Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

Fire Match Flame Kindle Sulfur Lighter Mat

I always thought the smell of smoke was disgusting until I met her.  She was a smoker and bartender besides; it was etched into her skin like hieroglyphs, telling stories of several heavy nights of heartbreak and disappointment wherein she acted as therapist.  I’d watch the smoke circle above her head some nights in swirls, afraid to break the spell by bisecting them with my non-smokers hand.  Everyone smoked then.  Except me.

I taught swim lessons down at the local Y.  It didn’t matter how many times I showered after getting out of that warm pool; I’d forever smell like the chlorine dumped there night after night.  I guess we both smelled of some kind of death.  It drove her nuts.  She’d wrinkle her nose when she nudged it into the back of my neck at night, asking me whether or not I ever used shampoo.  I’d turn over, pin her down, and stare at her. “Don’t you ever use mouthwash?”  I’d ask before pressing my lips to hers, desperate for the intermingled taste of ash and scotch.

I didn’t want her to change clothes when she came home.  Smoke smelled like her smelled like sex.  As soon as she walked in the door – even if I didn’t hear her come in – I could smell her.  I needed to be in her.  I’d yank her tank top over her head and down her scrawny arms, put it to my nose, and inhale before flinging it aside.  I loved to bend her over on the bed, yank down her jeans with one hand, and put the other hand on the small of her back.  I’d move it up her back until my thick fingers were nestled in her hair, at which point I’d grab a fistful and pull her head up so she could hear me loud and clear: “You’re mine,” I’d say.

“Then take me,” she’d always say.  Sometimes, when I’d slide my cock into her mouth, she would tell me that it smelled like a kid pissed in the pool.  She was funny – I loved that about her.  I’d laugh and tell her that in that case, I guess she was licking piss.  The way she ran her tongue up and down my shaft while sucking me made me crazy; I could never stay in her mouth long enough to come.

Instead, I’d grab her legs, wrap them around my waist, and tell her to hold on tight as I rolled over onto my back.  As she was sliding down onto my dick, I always wanted her to come closer… to press my nose against her inundated skin and breathe her in.

A lot of our friends say they can’t stand the scent of smoke anymore.  That as former smokers, it makes them gag.  Not me.  One whiff makes me hard as a rock.  People don’t smoke much these days – but every once in a while I’ll step outside the bar at night and it will hit me: The drift of a Camel, those nights when you were mine long ago, and the divine scent of your cunt and addiction.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

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Nearly

“We go fuck in a graveyard” he said, tossing the words out as casually as the playing cards.  “If you lose.”  He tightened the dollar between his fingers and breathed in another line.  “I mean.  There has to be some bet here, right?  I’m almost naked.  You’re going to win anyway.  So how about you make this bet, right?  I win, we fuck in a graveyard.”

She took a sip of wine.  “You win meaning what?” she asked.

“If you end up being completely naked, we hop the fence into one of the cemeteries over here – I mean, there are enough of them, right?”

“On all sides,” she said, a smile lifting one corner of her mouth, her head tilted to the left.  “Hand me the dollar.”  She pinched it between her small fingers and moved it gracefully across a glossy book cover that served as a cutting board.  She paused, looked at the board, and went for another line.

“Hey!” he exclaimed.  “One by one!”

“Fuck it,” she said.  “Let’s do it.”

“Wh-what?”  he stammered, confused.

“Let’s go. We’re young and stupid.”  She stood up, put her shirt and pants back on, and went into her room to grab a condom and a blanket.  “Well?” she asked impatiently, putting on her shoes.

He jolted up, hurriedly got dressed, and followed her down the stairs.  Dawn was nigh, and as they walked briskly toward the wrought iron fence surrounding the cemetery to the west, the first suggestion of light appeared in the sky.

He helped her over the fence first – awkwardly, all fumbling limbs, before clambering over himself.  His excitement built as they walked side by side through rows and rows of raised tombs – and then he stopped dead.  “Wait,” he whispered, his voice gravelly and urgent.

