For The Love Of Legs And Feet By Michael F.

I no longer know how to stand.

It is the way she is seated on the bench by prearrangement, her husband on the other side of her with his newspaper turned open as he feigns to read the latest headlines when in fact his eyes are perusing me.

My body aches its way toward the vacant spot next to her on the bench.  My hand then does as we originally discussed, moving slowly, lightly, as casually as a leaf in the breeze, toward the nylon clad thigh that awaits there, the smooth knee beneath the mesh, the rising and tapering calf, the foot deep into a wave of straps and spike and leather, flitting unceremoniously back and forth near the walkway where the pigeons gather restlessly for remnants of some other stranger’s crumbs.

When my fingertips make first contact with the nylon I am a fountain of arousal, the sensation extending as if through my bloodstream down into my legs which weaken with it, my heart beating out a military cadence, my throat as arid as Sahara, my passion rising so that I must cross my legs in order not to divulge it.  Divulging it would go against the rules that we have predetermined.

This is to be casual, her husband’s gravelly voice demanded, it is to be innocent while at once be fiery with suppressed desire.  For the love of legs and feet, of stockings and leathers, is alternately arousing and hidden in the nature of our society.  There are many like me who wander about day to day, dazzled by the click of certain footsteps on the walks, the faint pungency of a shoe half dangled from a stocking foot, the gentle arch of said same foot like a triumphal passage into a conquerable and conquered city.

My reach extends further onto her thigh and even slightly up the skirt which has convenient slits along the sides for such surreptitious inspection, my hand flat against her hip, my body sorely tempted to drift over to her, closer to her, when it must not.

As if anticipating my anxiety she adjusts closer to me and the pressure of my hand against her hip grows more fervent, stronger, deeper, warmer and more proximate.  She opens her legs ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly to the passing eye but to me it is the parting of the Red Sea, a biblical proportion of exposure, almost as if I could smell the oceanic conjure of her desire in the deep crevasse between her legs.

In another setting, in a closed room, I would surely by now be down upon my knees, rubbing my hands against her thighs in order to open them still further, burying my face deep within her, rending a tiny slit within the crotch of her panties so that I might taste the full pungency of her desire.

Instead I must content myself with the hand deflecting off and brushing along her calf as I traverse my way downward, falsifying motions like I am offering a crumb to one of the bobble headed pigeons nearby when I am in fact now caressing the heel of her shoe and seeking to open it ever so slightly, for all of this is about opening, all of it is about the concealment of this special form of lust and then opening it in all its raw red beauty to the world around us so that it must forcibly accept it once and for all, so that there are no more assignations on park benches to leave its occupants to later masturbate in darkened rooms.

No instead there should be a full exposure of the shoe, the foot, the leg, the nylons, so that there might be full exposure of my desire as well, and then hers, so that the pornography, the atomization of the body into these component parts, at last bears a connection to the tongues and fingers and penises and vaginas that will bring the entirety of the figures into total climax.

Instead I recognize the gesture of the husband folding his newspaper to tuck beneath his arm, his hand encasing his bride’s, the two of them standing up and dusting themselves off as if from my contact, he nodding, she nodding, I nodding, all of us like ridiculous wind-up dolls bobbing and nodding as we depart from one another sans climax, sans satisfaction, just bearing memories that we will take to other rooms and other lovers and scatter them like pollen in the covers to plant deeper seeds within our souls.

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Nympho Librarian By Mike Sharlow

I visited my friend Tom, almost always without notice, because he didn’t have a phone. Tom was about six-two with a bushy unkempt moustache and long curly blond hair similar to Custer’s. Tom had bad teeth, because he pathologically avoided the dentist. He said that he couldn’t stand to have someone sticking their fingers, anything in his mouth. It made him have panic attacks. The way he talked about it, it made me think someone at sometime stuck something truly rotten and revolting in his mouth. Now his teeth were decaying.

Tom smoked generic cigarettes, and being a recovering alcoholic, he washed them down with coffee rather than booze. As long I had known Tom, he had never been employed. Like a lot of recovering alcoholics, he discovered, that once he stopped drinking, the mental illness he had always had took the opportunity to rear its ugly head now that the booze no longer kept it at bay. Supposedly, Tom’s mental illness was so debilitating that he couldn’t work. He got social security since he was disabled. I kind of thought it was bullshit. Granted, he was kind of fucked up, but I didn’t know anybody that wasn’t. I guess the stress of a job was too much for him. It would cause some kind of break down for him. Tom appeared to function quite sanely, lucidly, and even highly functioning. He was quite intelligent, and spent much of his free time in the library reading up on any subject that interested him. Sometimes he got a little abstract, which some people found strange, but he made more sense to me than most people I knew.

