are condom-less when walking the pair to our vintage SUV parked on the ugly overpass that divides Cannes into two. The vehicle elicits a brief remark from Josh (“you still have that ‘thing’?”).

The sky is overcast and cold, they are exhausted from a trip through Taipei, Amsterdam, Paris, and Dijon, Chang will cook for us at home. But this is the Cote d’Azur, so we drive up and down the foliage-swept Croisette and exchange views on the Palais des Festivals (recently re-done in defeatist white, the building, previously painted in a dirty ochre possibly meant to hide the Concrete Brutalism of John Foster’s original design). We talk housing prices as if anyone of us would be able to buy an apartment here. I point across the bay where the Esterel looms on the horizon, a pretty panorama on a good day when the rusty ridge glows in the afternoon sun.

“You can almost see our house from here,” I point out, “it’s on the hill next to the hill with the antenna,” and miss the turn for the high street of Théoule-sur-mer, the last occasion to buy condoms.

We continue along the Corniche d’Or which begins here and leads to St. Raphael. It’s the raison d’être of Théoule, the corniche, since the road started as a private project of the touring club of Monaco which imported 65 Italian families to do the job. They had to live somewhere and erected goo-colored dwellings for themselves that still define the town center. The little houses give Théoule an Italianate flavor, and people who move here complain about vendettas between entrenched clans that poison the atmosphere as if this were somewhere in Calabria.

We arrive at the house, pre-dusk is descending. The salon is clogged by a tiny wood stove meant to go into the dysfunctional fire place, but the artisan who was meant to do the job has gone missing. We sit down anyhow. No, we spend a few minutes in the kitchen where I suggest that the tea could accommodate a bit of brandy. Chang says “no” but I prevail and pour myself an extra shot while they turn their back to watch a cruise ship sailing past in slow motion; cruise ships always slow down here before going into the bay of Cannes. They look at us (the passengers) and we look at them, they think we are happy, we think they are happy. Anyhow, I pour the extra shot while Josh and Jason admire the last cruise ship of the season.

We move back to the Designer’s-Guild-appointed living room paid for in better days. The conversation slows down a bit, I fetch bubbly from the fridge. Josh and Jason tell about Australia, how they found each other. Their paths crossed in Sydney, eyes meet, Josh counts to three and executes the “gay turn” (Josh’s words). Eyes meet again. Jason reverses direction, crosses the street (makes it easier to keep tabs on each other). Josh enters a Starbucks, Jason follows. Josh sits down, Jason asks whether the other chair is taken. I ask what they ordered. Jason had Mocha, Josh an Americano.

They ask about us. I’m on my late-afternoon bike ride along the Amstel River when an oriental guy, also on a bike, turns onto the dike from the right. I slow down a bit, then turn into the Amstel Park entrance which is not far and guarded by a statue of Rembrandt van Rijn. I brake and put one foot on the ground. The oriental brakes and puts one foot on the ground. “What’s your name,” I open the conversation. “Jason,” he answers. “What’s your real name,” I ask. He procrastinates a bit, then says “Chang.”

“My real name is Ban,” Jason says. Josh affects an assertive clin d’oeil for his partner. Josh (the pure rice queen) must have met many Jasons in his life.

It’s past six o’ clock, Chang’s getting hungry and everything stops. He’ll cook filled cabbage, a recipe from my mother. The cabbage provides a pretext for the first bottle of red wine. Josh and Jason brought two expensive bottles, we need to taste them both.

The cabbage is a bit undercooked and my sauce isn’t saucy enough (I usually do the sauces, gravy from the pan, added to a roux). Josh and Jason don’t seem to mind. We had dinner parties with Marc and Paul, the other gays in the village, Marc (a black guy from Martinique) sat next to me and rubbed his thigh against mine (it never came to anything, Marc and Paul broke up and moved away). So Jason is seated to my left, but there are several inches between mine and Jason’s thighs and I fail to remember how I managed to cozy up to Marc in the first place. We chat along, desert is served, a rosé bottle opened. I had a rough week with the banking liaison who wanted to know why I stopped servicing my mortgage, so I drink faster to stay awake.

Jason tells good stories, Josh says. This one is disgusting, Jason warns, whether we mind. No, we don’t. Jason tells about the time he worked at this sauna and checks on “the room.” Room is apparently shop-talk for the row of cubicles where the patrons “relax.” The room needs to be checked at least once an hour and he steps onto something slimy on the ground. He ignites his torch and discovers a molehill of grapes, strangely bruised. Turns out some guy had them inserted bottom-wise and another guy sucked them out grape by grape. “Suhk, suhk,” Jason adds in conclusion. I forget to ask how Jason found out.

The bottle is empty again. I get up to fetch another one and discover that my sense of balance is gone. I fall back onto the chair. This is the moment, I will fall off the chair inside two minutes or crawl to bed now. I excuse myself and stagger away. Regrets are shared.

You drink too much and wake up too early. You really feel like shit and can’t go back to sleep. I stagger upstairs (“Aspirin, Aspirin”), and recover behind my desk (a slow process). You can see Corsica on a good winter day, like today, shortly before sunrise. I take pictures.

The sun comes up and Chang emerges. He’s coyly smiling. “You know what?” he says, “We had sex. They sucked my dick.” I tell him to relax and get a cup of coffee. He’s teasing me, I know. He returns from the kitchen and reiterates: they sucked his dick.

I answer emails and study the disappointing page view statistics of my blog. There really was something unusual to Chang’s smile. He’s now busy behind his new laptop-tablet parked among a graveyard of bottles on the dinner table (cadavre is French argot for an empty bottle). “You’re making this up,” I say to him. (This is the moment I decide to write this up.)

“No,” he replies. “Jason got up and made the move. Unzipped my zipper. I got up, both of them got on their knees and suck my cock, Jason from the left, Josh from the right, deliciously.” He grins; “deliciously” is his favorite adverb.

“At the same time?” I ask.

“At the same time.”

“It’s unfair.”

“You drank too much and went to bed.”

“I talk about condoms and you turn me down and now this?”

“Yes,” he says and his grin broadens, “it wasn’t my fault.”

“It’s unfair,” I repeat.

“Life isn’t fair,” he answers. He’s deadpan in a way that he isn’t when he is lying.

“No semen stains on the floor,” I say.

“Josh finished me off.”

“We must buy condoms today,” I say.

# # #

Josh and Jason slept well. They brought good winter weather, a light mistral with dry clear air and steely blue sky. We’ll go visit Saint Tropez. It would be me, today, who has to make the move, but it’s easier to talk about the corniche or the Forêt Domanial de l’Esterel, the natural park that surrounds Le Trayas and protects us from over-development, we’ve recently met a fox in the park. I point to a villa on the cliff which supposedly belonged to Greta Garbo (everything is a rumor here, and they are always false). We’ve reached St. Maxime when I finally muster the chutzpah to say: “Chang tells me you’ve sucked his dick last night.”

“Yes,” they say in unison, they must have been waiting for this.

“It’s unfair,” I say. They laugh.

“We wondered whether Chang would tell you,” Jason says.

We arrive in St. Tropez and walk along the quay where Brigitte Bardot lived in Dieu Créa la Femme. I point out that La Cage aux Folles, another French film, was located next to what was Bardot’s house in the film. Josh has seen “La cage” and reminds us of the remake, Birdcage. We alternate between taking pictures of us and the sea. I ask Jason to zoom in on the northern horizon with his Canon EOS 70D and point to the tip of Miramar, a stone throw away from our house in Le Trayas. “It’s unfair,” I say. “They can see us, but we can’t see them.” We laugh. Josh and Jason embrace for a kiss—they have to make an effort, thought, Josh’s sizable frame towers over the petit Vietnamese by one head at least. We take more pictures. They kiss again.

I want them to see a bit more of St. Tropez. It’s still authentic, in a sense, the town, it just looks too good, and the number of real estate agencies has tripled since my last visit. We climb the streets and reach the over-restored citadel built to protect the place against the piratical Sarrazins in centuries past. Up here we have another postcard view. More pictures are taken, Jason climbs onto a wall for a better angle. Josh holds him in place with a hand under Jason’s bottom. “Let me do it,” I say. Jason’s bottom changes hands. “You like it?” I ask him. “Sure,” he says. St. Maxime sparkles across the bay.

Chang is hungry, everything stops. November is the month of the fermeture annuelle, hélas. Le Quai, a patio orgy of red director chairs is not fermé, but hors du moyens (appetizers around forty Euro). Chang has us almost destined for the crèperie at the cheapo end of the harbor next to the public toilet but I manage to drag us into a sunlitter outfit around the corner with a plat du jour a bit dearer than a crèpe suzette—I always use the presence of outsiders to defeat Chang’s camping ground instincts, often to good effect.

Very French-nouveau, the joint, white leather seats, crystal tumblers, and—yes, folks, welcome home—a real beach on the floor. I ask. Yes, it takes three hours each day to clean the sand. I’m handed the wine list (why me?). There’s a Roederer Kristal Jeroboam @ 4,200, a Dom Pérignon Magnum @ 3,200, and a Chateau Pétrus (normal size) @ 4,900 currency units. The waiter is sweet, though, and helps us to a bottle of tasteless tipple for 30 €bucks. The food is a bit challenging, especially the quail-asparagus-artichoke appetizer. Jason asks for the bill. They’re going it to hand it to Josh, he predicts, they always do. We discuss racism in general and the creeping takeover of gay spas in Sydney by boys from Lebanon, especially on the mixed day when all sexual preferences are encouraged and the boys from Lebanon can get a blow job without having to taking sides in the culture wars. Josh and I agree that we don’t like pubic hair in our mouth. Jason is handed the bill.

I take the wheel and steer us back but turn right at the entrance of Fréjus. “What are you doing?” Chang asks. I point at the Géant hyper market and evoke the need for more bubbly. We have enough bubbly, Chang says. I park anyhow. “We need condoms,” I whisper into his ear and jump out to convey a sense of urgency. “They have condoms,” Chang’s voice echoes through the parking garage. We buy more bubbly.

Night falls, Jason cooks fried rice, we serve real Pommard bought in better days. Jason is seated too far away for thigh rubbing, but Chang has installed his laptop-tablet at the head of the table and dials porn FM. Tyler Johnson and Jonny Cruz (pseudonyms, we take it) appear, undress, and embrace. Tyler is black and “hunky, sexy, dedicated, electrifying.” All of us get overly interested. I refrain from my usual secondary cockiness and don’t mention the cerebro-resonant effects of porn on the brain, even on brains adverse to smut.

You, reader, are now expecting a finely-crafted buildup towards the first sex scene, but we fail you. Chang zips his zipper, that’s it. We chuck all pretensions and clothes and stand in the middle of the dining area, penises horizontal. “Maybe we should go downstairs,” I suggest, but they want to stay put.

Josh and Chang unfold on the Eames lounge chair—perhaps I should explain since the chair is the Brigitte Bardot, or rather the Jimmy Stewart of 20th century furniture, three palisander plywood shells fitted with in-form leather cushions, the main shell for your bottom and two additional ones for your back; there’s also a fitting ottoman. You only have to look at the thing and feel comfy in ways that even Jimmy Stewart can’t make you feel comfy, especially if you had the money to pay for the original version from Knoll.

Chang and Josh don’t seem to mind my cheapo imitation though, with Chang now supine on the Ottoman, his head supported by the bottom shell of the chair, and Josh on his knees with Chang’s dick in his mouth. He’s sucking—“deliciously”—and there are noises, suckling sounds from Josh and promising moans from Chang.

Jason and I look at each other. I go and fetch a garden chair cushion and put it on the ground. We lie down. “You want to fuck?” I ask. Jason and his dick are somewhat non-committal. I stroke his dick and caress his crane with my other hand. This goes on for a while, Jason still fairly non-committal. Josh and Chang are on to something, Chang now lying on the floor with his feet on the ottoman, Josh’s face buried in Chang’s pubes—if you can’t beat them, join them. I take Jason’s dick in my mouth and begin to suck. Jason is pleased. Chang, in his parallel world, is more than pleased, now producing grunts that hold the middle between oinks and one-liners. Man is a playful animal, there always was give-and-take between nature and nurture, so now it’s between sex and porn.