Angels, Cemetery, Cross, Sculpture

“What?” she asked, looking back.  He stretched his hand out toward her as if to hold her in place telekinetically.  He floated toward her, sunk his grip into her arm, and pointed a long finger straight ahead.

It took some time and squinting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, but she finally saw it.  Two people in front of a grave, chanting.  The body of a chicken lay prostrate in front of them, making its final jerks.  Both wore black against the night; they were so entranced by the ritual that they must not have heard the pair talking.

She took a few steps backward; he followed suit, and without remembering how they’d gotten there, they were back over the wall and at her apartment.  “So, you wanna – you know, go inside and do it?” he said when they arrived.

What had just happened?  She thought.  She hadn’t wanted to fuck him in the first place – only to say she’d fucked someone in a graveyard.  “Nah,” she said, her face lit up by the yolk of the sun.  “I need to sleep it off, and so do you.  See you at our next meeting.”  She turned abruptly and bounded up the stairs, leaving him at the bottom to wander off into the sunrise.

Realignment

Fracture Bone, Xray, Skeleton, Diagnosis

There’s an infectious axiom that floats around daytime television, self-help books, and yes – blogs: No one else can love you until you love yourself.

Bullshit.

During my darkest hours, I was loved.  For every day I was most full of self-loathing and despair, there was a person in my life who loved me… and probably couldn’t see the corrosive feelings gnawing away at my insides.  Just like I couldn’t see their love.  Like there was an invisible wall between us.

Those people propelled me to start a ten-year journey of healing from a place of self-injury to a deep self-love… and I did it in a way that would make life coaches cringe hard.

Stage One: Build a fortress.

In my late twenties, I met some rebellious and raucous women who inspired me to say, “Fuck this.”  I stopped looking for love and relished just having a good time; I casually dated and never let anyone get close to me for years.  Using this defense mechanism of putting up walls allowed me to do two important things – learn who I was and what I wanted for me outside of relationships, and embrace casual sex.  I’m very thankful for both.

Stage Two: Stop dating men.

I’d had so many excruciating experiences wherein I a) developed Real Feelings for a boy, b) told him, c) had sex with him to get him to like me back, and d) felt crushed when surprise! He didn’t.  This is probably one of the reasons why I just stopped being that attracted to men.  Dating women allowed me to express my feelings in a safe space (for the most part).  They didn’t lie to or mislead me in order to get sex; in fact, if anything, I had to work on my communication skills in order to tell them exactly what I wanted up front and be really honest when I wasn’t looking for a monogamous relationship – before the sex.  Not only did I have relationships (and phenomenal sex) with strong, adventurous, no-nonsense, compassionate, intelligent, and hilarious women – I was surrounded by them in my community.  Dating women taught me that I have inherent value that is not directly tied to my cunt.

Step Three: Allow yourself to fall in love recklessly with someone you know will break your heart.

I started dating men again because I fell in love with a coworker who I knew was going to leave in a matter of months. When I realized a month in how intensely and romantically I loved this man compared to his palpably platonic love for me, I acknowledged it and dove in headfirst.  I allowed myself to feel all of my feelings – the euphoric and the excruciating – and when I made it through the other side, I’d learned not only to survive, but to open my heart completely because I knew I could survive and recover from heartache.

[Step 3.5: Travel to a tropical locale.  Feel the breeze, listen to the waves, self-evaluate, and drink rum.  Have a lot of sweaty sex with someone who makes you laugh hard.]

Step Four: Recognize the value of other people’s love.

I never have to guess how The Engineer feels about me, and he never has to guess how I feel about him; we tell each other every single day earnestly and without prompting.  His emotional intelligence and general smooshiness have made me reflect on my expression of love to friends and family and theirs to me – and I try mindfully not to take a single drop of that love for granted.  When I was in my early twenties and was surrounded by people who loved me, I couldn’t see the forest for the trees.  Or, rather, the tree – the tree being whomever I happened to be infatuated with at the moment.