I knocked on his door. I heard the TV on inside so I knew he was home. Before he answered the door, he turned the TV off. I thought it was his etiquette, but after I got to know him very well I realized that he didn’t want anything else in the room vying for my attention. Tom liked to dominate conversation, and he liked an audience, even of one. Tom felt like he deserved an audience. He believed his intelligence gave birth to ideas and thought that the rest of the world should pay attention to, and at least give him the proper respect he deserved. Tom talked like he was an undiscovered genius, and he was resentful that mankind hadn’t acknowledge him yet. But I wanted to ask him, “Don’t you think you should do something of genius for mankind to acknowledge that you have that value?”

“Hey buddy,” he said when he opened the door. He was visibly happy to see me. He always was, to varying degrees.

“Hi Tom.”

“What’s new? Have a seat. Wanna cup of coffee?”

“Sure,” I said.

“How’s the kids?” he asked, although I think he only saw my kids once, the one time he visited my house. He was visibly uncomfortable being in my home. I never took it personally that he didn’t want to visit me. My life, my home, reminded him of everything he didn’t have. Tom lived in an efficiency apartment. I had a house, a family, a decent job. He envied my life, but I also envied something he had that I didn’t. Freedom. Free to do whatever he wanted to do on any given day.

Most of our conversations were about writing. That was how we became friends. Tom was a friend of one of my brother’s friends, so we crossed paths at some birthday party for someone neither of us knew very well. The subject of books came up which led to writing, and I shared that I had published a novel in the small press. Tom was a poet, but he had aspirations to write a commercially viable science fiction novel, something that would make him a lot of money, something that would get made into a movie like a Michael Crichton novel. Tom wanted to collaborate on it with me. I got the feeling that it was why he wanted to be my friend. Tom was a man of a lot of ideas but little action. I saw exactly how it would have worked out. He would be feeding me plot and storyline, and I would be pounding the words out. The whole idea of collaborating with him gave me anxiety. I finally convinced him that he could do it on his own. And he did write it. It was a crappy piece of shit, but a lot of crappy pieces of shit go on to get published. His never did. But while we wrote our novels, we became each other’s muse. I always left his apartment feeling creatively charged.

I hadn’t seen Tom in few days, so we spent a couple of minutes catching up.

“Writing much lately?” he asked.

“Yeah, I have been. My wife has been giving me a bunch of shit for how much I have been. You know, if I published a book and made a million dollars it would be a different story.”

“Course it would,” he said and got that look on his face that showed restraint. I know he wanted to tell me that she was fucking bitch and that I should leave her. Even if I wanted to, I didn’t know how I could. “You’re a lot different than she is,” he said. It was his way of saying that I shouldn’t be with her.

“How’s your writing going?” I asked. I didn’t want to talk about my wife anymore.

“I just sent my novel out again. I still don’t know what I want to write about next. Honestly, I’m not sure I want to invest the time in another novel, until I see if something happens with this one.”

I figured this was the way a lot of pseudo-writers quit writing. They don’t acquire the success they want and they quit. I always thought that writing wasn’t a choice. For me, it was something I needed to do, had to do to feel like my life meant something. Without it, I think I would eventually blow my brains out. It was how I defined myself. Mind you, this didn’t ever mean that I was a good, or even an adequate writer. It meant that I didn’t feel like I had a choice. Doing it was living. Not doing it was a slow death.

“I went to the library today,” Tom said.

So, I thought, you always go to the library.

“I found some pictures.”

“Pictures of what? What kind of pictures?”

“They fell out of the paper towel dispenser, when I pulled a towel out to dry my hands.”

“They fell out? Pictures of what? Nude pictures?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said and smiled uncomfortably. Tom wasn’t a prude, so I didn’t quite understand his apprehension.

“Who are they of?” I was asking for specifics like, male or female, old or young. I was looking for physical attributes to see if I wanted to see them. “Do you have them?”

“They’re of one of the librarians,” he said.

“What the hell?”

“Yeah,” he said then paused. “Want to see them?”