Chang, who is a quick cummer, cums (“uughh, uughh”). Jason and I have to watch this and interrupt our efforts. Josh is already caressing Jason’s midriff, and I’m thinking of a paragraph in Tom Wolfe’s Bonfire of the Vanities where Sherman McCoy, the hero, is invited to this Park-Avenue-based party and finds himself talking to his own wife (the horror, the horror). Josh is already headed for his mate’s private parts, and Jason’s face tells the story as Josh’s head bobs up and down on his dick. Jason’s eyes are closed, his jaw slack, mouth open and mildly contorted, head drawn back, body reverberating to the rhythm of Josh’s thrusts. It’s real, it’s real, although Jason stay silent throughout, the sound track is all on Josh whose smacks build like a crescendo. The orgasm on Jason’s face meets expectations.

Jason sinks back.

Experienced Josh has remained aware of the doings around him turns now to me. We briefly lock eyes, he licks his sensual lips, is down on me already. While my senses rise I’m thinking of an internet gif-joke (I’m not making this up, this really happened), three pictures, a jeune homme de famille telling his mother (obviously his mother), that “I like dick” (first picture), “I wanna suck dick, I like sucking dick,” (second picture) “And I’m good at it, too!” (third picture, wistful smile on his face). I cum.

# # #

They would take the train to Monaco on the third day. Jason works as croupier in Sydney, he must have a look at the casino in Monte Carlo. I walk them down the hill to the local train station through the village center (chapel and post office). The train station is located in the Esterel park, outside our settlement. We walk past the Bellevedère, a cast-iron gazebo built on a rock above the tracks. The vista is a popular spot for midnight sex—at least that’s what I make of the freshly-used condoms on the ground I find here on many days. The thrill of public sex enhanced by splendid vistas, Josh muses.

“You come here yourself?” Jason asks.

“No, not to cum.”

“How do you know about midnight, then?”

Opinions appear divided as to the train station itself, I’m making the case for 19th century utilitarian design. “Trayas,” I say, pointing at the blue name plate on the building, “Trayas means ‘three’ in Sanskrit.”

“Perhaps it means threesome,” Jason observes. They are off.

I forgot what Chang or I did during the day. Not much, I guess. Anyhow, Josh and Jason are finally back. The casino is too small, the minimal glass of wine is 14€, but they’ve seen Naomi Campbell. Yes, an exceedingly elongated black girl with big sunglasses and a big Vuitton bag strapped over her shoulder. Really? Yes, it was her, she also wore a fur cape and stiletto-boots emblazoned with thousands of real crystals. Mesmerizing, the crystals, blinding. She cat-walked past on her boots, she actually knew how to walk in those boots. She got into a Rolls-Royce. And, she looked like Naomi Campbell.

Dinner is pork chops today. Jason is a few inches away, as usual. How did you get to Australia, I ask him. He was a boat refugee, on one of the last boats from Vietnam, in the late ‘80s. One hundred and eighty people on an aging shallop on their way to the Philippines, at a fare of $3,000 per pop. You’ve seen this funny picture of the Kim the third of North Korea, taking off with a lot of generals in a decrepit sloop? It’s on the internet, the photo, the planking on the hull is rotting and the beloved leader waves to the crowd.

“That was like us, the planking,” Jason says. “The sea gets rough, the first hurricane of the season. The boat sways and bobs. There’s no food but nobody’s hungry. Nobody goes to the toilet, things just happen. We are getting low on water, except in the engine room where they have a leak. The crew fights the rising water with a chain of buckets. It’s the seventh day out at sea, we are getting nowhere. A Japanese freighter sails by, binoculars peek at us. We have no proper distress material, can’t signal our trouble in ways the Japanese would like to understand. We are sinking, the captain says. We ram the Japanese, he says, they must pick us up if there’s a collision. People pray to various gods, embrace, huddle. The captain heads for the freighter’s stern and misses narrowly. The Japanese sail on. Another ship has seen this, fortunately, a freighter from Panama. They are returning from the Olympics in Seoul, we learn later. They are on holiday and in a good mood. Three power boats appear around us, we’re hauled onto the boats and ask to climb rope ladders reaching up to the main deck. People are lifted up one by one and hosed down for lice or whatever. I’m still hanging in the ladder, look back over my shoulder, and see our shallop sink. Everybody survives. We’re taken to a refugee camp in Singapore. I end up in Australia.”

Chang asks about Jason’s family. Yes, he escaped with his mother, other people stayed behind in Vietnam. He has a lot of siblings, his Chinese father took a second and third concubine. How about the people that stayed behind? They are all rich now, started their own businesses, all rich.

Chang doesn’t dial Porn FM tonight. Regrets are shared, we go to bed early.

# # #

We wake up late. The high wind is gone, the sky is still mistral-blue. We have breakfast. Jason’s iPhone does ping. “Scruff,” Jason says.

“Scruff?” Yes, better than Grindr and Jack’d, not to mention Craigslist or other dating sites. He answers the ping with his left thumb. Meetic is on line, the picture a bit blurred. Meetic is only 6.7 km away, in Mandelieu (this is as the crow flies, per car it would be twenty minutes). Meetic appears young and hale on the iPhone display.

“Hi,” Jason chats.

“Veuve?” Meetic answers.

“Non,” says Jason—he knows a little French, Vietnam was once a French colony.

“Tu te polis le Chinois?”

“Je suis Vietnamien,” Jason texts. The chat dies down (we learn later from the internet that the Chinois-expression is French argot for masturbation).

“You use it a lot, Scruff?” I ask. Yeah, he likes it. Before you make an appointment, though, always make sure they’ll give you a valid cell-phone number, and check on the number. Sort of an insurance.

The sun radiates, we’ll take the pair for a walk up the Pic de l’Ours, the hill with the antenna. I explain a bit about the islands below in the bay, St. Marguerite and St. Honorat, named after fifth-century saints. Saints were rock stars in those days. Still are, Josh says, look at India. There’s a monastery on St. Honorat founded by the saint himself which has gone through many clerical hands and houses a silent order now, thirty monks that don’t speak but make fruits of the vine, rare and expensive stuff you can’t buy anywhere except on the internet. Monks, yes.

“Tell him the anecdote about your composer in Bangkok,” Chang suggests. World-famous composer travels to Thailand—this is back in the 50’s—and meets hot young monk in the streets of Bangkok. Monk takes him home (if that’s the word). Next morning, monk gets up and says: “Please stay, I’ll go out and beg rice for the two of us.”

The Pic de l’Ours is 500 meters high and offers views across the entire Cote d’Azur, from the point where the southern-most ridge of the Alps dips into the Mediterranean, along the curvature of the horizon, past St. Tropez and the Iles d’Hyeres to the west, 100 km in each direction. The earth is round up here and the sky is always blue, you won’t make the climb otherwise. Today is a bit hazy and not ideal for pictures, so we undress and take pictures of own naked torsos for the next edition of Scruff. I later delete mine.

Jason tells good stories, Josh reminds him, so Jason tells about a trip back to Vietnam where they meet this guy who has them chauffeured through the jungle to a party, in limousines. They end up in the place from Apocalypse Now, the lost village, and everybody is gay. Then he tells about their visit to Berlin and the Kitkat club and how this guy follows him into the men’s room and shows up in the mirror of the wash basin and wraps his arms around his shoulders. The guy is quite handsome, so they take him to the hotel. Now what. The guy wants to fist-fuck. What? Yes, fist-fuck, didn’t you see the red band around his left wrist, that’s code for fist-fucking. We didn’t know. Okay, no fists then, whether normal fucking is okay. Yes, sure. Guy fucks Jason (big dick), Josh holds Jason’s hand. So sweet.

I suggest the gay sauna in Nice, but Jason is not in the mood. Plus, we have to get up very early, they need to be at the airport at four in the morning. But we have a few minutes to look at their website, professional pictures of the pair taken in a Vietnamese studio, all black-and-white, skin, poses, embraces, formalized passion enhanced by light and shadow. They are very proud of it. They kiss. They kiss a lot, they celebrate each day.

We drink less tonight. Chang is pure bàli bàli, meaning he is very impatient in a Korean sort of way, meaning he’s always early. We reach the kiss-and-fly parking lot of the airport at three thirty in the morning. We kiss and fly. They’re off to Amsterdam, and it’s a bit too late to go back to bed. How about the gay night sauna, I ask. Chang is opposed but I’m adamant and steer us into the old town of Nice. This sauna is not the kind of place with an unmarked door in a dark side alley. No, bright neon lights shine, glass doors slide, an early Christmas tree enhances the lobby. Also enhancing the lobby is Tyler Johnson from Porn FM with his Jababa-lips and a cul de nègre attached the narrow-waisted perfection of his abs. And he’s smiling. At us. He’s had fun and is going home. The receptionist looks at us with sad eyes. The place is emptying, he warns, everybody is about to go home. You should come back tomorrow.

 

(Except for the last paragraph, this is a true-true story. Everything practically happened as told.)

Between a Beginning By Peter Baltensperger

If it hadn’t been for the rain, the man with the black umbrella wouldn’t have gone for a walk in the park. He was very particular about that, as he was about so many things. It was a simple cause and effect sequence, the way it had to be and always was. He also liked to attach beginnings to beginnings, endings to endings, the ways of all things. It was also for that reason that he only went for a walk in the park when it rained and he could take his black umbrella with him, another particularity in the grand motion of the universe.

He walked along his customary path, his umbrella pulled down over his head. He didn’t need to see anything: he knew where he was and where he was going, his security. Yet he let one side of the umbrella slip upwards, perhaps from a sudden gust of wind, and turned his head. What he saw was a gazebo in the middle of the park and what appeared to be a beautiful young woman dancing under the roof, like a prima ballerina, he thought. It could well have been a coincidence, or perhaps a synchronicity, he still wasn’t sure about that even afterwards. The only thing he knew for sure was that the woman was important in some mysterious way.

Even though he was reluctant to stray from his gravel paths, he stepped into the rain-soaked grass and sloshed his way over to the gazebo. The woman stopped dancing. He handed her his umbrella, but the woman didn’t know what to do with it. Without closing it, she stood it against the bench and let the rain drip down on the wooden floor. He would have done the same thing, except that he had better things to do, one of the vicissitudes.

The woman eyed him curiously. He wished her naked and she readily complied. She was only wearing a simple, loose shift. She quickly pulled it over her head and stood naked in front of him, proud, full breasts, a sensuous triangle of wispy blond hair even though her hair was black, long legs. She folded her shift carefully into a square and put it on the bench next to the umbrella. He took off his clothes and tossed them on the bench on the other side of the umbrella. There was no time for details in a night like that. He stepped up to the woman and took her into his arms, pressed his body against hers. She flung her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his, hungry skin against hungry skin.

His twitching penis pressed urgently against her belly, but she detached herself from him and walked out of the gazebo and out into the rain. He wished her on her back in the wet grass with her legs spread as wide as she could, only to see her bend over backwards until her hands touched the ground. He was looking straight down on her pussy with the raindrops bouncing off her rosy labia. She inched her feet apart very slowly so as not to lose her balance but to open her pussy for him as much as she could.

He put his hands under her buttocks to hold her up and keep her balance in her precarious position. Then he dove right in and licked the raindrops off her fragrant offering, delighted in the aroma of her juices mixed in with the rain, probed her with his tongue until he could hear her utter a throaty moan and her legs began to tremble. Without hesitation, he found her protruding clit with his tongue and started to lick it and rub it until she went into groaning convulsions. He fondled her for a while longer to help her through the rushes of her orgasm until her body slowed down again and she sighed deeply with satisfaction.