Lots of people have loved me when I didn’t love myself – when, in fact, I felt empty, worthless, and unlovable.  And their love, whether or not I felt it, allowed my fractures to be re-broken and eventually mend – if not perfectly, enough to make me feel whole in and of myself.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Sugar in My Bowl

It was nearing midnight; most dancers had already gone home, eager to catch the subway.  I never stayed out this late, but I’d had great dances that night and was feeling a bit giddy.  The music became sultrier, the lights dimmed, and sheer clothes stuck to our bodies in the humid tango studio.

“Wanna dance?” she asked casually, holding out her hand.

“Do you lead?” I asked. “I can’t.”

“Yeah,” she laughed.  “And you can – you’ve just never tried.”

I put my fingers in hers and my hand on her sticky shoulder, and she pulled me into a close embrace.  She smelled like Nag Champa; her wild, tangled hair tickled my face.  I slid my hand farther up so my fingers grazed the back of her neck, and she leaned her cheek downward to meet my hand.  Her spaghetti straps kept slipping down her shoulders; as we rolled our bodies together in time, I pulled them back up for her.

This was different.  I closed my eyes and felt her soft curves press against me, her small hand steady in the middle of my back, gently pushing me into submission with tiny wrist and shoulder movements.  I thought of my mouth on her nipples, her hands in my cunt.  I wanted to lick the sweat from her skin, taste her salt.  My sudden hunger for her gnawed at me as she bent her knees and swung my stockinged leg up her right thigh, sliding her hand up to finger the lace.  Time slowed as she held my leg there and lowered my back toward the ground, her face so close to my breasts that I thought she could see my heart pounding.   Pulling me back up, she put my other hand around her back and placed both of her hands on my hips, moving them in circles.  We breathed heavily into the space between us, then pressed our bodies close together again.  My cunt pulsed with the music, dripped, flamed.

People, Women, Girls, Dancing

When the song ended, we held position, hugged.  The next song started: “She Moves Me” by Muddy Waters.  I glanced over at the DJ; he was staring directly at us, all wolfish grin and starving eyes.  I knew that look, could see the cogs and wheels of desire moving within him.  I leaned into her ear, let my lips brush her lobe. “I think we’re meant to have another go,” I whispered.  She smiled, pulled me back in, and swung her hips like no one was watching.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Echo

It was one of those nights when the city sweltered.  When drops of sweat ran down glasses and dogs would lie in front of cars rather than get up and move.  My roommate and I had just run out of Modelo, and I drew the short straw.  Coming in from the fire escape produced pearls of sticky perspiration that would soon be pasted to the tank top I threw on.  He tossed me the keys as I lumbered toward the door, dreading the two-block walk to the bodega.

I never got used to being in the stairwell of our building. Being in there alone – the utter silence punctuated by rare echoes of slamming doors, the unsettling atmosphere of automatic lights that didn’t always function – kind of unnerved me.  When I turned the first corner and failed to be assaulted by a sudden flash of dull yellow, I assumed that the light was broken.  The second corner of darkness made me think otherwise.  You may find this ridiculous, but when I heard the door open two flights up, my first thought was that a serial killer had cut the lights and was coming for me.

Stairs Stairwell Dark Stairway Steps Stair

Shoving this notion aside, I shouted up, “Careful!  A couple of the lights down here aren’t working.”  “None of them are,” came back a cheerful, semi-familiar voice.  “There’s a city-wide blackout.”  Ah.  Perfect timing.  I stood still and listened to the rapid patter of her light footfalls tripping down the rigid, worn surfaces of each stair.  She stopped on the landing above me.  “Where you headed?” she asked.  “Was headed to the store to buy beer, but who knows if they’ll be open,” I replied.  “Oh,” she said, coming down to meet my voice.  “The blackout might not last for long.  They usually don’t.”  She felt around in the darkness until her fingers grazed my forearm.

“How is your skin so cool?” I asked, awed by how refreshing her grip felt on my melting skin.  “I’m always cold,” she replied with a shy laugh.  “I like how hot you are.”  She drew closer to me; I could feel her other hand an inch from my torso.  “It’s like waves of heat just radiate off you,” she said.  The sheer fabric covering her breasts brushed my arm as she moved even closer; I could feel my cock start to stir under my shorts.  “It is literally 95 degrees,” I said, not daring to move.