“Yeah,” I said excitedly.

He started to get up, and then he said, “I don’t know I feel lecherous showing these pictures. I’m sure she doesn’t know they were in there. Probably some pissed off ex-boyfriend put them there.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Don’t tell anybody about them.”

“I won’t. I understand.” Tom didn’t give a shit about exposing this woman. He was concerned that I might rat him out. He could be a bit paranoid.

He handed three 5×7 color photos to me. She was kind of cute. She had mid length reddish-blonde hair, and it was her true color. All of the photos were basically the same. She was completely naked. She was lying or leaning back with her legs spread apart to varying degrees. Her pussy looked very red and swollen like she had just had sex.

“Wow, I think I recognize her,” I said. I was no stranger to the library either. Odd as it was, I stared at her face as much as the rest her body at its vulnerable best. She was a little chunky with pale Irish skin. She was smiling like she was pleasing someone or had just pleased them. I think both. I wanted to keep the image of her face in my head for the next time I went to the library, which would be at my first opportunity. “What are you going to do with them?”

“I thought about giving them back to her so she knows what some asshole did to her. I’m all for taking the pictures, but he didn’t have to do that to her.”

I was thinking that Tom probably jerked off to her more than once since he found the pictures. Who wouldn’t?

“As unlikely as it seems, maybe she put them there herself,” I said.

“I doubt it,” Tom said. “I think I’ll just throw them away.”

“Don’t do that. I’ll take them off your hands,” I said.

“I don’t think so.”

“I won’t show them to anyone.” Both of us knew I was lying. I would be discrete with them, but at some point I would show them to someone. How couldn’t I?

“I think I’ll just throw them away,” Tom said with a tone of integrity in his voice that I thought was probably bullshit. He was one of the biggest horn-dogs I knew. As long as I knew him he hadn’t had a girlfriend, nor do I think he had even gotten laid, and it wasn’t for lack of want or trying. He wasn’t going to throw those pictures away. If there was a possibility that they could get him laid, he would use them. What assumptions or conclusions he would come to in his somewhat complex and convoluted mind were the unknowns. Once Tom and I went to a strip club, and on the ride home he kept talking about one of the strippers and how she had special interest in him. “She kept looking at me,” Tom said. “I think she really liked me. Damn, I should have asked her for her number.” I don’t know how someone can be so intelligent and so deluded at the same time. The girl was a stripper. Her job was to make every man think he was special. That was how she got tips. It had been way too long since Tom had gotten laid. Jerking off satisfies a temporary urge, but only real sex truly treats the malady

I went to the library a couple of days after I visited Tom. For some reason I didn’t think she would be there, but she was. At first I wasn’t sure it was her, because I imagined her shorter from the picture. She had also gained some weight from the picture, but for all I knew she might have gained and lost a couple of different times since the pictures had been taken. She was wearing a dark blue skirt with nylons and a buttoned up white blouse. Her shoes, although I didn’t know what they were called, were also conservative looking. By the way this woman dressed, I didn’t think she would pose for the kind of pictures she did.

I checked out a couple of books I knew I would never read. Not that I would never read these books. It was just that I had a pile at home I was working through. The other librarian checked me out, but I got a better look at the red head, and I heard her voice. It was high and young in tone.

It was probably just me, but I got a sense that she knew I was up to something. After I left the library, and as I walked to my car, I realized how much I must have been staring at her.

Four days later I had a chance to visit Tom again. I wanted to tell him that I had seen her. I wanted to see those pictures again after I had seen her in person so recently.

I heard the TV on inside. I thought it was strange that he found so much to watch even though he didn’t have cable. Without cable only five stations were available. For a guy who lived alone I could see how the background noise of TV could help alleviate loneliness.

Tom turned off the TV and opened the door. He was as glad to see me as he always was.

“I saw her,” I said.

“Yeah, so did I. A couple of times. I talked to her.” Then he hesitated for a moment and said, “About the pictures.”

“Really? How did that go?” I hoped for the best but expected the worst.

“I asked her if I could to talk to her in private, and we walked up to the nonfiction upstairs way in back.” Tom introduced himself and learned that her name was Cindy. He told her that he found something in the men’s restroom, and he handed her one the pictures in an envelope. Tom left the other two at home. How would she know that he found three? She stared at the picture, and her pasty Irish complexion became a dark pink, as her green eyes welled. Tom told her he was sorry, but he thought she should know.