She didn’t move from her acrobatic position, so he kept holding her in his hands and brought his erection to her rain-soaked, juice-drenched opening. She shuddered in his hands and he slowly pushed into her until he had buried himself in her silky-smooth cave. She held completely still so as not to disrupt his penetration, then began tightening and relaxing her internal muscles in unison with his excited thrusts. It didn’t take him long after that to shudder and shake himself and gush his ejaculate forcefully into her.

No sooner did he withdraw from her comforting cave than she righted herself and stood face to face with him. She told him she was a professional contortionist and loved the rain, rather unnecessarily, he thought. But he told her that it was cute of her to tell him that. She also told him her name was Gloria, even though he didn’t know his own name himself. He kept looking for it wherever and whenever he could, but he always seemed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not even the gazebo helped, or his pulsing erection in her excited receptacle, another one of those unpredictable moments in the cosmic rotations.

He wished her on her back again in the wet grass with her legs wide open for him, but she began folding herself into a pretzel instead until he could barely tell one body part from the other anymore. The rain was falling all around her, droplets were dripping off her from all over her body, and she calmly pretzeled herself into an incredible enigma. He kept trying to figure out what was what and which way was up, but he didn’t get anywhere until her head appeared from between two limbs and she looked up at him with a proud smile.

She opened her mouth wide in a gesture of eager anticipation and beckoned him with a hand that suddenly appeared out of somewhere. He went down on his knees and brought his erection to her full lips. He put his hands on her contorted body, for his balance as much as for hers, then slid into her mouth and let her suck him. Her agile tongue was all over his penis, licking his tip and his shaft and sucking him with her eager lips until his second orgasm welled up inside of him and he emptied himself into her once more.

There wasn’t anything he could do for her the way her body was intertwined, but she uncoiled herself until she stood on her shoulders with her legs straight out from her pelvis. He had never seen anything quite like it and he made sure he enjoyed every moment of his second excursion into the wonder that was her pussy. He licked her carefully to savor all the different tastes, touched her with his fingers to feel the delectable contours, penetrated her to feel the soft insides.

She didn’t seem to be getting tired or feeling uncomfortable in her unusual position, so he took his time with his explorations and only concentrated on her clit when she began to shiver and groan. He reached down and for the first time was able to hold her breasts in his hands, then fondled her nipples at the same time as he sucked at her clit. He could feel her mounting excitement, the tremors rushing through her body, and he sucked her clit as vigorously as he could. Before long, she shuddered through her second orgasm as well.

Again he held on to her for a while to help her savor her joyful release. When her body stopped trembling and her moans faded away into the night, he let go of her to let her come down from her upside down position. She briefly folded herself into a tight ball, then jumped to her feet and stood in front of him once more. They took each other into their arms, dripping with rain and overjoyed from the mutual experience. One of these days, he thought, pressed against her luscious body and shivering with absolute delight, he really had to make a concerted effort to find his name, just for the security and the balance of it all.

The Colonel’s Daughter By Chanel Blake

The constant clicking of keyboards drilled a migraine into my skull. My eyes scanned the large office, desks of employees stretched through the large room, each working away at their stations. Some with clients, others doing file work. I chewed on my lower lip as I looked back at the screen. My eyes blurred. I had been working on this report for my boss for nearly three days and was getting tired of the dull work. Where was the fun in compiling database stats?

Sighing, I glanced at the booklet I was working from and typed next name into the military database.

I had worked for the Military Tracking Unit since my father left for the war with the red planet. The MTU served as a way of keeping track of current and ex soldiers, deceased or discharged. Clients came to us looking for their friends and family, and we did our best to find them.

I didn’t care much for the two human worlds fighting nor did I wish to show any support for it, but my father was the only family I had left, and even though we hadn’t spoken in months, working for the MTU made it easy to keep tabs on him. At least I still knew he was alive.

The war had been waged for nearly five years now, starting when I was only nineteen. The red planet was tired of its treatment from the Earthen leaders, and they rebelled. The whole idea was beyond me, as far as I knew the people of Mars were never mistreated. Though, we had been taught of their selfish nature. Many Earthens’ struggled to believe that the humans on Mars were descended from the same ancestors as ours simply from their entitled attitude. But even they couldn’t deny our resemblance to one another.

The bell over the office door chimed and I glanced up from the screen. Our receptionist, a high school intern named Rosie, stood and greeted the arrival, another client no doubt.

But this one was different, making my stomach do flip-flops. He acknowledged Rosie, then pointed in my direction before heading towards me.

This man was a perfect 6’2, broad shoulders with a uniform that hugged his toned muscles just right. My lips parted and my mouth went dry. Shaking my head to clear the dirty thoughts rushing in, I stood from my chair, clamped my mouth shut and straightened my skirt. Still, my heart pounded against my chest; it wouldn’t be silenced.

When he stood before me, he held his cocoa skinned hand out and grinned. “Major Brody Campbell.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and grasped his hand, unable to look away from his dark green eyes. “Aspen Reid.”

“I know.” He released my hand and took the chair in front of my desk. “Colonel Jeffrey Reid told me to find you.”

I frowned, lowering myself to my own chair. “I haven’t heard from my father in months.” I flipped my blonde hair over my shoulder before looking back at the screen on my desk.

Brody leaned back in his chair. “I know.”

I raised my eyebrow at him, acting more confident than he made me feel. Still, heat crept up my neck.

God it’s hot in here. I resisted the urge to fan myself.

“Then what would you like?”

A quick glance around the office told me every woman in the room was listening to our conversation. Come lunch, they would all know the name of this fine specimen and each would research all they could on him and his service.

His dark eyebrows knit together. “He said you would help me out.”

I blinked several times, wanting to shake myself. It had been a long time since I found a man this attractive and this one was very distracting.  Focus on your job.

I looked back at my computer. “Who do you need to find?”

He leaned forward and glanced around nervously. His dark hair fell into his sight line and a pang of lust swept through me. I shook my head to be rid of it.

“It’s fine,” I said, motioning to the desks surrounding us. “People like you come in here all the time looking for missing family or friends. War sends us to the opposite ends of the world, or in this case, worlds. But if whoever you’re looking for is on Earth, then I can find them.” Major Campbell wasn’t the first of my dad’s friends I’d helped, and he wouldn’t be the last.

Brody cleared his throat, but never said the name. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper, sliding it across my desk.

Again, I raised an eyebrow and took the paper from him. It wasn’t a name, only a six digit number, which was fine. It actually made my job easier. I typed in the number and his information scrolled down the screen in front of me. Marcus Donovan-Roy was his name, though all I cared about was his status and the coordinates attached to him. In bolded letters at the top of his profile it said WOUNDED IN BATTLE and the coordinates were right beside it. 44.908°N, 74.283°W. I quickly screen captured the page with the name, status and coordinates and printed it out for Brody.

“It’s not far from here.” I offered a half smile as he took the paper. “Don’t say I never helped you with anything.”

He frowned. “Why would I?”

I looked away, letting my hair fall back into my sight line and shield my red face. “Never mind,” I mumbled. “An old joke.” God I could be awkward.

Brody stood before me for a few more moments before speaking again. “Well, thanks, it was nice to meet you.”

I watched him disappear out the door.

When he was gone, I returned to my computer screen, opening the database once more. I typed in his name “Brody Campbell” and hit search. It took only a minute to come back empty.

I raised my eyebrow. This man was a major but had no record in the system?

I tried searching my father’s unit, knowing he had a major working with him. This search turned up positive, except for the name. My father’s major was Brent Donovan, and he was recorded as recently deceased.

# # #

Three more days past before I saw Brody again. It was after ten on Friday night, I’d gone for dinner and drinks with some of the ladies after work ended, but I didn’t want to stay late. So few people were around these days, even fewer looking for a good time. Besides, my roommate was visiting her parents who lived two towns over, so I had the house to myself, a welcome change. But when I turned onto my street, I noticed a light on in my front window.

I frowned. Odd. Maybe Janet had decided to stay home.

This, however, proved false when I slipped through the door attached to the garage and saw her car was gone.

Did she leave on a light?

Janet was usually very anal about the environment and saving electricity, so that was unlikely.

Reaching into my purse, I wrapped my hand around the handle of my .25-caliber pistol and held it ready. Then I slipped through garage entrance. Immediately I could see where the was coming from: my sitting room. I drew several slow breaths then crept around the corner and saw Brody sitting on the couch.

“Major Campbell,” I gasped, holding my gun on him and looking around in case he wasn’t alone. “What are you doing here?”

His eyes looked down at the gun, then he held his hands up. “Nice way to greet someone.”

“Excuse me?” I was shocked. “You’re in my house, unexplained. You claim to be military but I have no record of your existence in my company database.  Further, my father’s major is dead, so I know you aren’t him. You should consider yourself lucky I didn’t fire a few rounds off on site.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” He stood, and I stepped back two paces, keeping the barrel aimed at him. His eyes looked wild, as if something had happened in the past three days.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I said. Despite being as intruder in my home, and a possible liar, he was sexy. I could easily let my mind wander to fantasies of why he came.

“Right.” He released a long breath between closed teeth. “Honestly, I didn’t know where else to go and Colonel Reid said if I was stuck to find you.” His hand slipped into his pocket, and fear rose on the back of my neck for a moment, but he only withdrew a folded piece of paper, a note.

I eyed the letter, interested, but unsure I wanted to be vulnerable to this unknown man. He seemed to sense my wariness, because he placed the letter on the table next to the couch and backed several steps away from me.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Aspen. I have no intention of doing so,” he said. Then he motioned to the letter. “I had nowhere else to go.”

What the hell? Why not home?

I stepped forward, and grabbed the note, managing to unfold it with one hand and scan over the words. It was quite clearly written in my father’s hand, his shorthand, actually. Something I had picked up on many years ago. We often exchanged letters like these.

I read the note three times before looking back at Brody, making sure I had my father’s words right. He didn’t tell me anything reliable, only that I could trust him. Had it not been in his shorthand, I wouldn’t have listened.

I shifted from foot to foot several times before lowering the gun, and flicking the safety before placing it back into my purse.

“Okay,” I said, motioning back at the couch. “You sit there and explain yourself.”

I lowered myself to the armchair across from him. He sat, but looked away, shifting back and forth as if trying to get comfortable.

“Well?”

“Can I trust you?” he asked when he stopped moving.

I scoffed. “I’m certain I’m the one that is struggling with my trust for you at the moment. I’m going on my father’s judgement alone; perhaps you should do the same. He obviously sent you to me for a reason.”

He stared down at his hands and spoke quietly. “Okay, but you can’t freak out.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine.”

“The reason I have nowhere to go, and why you can’t find my record, is because I’m not from here,” he said.

From here? That makes no sense.

“Yet you’re a major for our army?” My eyes traced down the army outfit he still wore, navy blue, with the Earthen crest on the left breast pocket and three silver lines – two thick, one thin – to indicate his rank. it seemed he hadn’t changed since he walked into my office three days before. He’d definitely showered, however, as his spicy musk was all too distracting even at this distance.

He tilted his head from side to side. “Sort of.”

This guy was so cryptic.

“Can you just say it?” I asked.

“I was born on Mars.”

My gaze shot to him, eyes wide and mouth agape. Then I glanced around quickly, instinct I guess, though no one was around. If anyone found out, they’d kill him, maybe even me for keeping him secret. What was my father’s intention? Further, why was a Marsian on our side? My father had failed to mention this bit of information in his letter. He was always vague with details.

“Does anyone… know?” I asked when my eyes settled back on him.

He shook his head. “No.”

“Then why are you here and dressed like a major?”

“On your father’s insistence. I was caught in a battle waged around Phobos; some even say Earthen ships destroyed much of the small moon,” he said, “Very few Marsian ships survived and much of the debris fell on to the city of Aether.”

I leaned forward in my chair. “Is the war over?” Aether was the planet’s capital. If it had fallen, would the rest of Mars be quick to follow?