“If you’re so hot,” she continued in a silky wolf voice, “Why are you still wearing clothes?”  “I – I mean, I was planning on going outside,” I stammered.  “Stay awhile,” she directed.  The smell of oranges drifted from her lips as she raised onto her toes to find mine.  She felt like buttercream.  Not just her mouth – her everything.  I relaxed as she slid her hands around my waist and her tongue between my parted lips.  I swung her around so her back was against the wall and lifted the skirt of her sundress, dropping to my knees, preparing to slide her panties down – but finding none.  “If you’re so cold,” I said, “Why aren’t you wearing more clothes?”  “It’s the only part of me that’s hot,” she replied.

She was right.  Her labia warmed my tongue; my moist breath floated around her lips as I circled her clit.  She grabbed the back of my head and eagerly held it in place while I lapped at her, her cream smearing my chin.  “Hold on,” she said suddenly, pushing me back and dropping down to grope around the stairs for her purse.  “Ah, gold!” she exclaimed upon finding a condom.  She dragged my shorts down, and my cock sprung out to meet her waiting hands; she took me into her mouth for a wondrous minute before tearing the wrapper open and rolling the condom on me.

She faced the railing and leaned over it; just as I started to slide inside of her (god, that first thrust is always so glorious), we heard a door open above and heavy footsteps start to proceed down the stairs.  I put my hand over her mouth, picked her up, and backed up into the corner.  We stood there silently until the other tenant was out the ground level door.  I pushed her against the wall and gripped her hips as she pushed back onto my dick in long, even strokes, both of us panting and sticky as hot buns.  Her stifled groans echoed throughout the sealed stairwell; I cupped her breasts and steadied her as she rocked back and forth against me while touching herself.  Finally, exhausted and soaking, she tiptoed up and off me, turning to face me.

“You didn’t come,” she said.  I leaned in to kiss her; her cheeks burned, and her hair was plastered to her face.  “Sometimes it takes me a while,” I said sheepishly.  “You feel amazing.”  “Come see me after you get that beer,” she said, squatting down to feel for her purse.  “7C.”  With that, she leapt down the steps into the darkness, rendering me no longer unnerved by the empty stairwell and its echoes.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Don’t Move

“Don’t make a sound, and don’t move” said The Texan as he covered my mouth.  He had been fondling me; feeling my nipples stiffen underneath my tank top and hearing my breath start to beat staccato, he must have known that I was awake.  His hard cock pressed into my back, and I ground my ass back against it, making the smallest nodding motion with my head.  Spooned close to me, he slid his right hand down the back of my blue lace knickers and breathed heavily into my hair when he felt how gushingly wet I was.  He pushed my panties down with that hand and rubbed my juices around my vulva, then smeared the rest on his cock before sliding it through my thighs and along my labia, teasing me.  My body tensed; I longed to whimper, to beg, but all I could do was gyrate and dig my fingers into his leg, willing him to penetrate me.

My body quivering, I tightened my muscles and remained as still as I could on my side as he pushed the head of his cock past my opening, pulled it back out a bit to wet it, and drove back in, little by little, until I could feel the ridge of his foreskin riding along my anterior wall.  I pressed back against him and angled my arm back to hold onto his ass, and he thrust into me in subtle movements – enough for both of us to feel the electricity pass between us, but not enough to shake the bed with any discernible noise.  Certainly not with the gusto we were used to fucking with.  Afraid to roll forward onto his sleeping wife, I held my breath, bit my lip, gripped him with the intensity of a rock climber, and came silently in ripples of intense pleasure.  Not long after, he gushed into me, pulling my body tight against his, and bit my shoulder just the way I liked.  He pulled out, leaving a trail of his come along my ass, and pulled my panties up.  “I want you to sleep like this,” he whispered, and cupped my crotch with his hand.  His spunk squirted onto the inside of my knickers; it was so uncomfortable and SO arousing.