“Do you have any others?” She asked. She obviously knew how many had been taken.

“She was really intimidating. I didn’t know what to say, but I said no, and she didn’t believe me.”

“I want the others,” she demanded. Being a librarian, she knew how to talk harshly but quietly.

Tom admitted to having two others.

As she snatched the one from his boney fingers she asked him why he didn’t bring the other two.

“I said I wanted to take her out on a date, maybe for coffee, but she called me a freak and accused me of knowing her ex-boyfriend and that we were in it together.”

“In what together?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I didn’t have a chance to.”

She stuck her finger in Tom’s chest and told him that he better go get the other pictures, “Now!”

“Then she pushed me. That woman is strong.”

Tom reeled back and fell into a book shelf. The shelves didn’t domino over like in the movies. Library shelves and sturdy and well supported, but Tom said, as he crashed into the stacks that about a hundred books fell off onto the floor, and ended up on the floor himself.

“I hit my head. Look at this lump,” Tom said meekly like a battered husband, as he pulled his hair back to show me.

He had a small knot.

“Did you take her the other pictures?”

“Not yet, but if I ever want to go back to the library I’ll have to,” he said and sighed heavily.

“It will be okay. I’ll go with you if you want?”

“No. I hoping that she’s had some time to cool off, and we can still have that cup of coffee.”

“Really?” I didn’t think there was any way this woman would be interested in establishing a relationship with Tom based upon an introduction from the chance finding of explicit pictures. “Would you want to go out with someone that has the ability to physically abuse you? Maybe she beat the shit out of the other guy, so he retaliated by humiliating her with strategically placing the pictures in the library.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Tom said.

“I would just drop the other two pictures off and walk away. Let it go.”

The next time I saw Tom he told me that he tried to give her the pictures and walk away, but Cindy found him a little later, when he was browsing through the fiction section. I know Tom well enough to know that he wanted her to approach him; otherwise he would have left the library after dropping off the pictures. “She apologized for pushing me. And thanked me for bringing them.”

“That’s good,” I said.

“She asked me if I showed the pictures to anyone else who knows she works here, and I told her I didn’t, so don’t say anything when you meet her.”

“What?” I said.

“We went for coffee, and then she took me back to her place and fucked my brains out,” Tom said with his chest puffed up like a rooster.

I had never seen him feeling quite so good about himself. I was dumbstruck and then envious. I didn’t know if I should congratulate him, or be concerned for his welfare. “When do you think I’ll meet her?”

“I don’t know. We’ll see how things go.”

Well, I never did formally meet her. Tom only saw her one more time when she came over to his place and screwed him a couple of days after she screwed him the first time. Tom thinks she wanted to be sure he had given her all the pictures. But he also believed she had a thing for him, because she didn’t necessarily have to fuck him twice to find out if he gave her everything he had. Of course, he regretted ever telling her how many he found. “If I had only said I had one other at home.”

“At what point were you going to use it to have her screw you again. And do you think it would be worth the ass-kicking she’d give you afterwards?”

“She couldn’t take me. I’d be ready for her next time,” Tom said and nodded subtly but confidently.

For the next six months I listened to him talk about Cindy and the lost opportunity. And for the next six months Tom parked himself within eyeshot of the bathroom, and after almost every visitor to the men’s restroom (he didn’t bother with the real old guys), Tom checked the towel dispenser.

“Don’t you end up going into the restroom a lot? Doesn’t anyone ever say anything to you?”

“One of the librarians did, but I told her I had a bladder condition.”

Tom never did find anymore pictures. I have to admit, when I go to the library and use the restroom, I slide my fingers up the paper towel dispenser just to make sure.

Kamalia By Kara Leigh Miller

Kamalia’s high school guidance counselor once told her to find something she was good at—something she loved—and then find a way to make money doing it. It was a no-brainer for her. Prostitution hadn’t been her first choice. She’d tried to be a legitimate adult film star, but all of the lights and cameras gave her performance anxiety. It all worked out though. In fact, she preferred to be her own boss.

Kamalia wasn’t your average two bit-hooker that stood on the street corner in fake leather boots and imitation snake skin mini-skirts hollering, “Hey baby! You looking for a good time?” Her boots were real and she preferred silk to snake skin. She was a full service, professional hooker—the kind that dealt with a very elite clientele. Threesomes, gang bangs, fetishes, bondage, sadomasochism, role playing, erotic asphyxiation…whatever your pleasure, Kamalia was more than willing to accommodate. She drew the line at rim jobs and getting tea-bagged though. A girl’s gotta have standards.