“I don’t know.” He looked away. His gaze was filled with pain and sorrow  and glistened in the low light. “Aether fell, that much is true. I can’t be sure, but it is likely that Mars will surrender with their capital in ruins.”

“And you’re here because?”

“Your dad offered me a choice.”

A part of me doubted that, remembering the things we’d been taught about Mars. The red planet bred liars, despite this man’s insistence; perhaps he was one and the same. Still, I wanted to know more.

“What choice?”

“Death, or help him.”

“And you helped him?”

Brody looked at me, his green eyes making me melt and momentarily forget where he was from. “Would you have picked differently?”

I shook my head.

“Your dad’s major, Brent was his name, was killed in a ship malfunction during the battle. Colonel Jeffrey requested that I take his place and watch his back. My squadron had been killed in a ship raid. I didn’t have another choice. Figured I’d die anyway.”

He paused, seeming to choke on his emotion. Was this only an act? Could I trust his emotions?

Brody didn’t seem to notice my internal struggle and continued. “I saved your dad’s life shortly after joining him. Because I did that, he no longer wished to hold me in Major Donovan’s position where I would be forced to fight against my people. So with his major’s uniform and forged passport, he had me on a ship here, discharged as a wounded Brent Donovan. Your address, that note and number in hand.”

I shook my head. I still didn’t get it. “Who was the number?” Did I even want to know?

He smiled. “You Earthlings have a strange way of doing things.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“You number your citizens, yet the numbers are nothing but data. Is that how your people are seen?”

“It may be a flawed system, but it’s how things have been done since before your colony even existed. Many of your ancestors would have been numbered people.”

We sat silent for a moment before he spoke again. “The number was a relative of Major Donovan’s. Your father wished that I return his belongings to his family after I landed and reported his death.” He shook his head. “I don’t enjoy bringing people sad news.”

I couldn’t disagree.

“So then, what now?” I asked.

“Well…” his intense gaze was on me again, “Your dad was sure that the war was ending, and, I guess once things are settled on Mars I can go home…”

“But until then you want to stay here?” I asked, actually wanting him to stay.

His eyes lit up. “Oh really? Would you mind?”

I sighed, but grinned just the same. “Janet’s probably going to freak, but I’ve always liked to keep her guessing, so let me make the up guest room.”

“Thanks Aspen, you really are as great as your dad says.”

I rolled my eyes as I ascended the stairs.

# # #

Breakfast was on the table by the time Brody finally came downstairs. His dark hair was a mess, sticking in every direction, and he released a long yawn when he sat at my kitchen table. God, even as a half asleep mess he looked like a sex god. I shook my head to clear the thought.

“How did you sleep?” I asked, sitting down across from him and grabbing the slice of toast from my plate.

“Good, thanks.” He smiled at me, but that smile soon faded when he looked down at his plate. He picked up the fork and poked at the fried egg I’d cooked for him, piercing the yolk and sending the yellow liquid spilling over the rest of it.

His eyebrows furrowed together. “What is this?”

I stifled a giggle. “An egg?”

He looked up at me, poking the egg again. “What’s that?”

Now I forced my eyebrows together. We’d learned about the Marsian colony back in high school, but since the war began we had been offered little knowledge of the place. I guess the climate and food there were much different than Earth. To be honest, I hadn’t really considered it. Glancing back at the food on his plate I run my tongue across my teeth. How exactly did one explain an egg?

I shrugged. “It’s food, from a chicken’s butt.”

He made a face. “Sounds gross.”

I grabbed my fork and scooped a big bite into my mouth, finishing with a smile and a soft ‘mmm’. Then I went to do the same thing. All the while, he watched me, his nose wrinkled in disgust.

When I finished my egg, I placed my fork down and smirked. “Are all Marsians this picky?” I crossed my arms. “Who knew a little egg would scare a big alien like you.”

He picked up his fork. “Do I look alien to you?”

My smirk broadened. He didn’t. “No, but what’s more surprising is that you sound Earthen.”

“We are from your planet, despite peoples’ disagreements. Besides, I’ve had practice. I was an Earthen Major, however brief.” He scooped a forkful of egg into his mouth and swallowed it without chewing. Only three more bites like this and he’d finished it. Picking up a napkin, he gently dabbed his perfect lips.

“I’ve had better things on Mars.”

My cheeks burned. What a rude thing to say when I had just cooked him breakfast, even if I was giving him a hard time. This was my house.

Pursing my lips, I said, “Then perhaps you should look to Mars for your next meal.”

I pushed my chair back from the table with a loud screech. His expression was shocked, as if he hadn’t expected my reaction. Perhaps Marsian girls enjoyed when men insulted their cooking.

I turned to leave, but his hand shot out and caught my wrist, pulling me back. I resisted, pulling my arm from his grasp and storming up the stairs to my bedroom. Brody was quick on my trail, bounding up the stairs, and sliding through my door before I could get it shut.

“What?” My ears turned pink, embarrassed by his insults.

Brody reached out and caught my hand. “Aspen, I’m sorry, I was only joking. I thought we were having a good time, you and I. Just friendly banter.”

I pursed my lips again, trying to think of a clever retort, but finding the closeness of our bodies suddenly distracting. His spicy musk made my head swim, and his zip up sweater did little to hide his chiselled chest. My throat went dry and my breathing erratic. I couldn’t stop the thoughts that invaded my mind, the need to touch him. To devour him.

As if reading my mind, his grip on my arm loosened and I closed my eyes, whispering a silently thank you, knowing I wouldn’t be able to resist my urges any longer if he didn’t back away soon.

But my thanks was too quick, as while my eyes were closed, he brought his perfect lips down onto mine.

I froze at the first touch, my eyes shooting open and I started pulling away. But his hand on my neck held me in place and the kiss continued, deepened, growing in passion. His tongue dipped inside my mouth, tangling with mine and asking for more. A feeling stirred in my lower abdomen and I couldn’t resist him any longer. I wanted him, now.

My fingers laced through his dark hair, pulling him closer to me, devouring his lips in the kiss. Such soft lips.

He gripped the hair at the base of my head, pulling me back from the kiss and gasping for air. I stared into his green eyes, now nearly black with hunger. I swallowed, nervous from the want in his gaze.

“We shouldn’t,” I whispered, looking away. Though I didn’t know why I said it. I wanted to more than anything.

Brody chuckled. “What else are we going to do?”

The question was ridiculous and I could think of a hundred answers. Wait, could I? Maybe I didn’t want to. I was swimming in ecstasy, wanting nothing more than his body pressed against mine, needing nothing more than his perfect mouth kissing every inch of me.

When nothing else could come to my clouded mind I managed, “Only this.”

He reached for the nightgown I wore, not having bothered to change, and pulled it over my head. I was immediately exposed, being commando underneath. I didn’t mind though, his eyes devoured my body and the wanting grew.

He wore only his plaid bottoms and sweater, both easily removed and revealing the perfect specimen beneath. As I had imagined, hoped, prayed, his chest was flawless. Muscles carved into the finest of flesh, a creamy cocoa masterpiece. And below the belt was even better.

Kneeling before him, I grasped his member with both hands. A moan escaped his lips as I began moving slowly up and down his shaft. I watched the pleasure grow on his face.

I parted my lips, slipping my tongue between and flicking the end of his hard cock. Another moan. I glanced up at his face, pleasure, but he hadn’t taken his eyes off me. Watching him, I flicked his cock with my tongue again. His eyes closed and his erection grew. My hands grasped his ass and I took his cock into my mouth, pushing as deep as I could. I slid my tongue along his smooth shaft savouring each stroke.

“Fuck,” Brody moaned, pushing into my movement.

A salty taste came on my tongue and I drew back, not wishing to ruin all the fun. He released a breath as I stood. Reaching into the top drawer of my bedside table, I withdrew a condom and placed it on top before crawling on to my bed and beckoning him to join.

“I’ve always wanted a Major in my bed,” I purred as he climbed on top of me. He caught me in a rough kiss, biting on my lower lip. I moaned into his lips, pushing my hips against his hard cock.

Brody broke contact and trailed kisses down my neck and shoulders. My skin heated under his soft touch. He caressed my breasts and teased each nipple unmercifully with his warm tongue before gently nipping and sending a wave of pleasure through my body. My nipples responded, growing more rigid with each stroke. Trailing his tongue down my flat stomach, he dipped into my belly button and proceeded down my pussy. He pulled his mouth away and plunged two fingers inside me, and I gasped, tilting my head back and biting on my swollen lip.

He moved his fingers against me, replacing two with three, then four. The tension built inside and as I begged for release, Brody withdrew his fingers and used his tongue instead. The warm sucking and swirling around my clit sent chills through me. I quivered as another moan drew me closer to release. If he kept this up I’d come before I had a chance to try his cock. I reached down and grabbed a handful of his dark hair, pulling his mouth from my clit, but he resisted and continued his assault on my clit.

Pleasure shot through me and I let my hand fall, letting him finish. Brody was determined to get me to climax. I couldn’t stop the moan that escaped my lips as Brody’s tongue delved deeper. Unable to hold it any longer, my body went rigid as I released. Brody raised his head and grinned at me.

“I’ll take that as good,” he said.

I smirked, though breathless and said. “So you can eat like a champ, but what about fucking? That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”

His grinned faltered, but only for a moment, and he crawled further up the bed, capturing my lips in a deep kiss and letting me try my own sweet taste. I licked it from his lips before he pulled away.

“How do you like it, dirty girl? Can I fuck you from behind?” he asked.

Placing my hands on his chest, I pushed him off of me and turned onto my hands and knees to answer his question. I loved a vulgar man in bed.

“You’re gonna fuck me hard?” I asked, watching him over my shoulder.

Brody knelt behind me, and ran his hand down my spine, pushing my shoulders down.

He slapped my ass. “Yeah, that’s how I like you, face down, ass up.”

“Then fuck me,” I said.

He didn’t need the encouragement. The rip of the foil was followed by his thick cock sliding inside me. I pushed back against him, moaning with pleasure as his shaft filled me. Brody teased me at first, taking his entrance slow. His hands knead my ass as he moved in an agonizing motion against me. It was torture. I just wanted him to fuck me hard.

I propped myself onto my elbows but Brody was quick to push me back down.

“Naughty girl.” He drew out only to drive his cock back into me with alarming force.

I gasped and he continued to slam into me, pushing his cock deeper, fucking me faster. I gripped the sheets of the bed, feeling the pleasure building as he rode me like a wild animal. He took it further, plunging a finger in my tight ass. A new wave of pleasure shot through me, a sensation I’d never felt. I bit on the sheets, and came around his cock.

Pulling out, he flipped me onto my back and spread my legs. He thrust his cock deep inside my pussy again. Again he moved slowly within my swollen folds. The movement was even more of a tease after coming so hard and soon I was begging him to resume his pace.

“Fuck me harder, Brody!”

Grabbing hold of my ankles and holding them over my head, he resumed pounding with even more want than before.

I closed my eyes, trembling as I came again. Brody cried out in pleasure. Releasing my ankles and leaning forward, he gently bit on my shoulder.

Then he collapsed onto the bed beside me, his breathing matching my own. I rolled my head to the side and gazed at him through my tangled hair. His eyes had lightened again and stared back at me, grinning. Leaning in, he planted a light kiss on my swollen lips.

“Major Campbell reporting for duty, ma’am,” he whispered.

I smiled. “Duty successfully served, major.”

We didn’t speak again, and eventually he stood and went to my bathroom. I heard the shower flick on. Apparently Mr. Major had no problem getting comfortable.

I pushed myself from the bed and followed him in.

Drawing back the curtain gave me another pleasant view. Mr. Major, cocoa skin slick, and damp dark hair sticking to his forehead.

He grinned. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I responded.

“What’s wrong?” His dark brow furrowed as he stepped aside and let me beneath the spray of water.

“You never told me your plan, now that you’re here,” I said, staring up at him. “It’s one thing to stay, it’s another to sit around the house all day.”