I lay there until I couldn’t stand the squishy feeling anymore; getting up to wipe myself, I disturbed his wife, who wanted us to move around so she could cuddle him.  He moved into the middle, and I took one side.  We were all still drunk from several bottles of wine, so falling back into a deep sleep was easy; I remained so for a few more hours, until I awoke to feel him masterfully stroking my thighs.  I turned over to kiss him and stroke his cock – long, deep kisses, long, slow strokes.  I desperately wanted him inside me again; I had never felt so insatiable.  I knew he was feeling the same when he put a finger to my lips.  This time, the expression in his eyes was all it took to tell me not to move, and I understood.  Without a word, I turned back over, and tracing a finger down my back, he yanked my panties down.  We started all over again.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

This had been sitting in my drafts waiting to be published for aaaaages; this week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt “Continue” seemed like a good fit for it.  Also… it’s my 300th post!  Woohoo!

Code

“You ever driven a pontoon before?” asked the man with the faded Sox baseball cap, glaring at Kurt through the unforgiving sun.  “I’ve never been on a pontoon before,” Kurt responded.  The man laughed.  His teeth glowed in the white summer light, unusually hot for early June.  “Well,” he said in response, his breath sucking in, “She don’t move very fast, but she’ll get you where you need to go.  If you don’t mind me asking – why are you taking lessons?”  “I’m going to be in charge of the lakefront at a camp this summer, and we have a fishing pontoon,” Kurt responded, looking out at the shining white poles bobbing all around him.

“You fish?” asked the man, chucking softly.  “I don’t,” said Kurt – “Guess I’ll have to learn how to do that, too.”  That got a much bigger laugh out of the deeply suntanned man, who thrust his calloused hand toward Kurt.  “Fred,” he proclaimed, grabbing Kurt’s unexpecting hand in his.  Kurt, startled, tried to match Fred’s enthusiasm, but found himself shook.

“I’ll show you how to get her out of the harbor; taking her out’s pretty easy.  Getting her back in is a real bitch sometimes, though,” he said without a wink, staring steadily at Kurt.  “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

He did; Kurt eased the boat out gracefully enough straight back into the water.  Once they were out and had space around them, he started to relax and enjoy himself, getting the boat up to a whopping twenty miles per hour.  They cracked jokes about the speed; once in the middle of clear deep blue, he cut the engine as per Fred’s request.  They cracked open a couple of beers; suddenly Kurt realized there was no bathroom on board.  “Strange question,” he said, cocking his head.  “Where do I take a piss?”  “Where else?” asked Fred, looking at Kurt like he was a Republican in Berkeley.  “Out there.”  Of course, Kurt thought. Why would I even ask?

He walked to the short railing and looked around cautiously, but there were no other boats in sight.  He opened his fly, pulled out his cock, and held it lazily as a rushing stream of urine propelled itself out of his body.  Feeling relief, he glanced over his shoulder and noticed out of the corner of his eye that Fred seemed to be watching intently.  His mind flashed briefly to the yellow hanky he’d seen poking out of Fred’s right jeans pocket; he’d just assumed it was a regular bandana.  But maybe…

He turned around to face Fred squarely; judging by the bulge in his jeans, the hanky was no accident.  “Huh,” he said, much more loudly than he’d intended.  He opened his mouth, then closed it again like a guppy, not quite sure what to say.  No need; Fred was the first to speak.  “Do you, uh – mind if I lay out a bit while we’re out here?”  Before Kurt could answer, Fred’s tank top and jeans were off.  “You go commando every day?” Kurt asked, smiling, taking his own shirt off and visibly appreciating Fred’s thick, sprung cock.  “Just about,” Fred answered nonchalantly.  “’s more comfortable, enit?”  “Sometimes,” said Kurt, lying next to Fred on a blanket Fred had thrown onto the deck.