Of course all of that was back in her glory days; back before she became the devil’s concubine. Kamalia smiled at the reference. Her protégé was always chastising her about referring to her herself as a concubine and her husband as the devil. But until she found a more suitable description, Ian Daniels would be known as The Devil.

# # #

“I hear you deal in risqué matters of the flesh,” he said.

Kamalia remained seated at the table as he spoke. She looked him over. He was tall with short black spiked hair and eyes such a deep shade of purple they looked like the midnight sky. The stranger was attractive enough, except for the beer gut that flopped over the waistband of his khakis.

She nodded for him to sit. He did. “What’s your name, darlin’?”

“Ian.”

“Tell me, Ian, why have you come to see me?”

# # #

Kamalia hummed the theme to I Dream of Jeanie as she sprinkled a generous amount of seasoned salt on top of her perfectly shaped meatloaf before covering it with ketchup. Ian loved ketchup. He ate it on everything from scrambled eggs to bologna sandwiches. He even dipped his potato chips in it. No wonder he was so fat, she thought. She put the pan in the oven and wiped her hands on her stained yellow apron. Her life had gone to hell.

# # #

“So, what’s your pleasure, darlin’?”

Ian dropped a small red duffel bag on the bed of the cheap motel room he’d rented for the evening. He slowly unzipped it and pulled out two pairs of metal handcuffs.

“Bondage, huh?” Kamalia smiled. “You or me?”

“You,” he stated. “Would you mind putting this on first though?” Ian handed her a strap-on dildo. It came equipped with an engorged head, faux veins, and balls.

“Impressive,” she said, slipping it on.

“Lie down on your back,” Ian instructed.

Obediently, Kamalia lay down on the bed and assumed the spread eagle position. Ian cuffed her wrists and ankles to the bed. She watched as he meticulously took off his clothes, folded them and set them on the dresser.

# # #

Ian would be upset if she wasn’t dressed in red leather and black heels. That was her meatloaf attire. It was better than the white corset, lace thong, and running shoes that he required when she cooked chicken parmesan. Which reminded her, she had to run out to the store and pick up some lemon-lime Gatorade for him. That was his drink of choice with meatloaf. God knows she wasn’t in the mood for the rubber tickler he’d use to punish her if a tall ice cold glass of his favorite drink wasn’t served with his dinner.

Kamalia chuckled as she slipped on her trench coat. God knows. That’d send Ian into a fury if he ever heard her speak His name. It’d serve him right though. Fucking narcissist.

# # #

“Just lay still,” Ian said. He had his cock in his hand, slowly stroking it as he approached the bed.

She rattled the handcuffs and smiled. “It’s not like I can do much anyway.”

Ian leaned over Kamalia’s naked body. He closed his mouth around her nipple and sucked on it for a few moments before moving to the other one. His mouth was hot and her nipples always were super-sensitive to touch. Kamalia arched her body to him.

“I said lay still.” He left her nipples and kissed his way down her stomach. Ian continued to stroke his cock as he sat on his knees between her legs. He bent over and took the dildo into his mouth—all six and a half inches of it.

Kamalia had seen a lot of things in her line of work. She’d watched two guys have oral sex and anal sex. But never had she seen what she was seeing right now. A small smile formed as Ian’s head bobbed up and down. She could hear his moans vibrating against the fleshy dildo.

# # #

“Kami!”

Only one person called her Kami. She looked up to see her neighbor, Mrs. Roter waving to her from the opposite end of the juice aisle. Kamalia smiled and walked towards her. “Hello, Becky.”

“Fancy seeing you here.” Becky smiled.

“Not really,” Kamalia said. “It’s the curse of living in the suburbs. Only one grocery store.”

Becky laughed. “You’re always so funny.”

“I used to be a comedian in a former life,” Kamalia said dryly.

Becky’s high-pitched giggle pierced the quiet of the aisle. “I’m making roast duck for Charles tonight. You and Ian should join us.”

“Sorry, I’ve got a meatloaf in the oven. Well, I really need to get going.” Kamalia tapped her watch before walking away. She hated her neighbors. Every last one of them. They were nosy, annoying, and boring. She was willing to bet money that “Perky Little Becky” had never had a toe-curling orgasm. Grabbing an eight-pack of lemon lime Gatorade, Kamalia rushed out of the aisle. The happy homemaker, “vanilla” scene was getting to be too much.