His grin faded and he looked away. “I didn’t have one.”

“Well come Monday, you’ll need one.”

His hand shot out and caught my wrist. “But we have until then?”

I raised my eyebrow at him.

His lips twitched into a smirk and his hands lowered to my hips, wrapping around and grasping my ass. His cock immediately hardened, aroused and ready. My eyes grazed over his perfect member, parting my lips slightly. I quickly jumped from the shower, returning with condom in hand and a small smile playing on my lips.

“You’re lucky I have nothing else to do this weekend.”

He grinned and lifted me from the floor. I wrapped my legs around his waist and he slid his smooth cock back inside of me.

My nails dug into his shoulders and I couldn’t help but think about my luck. Maybe the war would end soon and he would return to Mars, or maybe not. Either way, I’d have Brody’s cock until then.

Belladonna By Prof Barbara Foster

 “Just one of those things”. Cole Porter

It had been almost a year since I visited the Bowery Poetry Club in Manhattan’s East village. Their Monday night open mic attracted a wide array of performers. One of them, a Latino fellow with shiny curls and eyes that lit up the stage, sang corny songs unsuitable to a bohemian joint where edginess prevailed. Oblivious, his poise harked back to crooners from a bygone era. I had seen his act before but one night after his brief set of two Sinatra songs, he sat down next to me. I did my best to make conversation, not to come across as an academic.

“Have you been singing long, “I ventured

“Two years, ever since I heard that CD of Frankie Sinatra at my aunt’s in Jersey. Never paid any attention to him before. Afterwards, I started warbling. I haven’t stopped since. Who’s asking?” His serious manner contrasted with the romantic songs in his repertoire. I gave him my particulars, he gave me his–which included a doctorate in Sociology. To avoid the pressure of academia, he taught in the public school system.

Our conversation continued through the next set and we wound up leaving together. Despite the winter wind, we sat on a bench outside the Club sharing nuggets about our lives. It turned out that Randolph (nicknamed Randy) spent many evenings at open mics in hopes of being “discovered”–his dream. He had made a CD, which he hawked at every opportunity. Straightaway, I bought two copies, although he wanted to present one to me.

Finally, I asked the one question that had a major impact on all my relationships. “Where do you live? Manhattan?” I asked optimistically.

“Not these days. Used to during my first marriage. Some years ago, before it got so trendy, I bought a house in Williamsburg. Brooklyn’s got interesting neighborhoods Manhattanites don’t suspect. Why not come over to sample my grilled salmon? By the way, I’m a gourmet cook.” Randy licked his lips as though tasting one of his culinary creations.

He was geographically undesirable, but my mouth watered above and beyond any concoction he could whip up on the stove. Randy took my number and phoned the next day.

“Free tomorrow night?” he demanded, in his crooning voice that made my knees buckle as though I were a Sinatra worshipper at one of his concerts. I imagined Randy’s long eyelashes flickering in my direction like a magic carpet tempting me to climb onboard and fly away with him. The “imp of the perverse” whispered in my ear: “Go ahead, you only live once!”

Our first date revolved around a Rock and Roll Musical on Broadway. In Randy’s company burgers and fries at McDonalds would have sufficed. Worried about the strain on his pocketbook, I inquired:

“Isn’t Broadway rather expensive these days and don’t you have to be up early for teaching?”

“Not a problem,” he reassured me. “Let’s have drinks at the Water Club after. Great pianist there. Anyway, don’t need much sleep. If I get a gig performing in clubs I’m up till the wee hours. Who cares? Someone with your ravishing style doesn’t come along every day. Gotta’ say, I adore older women!”

“How old are you?” This question had not occurred to me, for Randy would have appealed to me had he been in his thirties or nineties. Another plus, he counted out a mere ten years younger.

Before Randy hung up, he added. “You remind me of the classic actresses, not the vapid creatures on screen today. Let’s see, maybe, Lana, no too blond, or Ava? Better Rita, with her glorious red hair. Did you see the “Dancing Pirate?” Wow! I’ll play it for you sometime.”

Primping for the show, I ransacked my closet for a killer outfit. Finally, I picked a black and silver sheath dress, matching stiletto heels that made me totter as though I were drunk, and antique jewelry to add a classy vintage flair. Fishnet stockings completed my ensemble. Women in dungarees, Randy declared, made him run for the exit.

Nor did he seek marriage. Twice disappointed, forever wary of commitment. Gradually, Randy had reinvented himself as the “dream date,” ready to play with the flame as long as the fire didn’t come close enough to burn. Such honesty was refreshing, indicative of someone able to follow ground rules. A man who would show up on time, take me out to nice places, and throw some passion in my direction did not have to promise eternal fidelity. Time this veteran of the bedroom follies made a few compromises!

Five dates, all to upscale places, happened in two glorious weeks. After each date, Randy administered a chaste kiss. By the third week, I was so mad for Randy that I would have paid for the best hotel room in Manhattan to have his lips explore mine—elsewhere as well– in privacy. Finally, Randy extended the invite I had been waiting for: dinner chez lui at his Williamsburg digs, a three-story fun house full of surprises.

The first floor appeared pedestrian: a small office, one room full of recording equipment, computers, plus a separate, modest sized kitchen. One level down several rooms were appointed in black and white: chairs, tables, a bureau, even an Olivetti hunt and peck typewriter. A bed with a heart shaped-painted head board showed an interracial nude couple embracing. Another room contained such a variety of exercise equipment jammed in that it qualified as a mini gym.

Yet another room had a locked door. I insisted on seeing its contents to establish that Randy did not have remnants of ex-girlfriends stashed there. This teeny-tiny space yielded a delightful surprise: two turtles were happily ensconced in a decorative bowl on an antique table. They dozed side by side, so companionable curled up in their shells.

Randy woke them up with food nuggets. Their names were Sinatra one and two—a tribute to the crooner whom Randy placed on a pedestal so high it reached the heavens. This reptilian duo consecrated our evening and convinced me that Randy would—as the evening progressed–unveil more enchantments. If the Goddess of Love cooperated, soon we would lay body to body, trading kisses so passionate that they would leave scars.

The dimly lit basement floor contained a few more rooms decorated in a red so dark it could pass for black. In one room the bed occupied most of the space, except for a large locked trunk which Randy explained held his CD’s—his most valuable possession. Randy slept in this airless vampire’s cave because he found it “cozy.”

Our whirlwind tour completed, Randy escorted me upstairs for dinner, which appeared magically. We ate salmon fresh from the grill spiced with rosemary washed down with a properly aged Pinot Noir in a compact, improvised dining room. Frequent toasts to each other and the evening ahead culminated in spontaneous dancing that harked back to my teenage years at Dick Clark’s American Bandstand.

Our movements, as we celebrated Bacchus, the god of wine, became wilder and wilder. Pagans, we let all restraints go as, piece by piece, we dropped our clothing on the floor. Touching Randy’s well-developed muscles formerly hidden by loose fitting suits made my hands yearn to strip him naked. His obsidian eyes pierced the shell which protected me from entanglements apt to veer beyond my control.

Again we adjourned to the basement, where Randy’s bed promised myriad erotic enchantments. Straightaway, he assumed the requisite condom. His vigor both thrilled and frightened me. What an uneven match! His bulk, kept formidable in daily workouts, pitted against my one-hundred-and-ten pounds. Think Two Ton Tony Galento in the ring with a featherweight. Would I emerge from t this bout with all body parts intact? Bulk aside, Randy’s movements had the grace of a tiger weaving its way thought a jungle.

Randy’s inexhaustible energy penetrated my core and made me forget the civilized trappings that I had adopted to function in the world. Holding onto the sheets, my imagination soared out of the gloomy basement. His touch ushered me into a universe of perpetual delights where every part of my body came alive. Instead of diminishing, the intensity kept building. Randy appeared to be the veritable “all-nighter” that many women highly prize. Not me! In the past, I had avoided men keen to show off their endurance.

About three o’clock, Randy dozed. Fifteen minutes later he woke up.

“Time to get going,” he informed me.

“It’s the middle of the night,” I moaned.

“Hey, I’m always up a six to work out. Then I ride my bike round the neighborhood. That routine really works for me. Any objections to the results?” He flexed his muscular arm, then smothered my mouth with passionate kisses, nibbled my elbows. Was he ready for another round? I wondered. Instead, he got up and started to put on his clothes.

Exhausted, nevertheless, I threw myself together and staggered upstairs. Affectionate, Randy held my hand while he escorted me to his car. On the way back to Manhattan, euphoria overtook both of us. We began to sing Sinatra standards at the top of our lungs. I could still taste his lips, the tongue that probed my every orifice with such expertise.

# # #

Next morning, sore from the persistent thrusts of Randy’s cock, I administered home remedies to heal the area. Small price for a night of rapture. This throbbing reminder of our time together did not lessen the contentment that made me want to both laugh and cry simultaneously. As though on cue, Randy called to reminisce about our tryst. He promised to schedule a repeat performance soon.

Exhilarated, and inspired by Randy’s example, I went to the gym. On the way back I tumbled into a deep hole, one of many common on New York City streets. While Alice fell down a rabbit hole into as fantasy world populated by other worldly creatures, I thumped on the jagged pavement–my left leg twisted under me. Disoriented, I could not figure out how to pick myself up. All my defenses were gone, lost the night before in a mysterious basement chamber where two turtles played hide and seek.

A couple of passer-bys rushed over to help me up, giving the lie to New Yorkers reputation for not being helpful to strangers. Oddly enough, nothing hurt, nor did I become black and blue immediately. A few days later my thigh became dark but still no pain. When the color started to creep down, I consulted my doctor who assured me that nothing was broken. The bad news: “it would get worse looking before it got better.”

In a few days, the discoloration crept down my entire leg. Panic set in, and I rushed to the emergency room at a local hospital. After sitting for several hours, a redundant x-ray indicated that nothing was broken—news that made me feel foolish for wasting hours in such a depressing place.

Randy stayed in touch, or rather telephoned daily bulletins about his career’s progress. After a brief question about my injury, he gave me intricate run-downs on this or that company possibly interested in his CD, or gigs that looked promising. Nor did he ask how he could be helpful in any way. As a sidebar, he went into his disappointment when past physical relationships degenerated into platonic ones. This sort of connection without flesh to flesh contact was a “waste of time” from his perspective. Predictably, such dissertations did not speed up my healing process.

In a month my leg returned to almost normal. The news gratified Randy who began to suggest outings. His first proposal, watching a vampire film on TV in his basement, did not cheer me up. Persistent, he proposed brunch in a “really, really cheap” restaurant on the West Side. What a come down from our evening at the exclusive Water Club, the Broadway show that won a plethora of awards. Did the injured rate only rate rock bottom dates, or did Randy’s cheapskate side kick in once a romance succumbed to his charms? Additionally, he mentioned that the turtles died, a loss that I imbued with a symbolic significance.

Although I could not forget being devoured by Randy’s kisses, the circular way his tongue massaged the roof of my mouth, I had no inclination to see him again. My fall and his subsequent behavior put a curse on our future. I added this experience to many other voyages along the shores of sacred and profane love. Unexpected twists and turns in the romance department no longer surprised me. Nor did I intend to rush into another affair with someone who had superficial glamour but promised trouble down the road. A saying of Casanova, the great lover who wrote the classic memoir, came to mind: “Beyond pleasure, there is still happiness.”

Queen of the Black Pyramid By J. Malcolm Stewart

From the Diary of Jean Martin Samael: Isla de la Sangre, off the coast of Belize, 5th of March, 1929

After days and nights of fighting through the teeth of the wilderness, I came to the clearing where stood the Black Pyramid.

It rose from the floor of the jungle; its massive, chiseled blocks of black, volcanic stone wrapped in vanishing mist. The structure shimmered in the light of Luna, anticipated the evening ritual.