# # #

Kamalia continued to watch as Ian gave the dildo a blow job. She had to admit, she was impressed. He knew how to give head. Maybe she could get him to teach her a few tricks.

“You like that, big boy?” she asked, thrusting her hips up, shoving the dildo deeper into his mouth.

Ian took the dildo out of his mouth. “I told you to lie still,” he said, pinning her hips to the bed with his hands.

“Just trying to help you out,” Kamalia said, a hint of humor in her voice.

“I don’t need any help.” Ian straddled Kamalia’s waist, his back towards her. He grabbed the base of the dildo and held it still as he slid down on it. His deep, throaty groan of pleasure filled the tiny room.

Kamalia lay perfectly still as Ian fucked the dildo hard and fast. His left hand grasped the blankets, anchoring him to the bed while his right hand feverishly stroked his cock. The faster he moved on the dildo, the harder he’d jerk off. The harder he jerked off, the louder his moans became.

There had been a few rare occasions in her professional life when she’d been bored, but this was a new low. She slowly thrust her hips up, meeting Ian as he slid down on the dildo. He didn’t yell at her to lay still. She moved a little faster.

“Talk dirty to me,” he said breathlessly.

“You like the feel of that big, hard dildo stretching your ass open, huh? It makes you want to come doesn’t it, Ian?”

“Call it a cock,” Ian demanded. “It’s a cock, dammit. Call it a cock.”

Kamalia sighed in frustration. Why hadn’t he just hired a male prostitute? she wondered.

# # #

Kamalia arrived at home just in time to save her meatloaf from burning. Ian refused to eat anything burnt which was rather ironic considering he lived for anything that flamed. Especially men.

She set the pan on top of the stove and busied herself with preparing the vegetables to put in the steamer. Ian would be home in less than half an hour.

# # #

“That cock feels good doesn’t it? You like feeling it slide in and out of you?”

“Deeper,” Ian said while stroking his cock harder.

Kamalia thrust her hips and the dildo deeper into Ian’s ass.

“Your voice,” he breathed. “Make it deeper.”

She fought the urge to laugh. Deepening her voice she said, “Ride that cock, Ian. Fuck it hard.”

“Deeper!” Ian shouted.

He was joking, right?

Ian stopped riding the dildo and bent over. He bit Kamalia on her leg, just above her ankle.

Nope. He wasn’t joking. Kamalia deepened her voice until it physically hurt and said, “Make yourself cum, Ian. Stroke that cock. Fuck that cock harder. Deeper.”

Ian let out one final howl. Seconds later, Kamalia felt the warm gooeyness of his cum on her leg.

# # #

Kamalia scraped the vegetables off the cutting board and into the steamer. It was time to make the final dish—potatoes. Ian demanded to have hot mashed potatoes with three tablespoons of butter on top. She always saved their preparation for last so that they’d be at a temperature of his liking and because she absolutely despised peeling potatoes.

It was a small wonder he hadn’t died of a heart attack yet with the way he eats. She’d never get that lucky. That particular night though, the night he’d made his offer, she’d thought she was the luckiest prostitute in the world.

# # #

Sexually frustrated and prostitute don’t typically fall into the same category but there was no other way to explain her encounter with Ian. It was one of the strangest nights of her working life. Up until that point, turning tricks had always been exciting for Kamalia. Her clients always left satisfied and so did she.

“Why do you do this?” Ian asked, interrupting her thoughts. He drew a long puff of his cheap menthol cigarette.

“Do what?” Kamalia asked.

“Engage in depraved sexual acts for money?”

Kamalia raised an eyebrow and smiled at him over her shoulder. “They can’t be too depraved. You enjoyed them.”

Ian crushed his cigarette into the ashtray on the bedside stand. He swung his legs off the side of the bed and reached for his khakis. “Don’t you want more out of life?”

“You paid me for sex. Not pillow talk,” she told him coolly while slipping her feet into her silver studded green stilettos.  “So it’s all about the money?”

“And the sex.” Kamalia smiled.

“What if I could offer you the money and the sex without the danger?”