With failing legs, I ascended the steps of the exterior, leaving the sounds and smells of the untamed darkness behind me. The distant sound of drumming was lifted to my ears by the wind.

And from somewhere, I heard a wolf howl.

I paused for moment to take a drink from my canteen. The last swig of water contained within passed through my lips like a whisper. It barely touched the thirst that was within me. The dryness that spread throughout my body had less to do with sweat or dehydration and more to do with a need I did not want to put in words.

The guides and the witch doctors who had told me how to find this place had also warned me. They had warned me of the growing thirst in my body that would become a physical need. A need that had propelled me through the humid jungle nights to these steps. A need that could only met by the queen of the Pyramid herself.

I knew she was waiting there in the shadows of the main, upper chamber. The night air had the taste of her ritual and her madness. The heavy air bore the scent of her into my nostrils like an obscene perfume, damp and earthy, a touch of evergreen in the passing.

The memory of her scent brought renewed vigor to my tired legs. With a final surge, I made my way up the final steps to the Pyramid’s apex.

The rising moon’s light became muted as I made my way under the Pyramid’s archways. The semi-darkness that greeted me was punctuated with flicking flame from the torches on the wall.

I stood a moment to see my reflection on the surface of the smoothly polished walls. I saw myself bent and distorted by the curvature of the stone, like some underwater creature viewed from the surface of a turbulent sea. My brown hair showed a hint of grey at the edges and my eyes, usually the color of the sea, looked pale and washed out in the glasslike wall. A wild, stringy beard was forming on my cheeks and chin. A sad consequence of my journey away from civilization.

I marveled at myself. Only months before, I had been a respected, reputable man of industry having left my beloved Corsica to make my fortune in the newly reformed republic of Mexico. The new overlords of the country, eager to quench the smoldering fires of the revolution, rushed to embrace the progress that came with my building projects.

It was there where I first found her. In the ancient remnants of Tenochtitlan, underneath Mexico City, my workers and I found her chamber. It had waited buried and undisturbed for nearly five hundred years. The superstitious amongst my workers fear to enter into what they called in Spanish La Morada de Diosa de Bestia: The Abode of the Goddess of Beasts.

I dismissed their fears, entering into the chamber to prove myself a modern man, a man of reason. It was there I came into her presence. Not merely a feeling, but a taste, a smell of something forgotten and buried. Something ancient and primal. A presence that spoke of wild nights of bloody sacrifice and the sound of howling wolves.

For months I poured over the legends and the histories of the goddess, delving into a ritual that predated the landing of the Conquistadors by centuries. I forgot all other pursuits, my business concerns, my social standing, my family obligations. To me, the goddess was all.

The stories and rumors eventually lead me here to the Island of Blood, the last known stronghold of the Queen of Wolves. Here into the chamber of her worship.

In the side of my vision, there are glimpses of animal shapes, loping on all fours through the chamber’s corridors. This night she had gathered her children to her. To bear witness to the task for which I had been summoned.

A few more weary steps brought me to the altar. I stopped to run my hands over the smoothed stone of its black surface. The grooves and indentions all told a story to me. A story of pain and passion, of lives given and lives taken. A story old when the salons and cathedrals of Europe were young. A story written in bloody, dark stones.

All of it whispered to me while I stood there. Again in the rippling stones of its surface I saw myself transfixed by its power, seduced by its mysteries.

“What do you see there in the stones?” echoed a woman’s voice from the chamber’s darkness. “A man? Or a monster?”

The dry roof of my mouth almost prevented me from forming words.

“I… I,” I began. “I don‘t know…”

“Really, my love?” said the voice from the dark, lingering over the last syllables in her phrase with a mocking joy. “Do you know what means? To come to me in my temple underneath the fullness of the moon?”

“Yes, I do,” I said.

I heard the sound of footsteps moving purposely over stone.

“Are you truly ready Jean Martin Samael?” said her voice as it came closer to me. “Are you ready to give yourself upon this altar to me without reservation? Are you prepared to throw away your reputation, your standing, your veneer of civility to have me? Only me?”

The dryness in my mouth was unbearable. The sound of her voice alone brought my body alive with the touch of fire and ice, from the tip of head into the depths of my groin.

“Yes!” I heard my voice calling out into the humid air. “I give the only worthy sacrifice to your greatness. Myself!”

The queen entered the chamber in the fire light, her violet eyes piercing the shadows.

I saw her taught, sculpted body was covered only by the burgundy robe given to the Pyramid’s high priestess. Her hair blossomed dark against her pale creamy skin like dyed silk. Above the robe’s clasp was her string of pearls, which glittered as dark as the night skies above.

I could see the shape of her erect nipples against the fabric of her robe and her coal-painted fingertips hovered on her stomach just above the form of her trimmed vagina.

As she walked toward me, her lips beckoned a bloody red smile against her white teeth. Without the need of words, I heard my name whispered in her eyes.

She came to a halt in front of me, our bodies almost touching. With a single motion she brought the robe’s clasp undone and let it fall from her shoulders.

She stood a moment there in front of me, unveiled in the half-light, the perfection of her pear-shaped bosoms framed in my eyes. Against the nature my desire, I wondered about the fate of those who had beheld this sight across the centuries.

Her smile was wicked and her eyes danced with a darkly held desire. A desire chained and held to Earth by flesh of our bodies. Then her hands were at my chest, disposing of my coat and undoing my shirt with shredding of fabric and thread.

I felt her lips across my chest, lingering over my nipples with her tongue. In the next moment, her hand fell downward to my belt buckle and pants. With a girlish giggle, she slid to the floor on her knees.

With her nimble hands, she worked the belt and pants to the floor to reveal my erect penis. I felt the touch of her lips to its tip, joyfully rolling her tongue across its edges. With her right hand, she firmly stroked the base of it further into her mouth. Her left hand applied a light caress of my scrotum, following the course of my erection as it continued to grow against the top of her mouth.

The power of her action left me groaning and weak. I could myself building and surging towards letting go. But in manner of a woman who knew all the forms of erotic cruelty, she took her lips away from her task, sliding her body up against mine until our lips met in passion.

The same tongue that had given pleasure to one part of my body rolled and turned through my mouth like a tidal wave. Then, with a firm push to my chest, she moved away from me to lie on the altar.

Again, she exposed her full body to me, displayed against the cold stone surface of the altar. She held me in place with her eyes, reaching down again to touch herself, not allowing me to release my lust.

With the laugh of an imp, she turned herself over on the slab, showing to me her naked bottom and the wolfs-head brand on the small of back.

Arching her back, she brought her backside against me, letting the smooth texture of her bottom meet my penis. As I took hold of her waist, I felt the damp touch of her vaginal walls encircle my member. A sucking gasp escaped her lips.

“Fuck me,” she demanded.

I let myself enter her. The world became a sensation of thrusting and moaning, both hers and mine. The touch of her against my body spurred me faster and harder until the chamber came alive with the sound of our slapping bodies. The scent of damp evergreen rose in my nostrils until I could remember no other thing.

Somewhere underneath me, I heard her voice repeating the same two words of before, the form of them building and rising with her excitement.

Then I heard another voice joining in with her. A distant sounding man’s voice, almost like my voice but filled with a passion I had never felt before. And that voice was close to climax, meeting passion with passion, fire with fire.

I felt myself let go with a release of ice, surging past boundaries of flesh and gravity to enter into the core of her being. The queen’s body tensed, grabbing my organ with her inner walls, receiving my worship to her with an overwhelming joy.

I heard her cry out once more and then release me. The last of my strength gone, I fell to her side on the cool stones of the altar.

After a moment of gasping and heaving, I felt the presence of her lips next my ear.

“It’s done, my love,” she said with the wind of her breath against my face, her body damp with the sweat of our passion. “You, of your own free will have come to the queen of the Black Pyramid and worshiped her body and soul under the light of the full moon. Now, and forever, you are mine.”

The weight of my deeds rested alongside the euphoria of my climax. I knew what she was saying and I knew it to be true. But I no longer cared about that. I had found her. She was mine. And I was hers.

Ven, mi amor,” she said, beckoning me to my feet with an outstretched hand. “Come and see what I have prepared for you.”

Rising, I followed her from the chamber into the adjoining throne room. There, on the raised dais, sat two thrones side by side, made of human bones. They shone like pale death in the filtered moonlight. Before the dais were the rows of her assembled subjects, the creatures of the night come to pay homage to the throne of the queen and her chosen mate.

We ascended the steps to take our place amongst our kingdom, playing the role master and mistress to the dregs of darkness.

“Now and forever, you belong to me,” said my dark queen as she stroked my cheek. “The outside world will no longer touch you. No longer will you fear or doubt. The only things that exist in your world now are the icy touch of my body, the sound of my voice, the caress of my lips.”

With that said, I took another taste of her red painted lips, the sharp taste of evergreen remaining in my mouth.

Before me on the floor of the throne room was the torn remnants of the night’s prey. Whatever it had been, human or animal now lay mangled in the half-light. It shone bloody in my eyes, the smell of it filling my nostrils and the copper taste of it already in my mouth. Against the sides of my tongue, I could feel tips of my incisors sharpening in anticipation of my lover’s feast.

“Now, my love,” whispered my queen. “Arise and eat.”

Somewhere in the darkness, I heard the growl of an animal which transformed into a howl. The sound of a beast full of rage and passion. A monster lost forever to the cold embrace of the Queen of the Black Pyramid.

Far, far too late, after my body was full of blood and flesh, I came to understand that the cry of the beast had been my very own.

Lilly White By Madeleine Pryze

Lilly looks up at a mansion of sandstone and leaded glass. Birds tweet nearby. When Lilly moves, the gravel whispers beneath her feet.

She mounts the well-worn step and reaches for the knocker. It has a peculiar shape that she can’t decipher – a bow on its side? A handlebar moustache? It makes a noise like any other knocker.

Lilly waits in the aural ocean of rustling leaves.

She starts to wonder if she has the right estate.

How long must one wait before it is no longer rude to knock again?

The door opens. It is Genevieve Reynolds, beaming from ear to ear. “Sorry I left you for so long, our manservant is on his weekend at home! Come in!

Genevieve moves like a dancer; her feet don’t make any sound on the polished chessboard of the long hallway. This is the sister of the man I’m supposed to meet? Lilly thinks. Mother wouldn’t set me up with anyone less than a proper gentleman…

“I was making a cool drink, would you like one?”

“Please.” Lilly follows.

From what must be the kitchen, Genevieve calls, “I’m dreadfully sorry that Sebastian and Bertie aren’t here. They knew we were to dine early but they’re still on one of their silly hunts in the woods. Three guesses who shall have to wash the muzzles of all the hounds when they return!”

“I can’t abide fox hunting. Those poor animals.”

In the kitchen, Lilly is passed a glass of fresh orange juice. She sips it; the glass is cold and the juice delicious, slipping down her throat.

When she lowers her glass, Genevieve is looking at her intently. “You have a lovely neck. The gown last night failed to show it off.”

Lilly swallows the last of the juice. “Maybe that’s why none of those eligible bachelors took a shine to me.”

“Oh, you don’t want any of those little boys. Debutante balls aren’t the matchmaking wonders that our parents would wish them to be. There just aren’t many ripe apples left around here anymore. Look at me, twenty-three and not married! I’m a spinster!”

She laughs, and Lilly watches her. This young woman has so much confidence, so much poise. She is so very womanly, and yet not girlish at all. Genevieve is utterly at peace with herself.

“I wondered at your accent,” Lilly reveals, “until you told me your name.”

“Mother was French. Sebastian allowed it. He was a rogue, to find himself a Parisian bride and drag her back here once I was born! You know, he wanted to pass me off as an orphaned niece? The things people feel they have to say to fit in! England is a stuffy old place, isn’t it?”

Lilly opens her mouth to speak, but doesn’t get the chance.

“I say, have you ever heard of a French gentleman named Manet? He wasn’t stuffy in the slightest. You know, he painted the filthiest picture of this girl Olympia, who was an honest-to-goodness—” She looks around conspiratorially, “—fille de joie!”