# # #

Ian made Richard Simmons look straight. She should’ve known. It was right in front of her the entire time. But, she had been willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. And look where it’d gotten her? Married to a man who was in serious denial about his homosexuality. Kamalia was nothing more than his trophy wife—a cover for his true identity.

She’d tried to get out of the business a couple of times, to no avail. The moment a potential suitor learned of her previous entrepreneurial skills, he’d drop her like rotten garbage and run for the hills. She had to face the fact: At thirty-seven, Kamalia’s body wasn’t what it used to be. She knew it was time to find another way to support herself. Ian was her answer. So, she had allowed him to marry her. And they had tried to consummate the marriage.

# # #

“Why are we here?” Kamalia asked.

“I thought it’d be romantic to spend our honeymoon at the same place we first made love,” Ian said with a smile.

Kamalia looked at him with disbelief. Made love? She must’ve missed the part of that night where she’d gotten any pleasure from him. The La Fiesta Motel was the cheapest motel in town and one she frequented with her clients. It was the last place she wanted to spend her honeymoon.

“Come on. I got the same exact room,” Ian said.

Kamalia faked a smile and followed him to the room. She had a feeling it wasn’t going to be the only thing she had to fake that night.

It didn’t take long for both of them to strip naked. Kamalia lay down on the bed and waited for Ian. He wanted to do it missionary style because he felt it was the appropriate way for a husband and wife to have sex. Kamalia thought it was boring but marriage was about compromise and it was a sacrifice she was willing to make.

Ian approached her and positioned himself between her spread legs. He pressed the engorged head of his cock into the hot, wet opening of her pussy. Kamalia sucked in her breath at the feel of him. It was the first time she was going to feel him inside of her and her anticipation was high.

Unfortunately, her pleasure was short lived. After two shallow strokes, Ian went flaccid inside of her. He pulled out, closed his eyes, and stroked himself hard. He entered her again. And once again, he went flaccid.

“Maybe we should try a different position,” Ian said.

Thank God, she thought. “Sure, darlin’. How do you want me?”

“On your knees, head on the pillow and ass in the air.”

Kamalia obeyed. Doggy-style was one of her favorite positions.

Ian continued to stroke his cock until it was hard, a small bead of pre-cum glistened on the head. He stuck it in Kamalia’s ass with a single, hard, forceful thrust. And as long as Kamalia didn’t speak or moan or scream or look at Ian, his dick stayed hard.

# # #

The sound of Ian’s powder blue Prius pulling into the garage snapped her back to reality. Kamalia put his plate of food on the table along with his glass of Gatorade. She did a quick inspection of the kitchen. Ian hated messes.

“Better put that away,” she mumbled, screwing the top onto the jug of antifreeze and tucking it away under the sink.

Kamalia met him at the front door. “Hi, honey. How was work?” she asked just like she did every night of the week.

“Good,” he replied in an effeminate voice. “I see we’re having meatloaf.”

“Your favorite,” Kamalia said, following him into the kitchen. He sat in front of his prepared plate and picked up the glass of Gatorade. Ian took a long slow drink then puckered his lips, smacking them together. “Mmm, tangy,” he said.

Kamalia leaned up against the counter and fought back a smile. Soon, she thought. Soon her nightmare would be over and she could go back to doing what she loved.

The Art of Women By Jerome Brooke

Dear Uncle Charles. Thank you for your sage advice. The Countess is well please with my assistance with her correspondence. She is most devout, and takes great interest in the welfare of the slaves on her plantation. Your nephew, Lucian.

 

May 10, 1736.

 

“Welcome, Madame and young sir,” said the witch. “Enter, and sit here on the bench.”

The Countess DeCharente smiled, and took my arm. We sat down, while the black woman took a bottle from a table. “This is my clerk, Lucian. I have told him you have great power – and that people come to you to secure good luck.”

I had been asked by the countess to escort her to the hut of the witch, Helene. We had driven to the coast in her buggy, and arrived late morning. The witch returned with a bottle, and presented it to the Countess. To my surprise, the lady took a drink from the bottle – then gave it to me. “Try it, Lucian.” The wine had a sweet taste. I returned the bottle to Helene.

To my surprise, the witch pulled her shift over her head, to reveal her plump form.  “Do you like black women, pretty one?” the witch asked, lifting her pendulous breasts with her hands. The Countess placed her hand on my leg, with a smile. The witch had light skin, and must have been the product of miscegenation. She was a woman of years, with white hair.