“A what?”

“A… professional, a… lady of the night!”

“Oh!”

“It was downright blasphemous,” giggles Genevieve, and leans back with her arms pushing up her breasts, blowing a kiss up to the heavens and fluttering her eyelashes.

Scandalous! Lilly thinks, but at the same time feels a trill of excitement run up her body at the naughtiness of it all. And Genevieve goes on:

“Of course your father is fun, isn’t he! I don’t think I’ve ever seen Sebastian laugh so much, not since Mother died.”

“You call him by his given name?”

A brown newt runs under a door that joins the kitchen to the garden. It tastes the air, turns around on its hooked toes, then hides in the cool shade of the iron oven.

“Father and I don’t … understand one another. We are very different. I am much more like my mother, and he didn’t understand her much either.”

“How so?” asks Lilly, and immediately regrets the question. Who is she to ask anything of this young woman, who she hardly knows and met less than twenty hours ago? To interrogate a stranger in their own home…!

Genevieve takes a glance through the window at the verdant orchard outside. The newt dashes away from her feet and escapes the way it came in with a papery rustle.

“Sebastian and Bertie could be hours. Let’s go upstairs – I want to show you something!”

A girlish pleasure takes over Lilly. She never had a sister and her mother kept away anyone who could have become a close girlfriend. To see Genevieve’s excitement is to be infected by it; together they dash, giggling, up the huge sweeping staircase that takes them from the hallway to the upper landing.

“The east wing,” says Genevieve, checking the degree of dust on a door knob before entrusting her white glove to it, “is where we keep our skeletons.”

She looks Lilly in the eye. “You aren’t scared of ghosts, are you?”

Lilly shivers.

Genevieve laughs a deep, booming laugh and slaps Lilly on the shoulder. “Come on, I’m teasing! Follow me!”

The door opens into a long corridor lit from the right by dozens of sash windows. The left side is a wall of paintings – landscapes of exotic places Lilly recognise as Prague, Paris, the Nile in Egypt – interrupted occasionally by mahogany panelled doors, all closed.

The last door in the hallway is the one that Genevieve stops by. “This was my mother’s private study. Sebastian wasn’t expressly forbidden to enter it, but… Well, I don’t think he was always comfortable here. Or wanted to think about her amongst all these things.”

Genevieve opens the door with a strange expression on her face: excitement? Or apprehension? Is it possible for it to be both at the same time? Lilly doesn’t know, but at first she is confused when she steps into the room behind Genevieve.

It looks just like a normal room. A bed, some cabinets, and two tall bookcases against the left wall. To the right, a small table in each corner display sets of curios in wood, glass and bronze. The walls are otherwise occupied by paintings and photographic portraits, an array of sepia and oil.

In all respects perfectly normal.

“I don’t…” Lilly begins, then tapers off. Genevieve is examining a large painting beside the door, positioned so that the light from the windows frames it perfectly. The painting is about as big as the door itself, produced landscape and gilded in gold-leaf wood.

In the picture, a woman lays on an untidy bed. At first, Lilly mistakes it for Titian’s Sleeping Venus, the classical depiction of that most famous Roman goddess. But in this painting, “Venus” has a bracelet, a choker, pearl earrings, and in her demeanour has something else… Something in her gaze that marks her out as different. A knowable, even forgivable sin. Everything in the picture gives off a sumptuousness: the flower in her hair, and the rich oriental blanket on which she lies.

“She is cast in such hard light,” Lilly murmurs. “It shows everything except what she covers with her hand…”

“A shame she does that, yes?” suggests Genevieve, with laughter in her voice. “That isn’t a lilly behind her ear, before you ask – a white orchid.”

Suddenly it strikes Lilly. This isn’t Venus at all – but Genevieve’s fille de joie – a prostitute!

“She’s…” Lilly chokes on the word.

“She is a real woman.” Genevieve looks with deep appreciation at the picture. “But the painting is a copy only – the original has yet to even be put on display to the public. What a stir it will cause in Paris!”

Lilly’s eye catches a small portrait next to it, rendered in rich oils. Another nude, but this lady laced in the most outrageous manner, as though those loose shifts were never intended to cover her nakedness at all! And a third picture, a photograph in smudgy sepia, of a thin young girl putting on – or taking off – her stockings. She is otherwise naked. Her lips are painted bright red; there is a wink in her eye.

“Pornography!” Lilly is embarrassed by having to state the obvious, but she cannot help it. “The police…”

“They don’t know anything about this room. It was Mother’s interest and no-one else’s business. Sebastian was very… generous to let her maintain this hobby of hers.”

Every painting, every photograph – even the lamp, which is shaped like a man’s… The size of it! And the clock on the table, with moving hands tracing invisible lines over the contours of a couple engaged in—

“I must sit down!”

Genevieve smiles as Lilly sits in a velvet-lined armchair. She hands Lilly a fan, which Lilly opens to prevent herself from fainting. The image inked into the folds is another nude woman, wearing a fur hat and covering herself with a fur glove.

“Don’t look at it,” Genevieve scratches her temple, “if that helps. Or the chair…”

Lilly’s hands grasp tighter at the chair’s arms. She daren’t look down, but she isn’t in control of her head, which swims with cool vapours. The rich velvet of the seat’s covering seems maroon at a glance, but is shades of red. In the swirls of its pattern are tiny running figures, boys and girls, grinning as they’re chased by obscene fauns and satyrs with engorged…

“My goodness.”

“Are you okay?”

Lilly takes a breath. “I’m fine. This is quite a shock. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Isn’t it fabulous?” breathes Genevieve. When she talks about these things, her accent thickens. This must be a little like how her mother sounded when she spoke, thinks Lilly.

…Her mother!

“This room was hers, you say? Your mother’s?”

A smile spreads like wildfire across the young woman’s soft features. “She had an interest in archaeology, much like Sebastian. But their interest diverged there, I’m afraid. Sebastian was there in Pompeii a few years ago.”

“That buried Italian city? Father mentioned it last summer…”

“They found all the buildings that those poor people lived in, right before the volcano blew up in their faces! The houses were preserved with people and furniture and all their things… Those excavators are there right now, scraping ash off the wall to reveal all their frescos and graffiti and… all sorts. Do you know what else they found?”

“I dread to ask!” Lilly gasps and then, despite herself, giggles.

“Disgusting drawings and paintings and murals, all with people doing it!

“That’s terrible!”

“The ancient Romans evidently had a different view on nakedness. They thought it was just ordinary… even fun. Not shameful at all. Eroticism was a good thing, for them – not illegal blasphemy like our good Queen would have us believe. Why, it’s the most natural thing in the world!”

A series of loud noises erupts from the lower floors.

“Sebastian!” Genevieve gasps. “And Bertie! They’re back! Come on!”

Giggling, the two girls return to the hallway. Lilly is almost sorry to leave the soft velvet of the chair, even with its hidden erotic images. It is only when she stands that she realises the arms, which she’d been holding so tightly, are the ends of long, smooth phalluses.

Genevieve pulls the doors closed and messes with her hair again. “Sebastian doesn’t like me going in there. It’s forbidden! I’ll tell him we were in the solarium…”

Downstairs, the men claim to have forgotten all about the arranged dinner, and certain distinct gestures belie their attempts to hide the numerous nips they must have had from flasks concealed about their persons; Bertie has, according to his father, suffered a fall as a result of a desperate vixen and sprained his ankle. Dinner is called off; Genevieve apologies profusely, but her words hide the pleasure at being the main attraction of the afternoon, and she winks as Lilly makes her departure.

Outside, Lilly wonders whether she should ask Sebastian Reynolds to arrange for her a carriage. It wouldn’t be out of order. But just as she is waiting in the gravel for her overwrought mind to make a decision, the front door opens again and Genevieve slips out.

“I wanted to give you this,” she exclaims, “but didn’t want Sebastian to see!”

Before Lilly can protest the young woman plants a decorous kiss on her cheek. The lipstick might not have left a mark, but the warmth remains.

As Genevieve disappears back into the house, Lilly looks down at the package in her hands. It is a large book, wrapped in soft red felt.

# # #

“How was Sebastian’s lot?” asks Lilly’s father upon her return.

“Very nice, father, and quote accommodating.”

“Did they show you a good time?”

Lilly thinks about this.

“I think they were holding back a little.”

# # #

That night, she undresses and dons her nightdress to sleep. Her bedroom is a small, lonely room in eggshell white and forest green, like her eyes. It hasn’t been redecorated since her birth. When she sleeps, she feels as though her four-poster bed is a cot and she sleeps within, like a child, protected.

She doesn’t go to sleep immediately. Lighting an oil lamp, she intends to study her gift from Genevieve. The weight and shape of the package have already revealed it to be a book, but it’s only when she unwraps it that she realises it’s something the like of which she’s never seen.

Leather-bound with no title, at first she wonders if it’s a portfolio of newssheet clippings… but upon opening it, she’s greeted with a lurid inner title page with words drawn laterally across a pair of full, round breasts.

She closes the book with a slap. The afterimage of the etching print fails to fade in her mind’s eye. White on black, it throbs in her mind: two full, round breasts. A matching pair. Nipples described in fine detail, areola and all.

Why would she give me something like this…?

Slowly, convinced that she is alone (as always) in her bedroom, she opens the book again.

The title page stares at her from atop those curved profanities. A LITHOGRAPHIC PORTFOLIO OF THE LADIES OF THE MOULIN ROUGE, PARIS. The inner pages are in turn fascinating, disgusting and exhilarating. Each lithograph, reproduced expensively yet faithfully on each of the heavy pages, produces a new frisson of excitement in Lilly.

All the portraits are women, many of whom are clearly, almost stereotypically French. They are arranged into “scenes”, each “scene” encompassing nine or ten lithographs. The first is named “1840-1845”, and seems to show a different age. But the things that don’t change are voluptuous and in sharp focus: an erect nipple or tuft of hair.

And yet, Lilly finds this not as shocking as she thought she might. Have I been corrupted so quickly?

The last section covers 1960-1864 – the book is very recent indeed – and she is stunned to find that she recognises one of the last girls.

Two pages from the back, a young blonde is reclined against a mountain of cushions. One arm is wrapped around a tall narrow bottle of green glass, whose label has been scraped away and replaced with a small card reading “GREENE MUSE”. The bottle is empty; the girl is entirely naked. Her fingernails are painted green. Her legs are spread and between them, the fingers of her right hand part the lips of her womanhood, exposing its purple depths to both the photographer and the reader.

Lilly drops the book down the side of the bed, but an afterimage of the girl’s magnetic gaze lingers in her mind.

…Genevieve!

She stares at the discoloured images within its pages, wondering at the decency of what one person might call evil, what another might call natural. How can it be anything but natural? she thinks, and jumps at something under her nightdress.

She had wondered if it were an animal – the newt from Genevieve’s kitchen springs to mind – but is shocked to find that it was her own hand. She hadn’t realised what it was doing, of its own accord. The thought occurs that she could turn a blind eye to its antics. What happens behind closed doors, in one’s own bedroom, is of course utterly private.

Mimicking, in part, the posture of Genevieve of the Moulin Rouge, 1965, Lilly allows her fingers to explore a place that had, until then, been a void of wickedness to be covered up. She finds that if this is a void, it is filled not with wickedness, but deliciousness to be savoured.

What would Genevieve think of this? she wonders, and this thought quickens her breath, quickens her wrist, quickens her first arrival of the night.

# # #

Lilly has never seen the room where Genevieve sleeps. Genevieve confesses that it bears no imprint of her personality. It is, she says, just another room.

The next time they get the chance to be together, it is November. They go instead to the secret museum of her mother, which they discover is now locked.

“My father,” muses Genevieve, fishing about in her purse. “He must have known I was in here and locked it. But I had John create me a replica.”

She produces the key from her purse with a wicked grin. Lilly’s heart leaps. You know what is in here. Lilly can’t wait for Genevieve to sweep open the door and close it behind them, sealing the boundary of their privacy. You know that this is the threshold to more than just a room.

They steps inside. When Lilly asks if they can open a window, she does so in a whisper that Genevieve teases her for.

“No-one is home, Lilly, and nor will they be until the early hours of the morning.”

“You are sure?”

“I am.” She drops her purse into the velvet-lined armchair that had been the vessel for Lilly’s introduction to this new world. Even seeing it now makes Lilly feel light-headed, as though the miniature figures frolicking within the stitches of the velvet are visions of her future.

Lilly takes her eyes from the chair and the purse and settle them on Genevieve, who looks right back at her. Without severing the link between their eyes, Genevieve peels loose the ribbon that keeps her hair in place. Blonde coils unravel around her face and neck, bouncing on her shoulders.

She turns around.

Lilly sees the laces of her dress. Her hands have a life of their own. They find the bow and untangle its strands. The laces hang free. Without turning, Genevieve pinches the shoulders of her dress and spreads the fabric. The laces loosen, slipping from the eyes of the rich fabric, which then slides free from the delicate scaffold of Genevieve’s shoulders.

She turns within the sliding cylinder of the dress. It drops as she reaches up, running her fingers through her hair. When the dress is a velvet puddle around her feet, there is only Genevieve’s bodice and stockings. There is no skirt support or bustle, no under-petticoat.

“I am overdressed,” says Lilly, embarrassed. It could take an age for her to reach Genevieve’s state of bareness.

“Layers,” replies Genevieve, “are like hor d’oeuvres.”

“Whore’s what…?” Lilly’s smile, she hopes, is voracious.

Genevieve takes her time with Lilly’s dress. The outer layer is peeled away, then a silky under-petticoat, then the crinoline. It rests on its curved wires in the corner of the room, quivering, as Genevieve tackles Lilly’s corset.

“When this is removed,” says the voice behind Lilly, “you shall breathe a new air.”

“I know it.”

“And I… shall keep the lace as a bracelet.”

Lilly giggles as the corset breaks open like a pecan shell. There is little loose flesh to sag free; she gasps as two slim hands arrive under her chemise and stroke the ticklish lines of her waist.

“I want,” breathes Genevieve, “to lay my lips on this white skin.”

Lilly murmurs, “I want to let you.”

But her heart beats in her chest like a drum. Genevieve admits to hearing it and guides her to the bed. “Lie here. Don’t worry. One does not need to be afraid when one knows the procedures are in the hands of an experienced professional.”

“A professional like your Olympia?” Lilly teases.

“If I were,” Genevieve drapes herself over Lilly in a single fluid motion, “I should be far richer than I am.”

The girl on top works her fingers into the neck of Lilly’s chemise. Its hem dips between her breasts; so do the girl’s fingers, which stroke lines that Lilly can feel like they were scored with a knife. Those lines burn as Genevieve describes new ones, down the curve of each breast, then up, then between her prominent collar bones, where Genevieve kisses, taking Lilly’s breath away.

The chemise comes away and flutters to the burgundy carpet. Genevieve’s breath trickles over her nipples. They stiffen; Lilly murmurs something unintelligible; muscles contract within her that she has rarely exercised.

“May I?” whispers Genevieve, with her fingers hooked into the hem of Lilly’s drawers.

“Don’t ask me. Undress me.”

Are those my words? Lilly wonders, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. Without this sense, another has room to grow: she gasps at every kiss that is imprinted on her breasts, stomach, the curve of her pelvis. Genevieve’s fingers stroke her as they tug the drawers away. Lilly has never been naked with anyone but Orpha, many years ago. And yet I’m not nervous, or—

A warm kiss, directly on her sex, throws all words from her mind.

It was brief, but the warmth remains. In fact, a fire has swept through Lilly’s loins and stomach. She opens her eyes to see Genevieve kneeling over her, her thighs forming an arch over Lilly’s belly. Sunlight streams behind her and through her hair.

A nightingale alights the windowsill and trills in two voices. The sunlight appears to brighten.

Lilly is reaching up to run her hands over Genevieve’s elaborately decorated bodice. It is deep blue, bone-ribbed, and adorned with silver birds and butterflies sewn into the silk. Similar butterflies made of ribbon are attached to the garters; the suspenders are silken elastic that Lilly slides her fingers beneath to grasp Genevieve’s hard thighs.

“The stockings are from Paris,” intones Genevieve, biting her lip, “the bodice is haute couture from Worth and Bobergh. I have never worn it.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Unclip the stockings.”

The clips are tiny silver hourglasses. The elasticised blue silk springs back and in a sudden, elegant movement, Genevieve is no longer on her knees but on her back between Lilly’s legs, with her own legs straight as arrows up in the air; the stockings are peeled away in a second, revealing white lustrous skin and ankles like pearls.

When Genevieve coils into a sideways sitting position beside Lilly, it is a momentary ballet that is less seen than existing only as an afterimage in the mind’s eye.

“You’re like a dancer,” breathes Lilly.

“I was a dancer. But not the kind you’ve ever seen.”

She is over Lilly now, her hair tickling Lilly’s face, arms planted either side. Over her shoulder, Genevieve’s bodice is seen to shrink and disappear between the orbs of her pale buttocks.

Lilly cannot admire them for long. Genevieve’s kiss is long and hot. Before Lilly knows what is happening a tongue is snaking into her mouth, and its muscular intrusion arouses her intensely. She responds, and their tongues intertwine.

Then Genevieve rolls aside, onto her back. Her eyes stare upward at the roof of the bed, and her hands rest palms-up beside her face. Lilly understands that she is to do something, so she moves onto her side and slowly unfastens the front of the bodice. Its laces are tight but once the clasp and first knot are out of the way, they loosen themselves so that a pale strip of flesh is shown: Genevieve’s sternum, her belly button, a tuft of blonde public hair.

The bodice is spread. Only the garters remain. “You can leave them on, if you like.” Lilly’s mind reels from the lessons she is learning, lessons she had never expected.

Then Genevieve is pulling her close, with the bodice opening like a flower to admit both their slim lengths. Two hot bellies press against each other, transferring warmth. Each girl feels the other’s nipples as small hard objects between them.

“Let me—” begins Genevieve, but she needn’t finish. Lilly has already made enough space between them for Genevieve’s slender arm to lower. Just like the time in the bath, her expert fingers both spread Lilly and touch the soft flesh between the folds. Her longest finger strokes slowly, slowly, and when it encounters moisture, enters.

Lilly feels herself close around the finger. It is slick enough to move in and out even under the pressure of Lilly’s muscles. Genevieve knows when to crook the finger and when to straighten; it is as though she draws shapes on Lilly’s inner wall, inveigling powerful jolts of pleasure.

Another kiss, this quicker and harder than the first. Between their pressed lips Genevieve breathes, “Do me.” Lilly’s hand is already groping embarrassingly at Genevieve’s flat stomach, now slick with sweat, in its attempt to find another place.

There: it has found it. Lilly hasn’t learnt the configuration that will allow her outer fingers to spread and inner finger to stroke, so she uses two to furrow through Genevieve’s soft down, and then the softer silken passage beneath.

Genevieve gasps; Lilly lets the gasp become a kiss, and they are breathing each other’s air, breathing each other, their gasps their breaths.

The speed of it shocks Lilly. Not already! She contracts and her whole body wants to curl toward the sensation quickly building in her loins. She cries out, sheets sticking to her bucking body, and comes hard in waves. A spurt of clear fluid jumps between Genevieve’s fingers, and she giggles naughtily.

Shocked, Lilly pulls back. “Is that not normal!?”

“It is for some girls.” Genevieve licks juices that are running down the side of her hand. “You taste delicious.”

“You are positively filthy!”

“I am told I taste sweet.” It is an invitation. Genevieve waits for instruction, a look of amused patience on her face. Nervous and unsure, Lilly says, “You could kneel.”

“Would that be nice?” teases Genevieve.

“You tell me!”

Genevieve rises to her knees and throws aside the bodice, which has collected their sweat. Upright, her body is lithe and very slender. Her ribs are just discernible down her side. The arc of her clavicle, the sweep of her underarm down to her breast, is exquisite to Lilly.

Slowly, almost excruciatingly slowly, Genevieve kneels. She dips her back and elevates her buttocks, which – I can’t! But I want to… – Lilly nips with her teeth, eliciting a gasp and a giggle. Genevieve’s small but shapely breasts hang like ripe fruit. Lilly cups them in her hands. To do this she must press her thighs against Genevieve’s, her pubis against her exposed sex.

“Your body is so hot,” whispers the kneeling girl. The girl behind relishes the weight of the breasts in her palms, admiring the stunning beauty of the one who is almost prostrate before her.

Lilly is jealous of this girl’s beauty and sexiness. But she is pleased, empowered, by the thought that she owns that beauty and sexiness.

“You are mine,” she whispers, unintentionally, and then winces when she feels Genevieve’s body tense. Genevieve does not look around. Then she lowers her stomach again and shifts her balance, so that she can use one hand to brush her hair away from one side of her face.

There is a smile there.

Lilly breathes a sigh of relief. Thank goodness!

“Yes,” Genevieve replies, pouting. “I am.”

Unexpectedly, there is no puzzle about approaching Genevieve here, no mystery of how to unlock the potential pleasure awaiting in this engorged diamond of pink flesh. It seems natural for Lilly to take it in her mouth as though drinking from a small jug, and sucking gently.

This elicits an immediate gasp and low moan from Genevieve. Lilly smiles, and this reshaping of her lips produces further effects. It’s working… She uses her tongue to lap at this supple cup, exciting the outside as well as the inside. Genevieve is breathing hard; she has rebalanced again so that she can massage her breast with her right hand.

By the window, the nightingale chirrups and flutters away.

Lilly has to control herself. The greatest pleasures that Genevieve has shown her were derived from patience and tenderness. She will not suck too hard; she will not employ a finger her when her tongue will do.

It seems to work. Genevieve pressed her body into Lilly’s face, and for a panicky moment Lilly cannot breathe; then there is a hot rush of thick liquid on her tongue and yes, Genevieve hadn’t lied: she tastes very sweet.

# # #

It is the eighth day of September 1866 and today is Lilly’s birthday.

A gift in a small box awaits her between plat principal and dessert. She deftly pulls aside the ribbon – she has become an expert in using her fingers deftly – and lifts off the tiny round lid. Within the box is a necklace: a small bird, in flight, on a silver chain.

“Genevieve, it’s beautiful.”

“There was a bird in my mother’s room,” Genevieve purses her lips to receive her wine glass, “the first time we were together.”

“I hadn’t thought you’d noticed!”

Genevieve swallows crisp white Sauvignon Blanc. “Of course I noticed.”

“Thank you.”

The maître d” is correcting someone’s order, “Il n’y aura pas de charge, bien sûr,” and a waiter tops up somebody else’s glass. The clatter of crockery and cutlery is audible only when the kitchen doors swing open.

“You look sad,” Genevieve observes.

“Sometimes my mother would buy me gifts like this.”

“I understand. But your mother only wanted to show you her world. She wouldn’t have stood for me showing you another.”

Lilly nods. “Perfectly true.” She smiles. “Whereas yours…?”

“Mine,” says Genevieve, raising her glass, “would be willing me back to our apartment to bathe and then…”

“And then?”

Genevieve bites her lip. “I would like to see you wear your gift. And nothing else.”

A laugh cuts through Lilly’s sadness. It always does. Genevieve is always the one to do this: her tutor, her lover, her guiding star. The orange light of dusk strikes the curve of Genevieve’s face, and Lilly thinks, she is everything I want to be.

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/

The book is available now!

The printed book is available here:

http://www.lulu.com/shop/temptation-magazine/temptation-the-anthology/paperback/product-20528099.html

The ebook version in several formats is available here:

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/257622

Coming soon to Kindle!