“Call upon your saints to give us youth, good fortune, and luck in love,” the Countess asked, in a soft voice. The witch lit a candle on the table, and raised her arms high.  She began to chant in a strange dialect, perhaps some African tongue. As she continued her prayer, I began to feel very sleepy. The Countess began to unbutton my shirt.  She took my arm, and raised me to my feet.

As the witch continued her chant, I saw a figure emerge from a door in the rear of the room.  She was a tall black woman, also nude. Her skin was very dark, and her hair short. She came to me, and knelt at my feet. She unlaced my trousers, pulling them down. She boldly reached inside my under cloth, and grasped my manhood.

The tall woman began to practice the secret art of women, as the Countess knelt at her side. The two women took turns, ministering to me. They were soon joined by Helene in the practice of these unnatural acts. After a time, the witch rose, and took my arm.  She led me to a cot in one corner of her room. The three women stripped me of my garments, and pressed me back onto the cot.

The woman with short hair climbed atop me, slipping forward and covering my face.  After she had pleasure, the witch followed her lead. The Countess, in turn, slipped off her pantaloons, and raised her silk dress. She then followed the other two women in their perversity.

The witch then made me ready with her tongue, as her sister mounted me once more. The tall woman used her long fingers to guide me inside her womanhood. Each of the other two women followed her, in turn. After the women tired of this adventure, the tall woman knelt at my side. She used the arts of women to obtain what she desired.

The witch handed her sister a silken cloth, allowing her to spit into it. The witch took the cloth, and placed it in a leather bag.  She placed the bag on the table, near the candle.

“You have found favor with the Lady of Darkness, Lucian. She favors men with green eyes. If you serve her well, great wealth will be ours!” the countess whispered in my ear. “We must return each month, when the moon is new.”

I drew upon my clothes, as my head began to clear. As we went to the door, the two dark women shameless embraced me. I bowed, and stumbled out the door. “You are most fortunate, Lucian!” said the Countess. “You now have a powerful patroness!”

The Muse By Jerome Brooke

“You are up next, baby,” Virginia said, touching my arm. I went to the mic, and opened my notebook.

 

“My brown body I will cast

At your feet.

I have sold my virgin body,

To you, Master.

 

A handful of copper coins,

Man of the West;

My red blood covers my rags,

Cruel Master.

 

 

I cannot sleep, I do not eat,

Will I see you,

Before I die? Will my son,

Know his father?

 

Your hard wife, a high lady;

She can spare me,

Surely, a crust of bread, a place near,

 

Her hearth.     

I am your concubine, only,

My mouth warm,

My lips soft; you may watch,

Me bathe, Master mine…”

 

There was polite applause at the end of my poem. I returned to the table, and was rewarded with a kiss by Virginia. “That was a very, very nice poem. You can watch me bathe too, baby! Come to my place. We will send out for pizza,” she offered. I picked up my bag, and we went to the street. The lady waved down a taxi, and off we went. She lived nearby.

We took the elevator up to her condo. I left my backpack and bags near the door. She called out for a pizza, and fixed me a diet coke. “Can you stay here tonight?” she asked, placing her hand on my knee. She was a woman of middle years, with dark skin and hair.

I took a shower, while she filled the tub. I joined her in the bath, and offered to rub her back. After a moment, she put my hand on her pendulous breast. She leaned back against me, and spread her plump legs. I slipped my hand to her leg, moving up to her delta. After a few moments, she climbed up onto the edge of the tub, and leaned back on her hands. I moved close, and began to trace her soft folds with my tongue. I found her point of pleasure. “Up, up. There, yes. Good. Good.”

After she had climaxed, she slipped back into the tub, breathless. After a few moments she went to her knees. I rose, while she used her expert tongue to get me ready. “On my face baby,” she whispered, opening her mouth. I anointed her face and tongue. “Wow, look at me!” she giggled.

We moved to her bedroom, where she mounted me, covering my face – a knee on each side of my head. She began to moan, then to call out. “Wow,” she moaned, as she moved down, to arouse me once more. She eased me in to her secret garden, with a smile.

# # #

She was off the next day, and we went out for brunch. “Stay with me for a few days, sweetie. You can compose while I am at work!”

“Sure, pretty lady. I will check the want ads,” I agreed.

“Why? I will take care of you. Perhaps later. Here, an extra key and some money if you go out,” she smiled.

“My muse!”