“Nice being out here in the quiet,” he continued.  “No one watching you.”  “Indeed it is,” Fred agreed.  “So,” said Kurt, flashing Fred a wicked grin and sliding his shorts down over his hairy legs.  “Got any more beer?”  Fred’s dick popped up of its own volition at the very suggestion.  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Kurt said, reaching to cup his balls with one hand while finishing his beer with the other.  He wouldn’t be worried about getting her back in for a while.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Pursuit of Horniness

Memories are jigsaw puzzles with loads of missing and misshapen pieces.  I don’t remember what we were drinking that night (…were we drinking or smoking? Probably the latter…) or how we all got together; I remember vaguely what their apartment looked like, but have no idea what neighborhood it was in.  At some point, we – myself, a classmate from a writing class, his roommate, and a coworker on whom I had an immense crush – decided that playing strip Trivial Pursuit would be a smashing idea.  This is something I did often in my early twenties – strip board games with coworkers.  It was a surreal and exhilarating time, y’all.

The idea is this: Get an answer wrong, take off an item of clothing.  Get an answer right, put one on.  Play until someone loses all their clothes; everyone else is a winner.  I’m not a competitive person in general; once in a while the small and fierce competitor in a tiny, cobweb-covered corner of my brain comes out swinging, but I don’t think I tried particularly hard this night.

We continued playing until most or all of us were naked; the next thing I remember is my coworker going off with the roommate to his room while I straddled my classmate on his kitchen floor, my arms and legs wrapped around him, riding his dick while he fingered my ass.  I wasn’t even really attracted to him, though he was a good-looking guy; I was just mega-horny from being naked with my coworker.  Hearing her cries from the next room filled me with an even more eager lust, and I used my classmate’s cock to get off.

Not too long after – actually, who knows how long?  Time stands still when you’re stoned – they came out of the roommate’s room.  My classmate and I were still sitting on the floor, though not fucking anymore; my coworker came over to me, grabbed my hand, pulled me up, and walked me over to my classmate’s bedroom.  She dragged me in and locked the door behind us (to the sounds of muffled protests), then pushed me down on his bed.  Er – his mattress on the floor, in any case.  She spread my legs and went to town on my pussy, and I entered a dream-like state.  I don’t know if I came; I do know that it felt fucking amazing and that I wanted my face in her cunt.  I wanted my hands and mouth all over her body, really.  She told me later that I tasted like chocolate chip cookies (I wish!).

Chocolate, Chips, Cookie, Sweets, Pastry

Being tangled up with her in the dark, my heart pounding – kissing her and tasting my juices on her lips – was enough to confirm that yes, I was straight-up-and-down-the-line bisexual.  She wasn’t the first woman I’d slept with, but she was the first woman I had strong feelings for that I had.  She was also the first married woman that I had sex with.

That night – that life – seems a million miles away.  I see it through the prism of highways and oceans, fractured and foggy.  I kept in touch with my classmate and stayed with him in New Orleans while I looked for an apartment there, though we never had sex again; his roommate died young, which was devastating.  My coworker, whom I eventually came to love, got divorced and remarried and divorced again; the last time I saw her, she was preaching the gospel of Ayn Rand, and I haven’t spoken to her since.

I still love a good game of Trivial Pursuit more than any other board game; I don’t play very often these days, but when I do, my clothes stay on.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

 

 

Image taken from Pixabay (StockSnap)

Washing Station

We never expected them to be so red or so lustrous.  Walking along a burnt and dusty road, grateful to have finally left a trail of children behind us, we crested a hill overlooking a cerulean lake and noticed clusters of bushes littered with scarlet berries.  Neither of us had seen coffee cherries before and could only guess at what they were based solely on the fact that we were in a coffee-producing region.

Once we arrived at our guesthouse, the owner offered a tour of their coffee processing facility for a small fee; we gladly took the opportunity to learn more.  You rolled a cherry between your fingers before pressing it just hard enough so that juices seeped out slowly.   Watching your nimble fingers wheeling the berry until its seed poked out its shoulder, glistening and coy, I ripened.  You abruptly opened your mouth to make a joke about popping cherries, but thought better of it almost as soon as the thought had formulated.

We were disappointed by how the scent of coffee beans isn’t intoxicating until roasted, fascinated by the silky slime of the beans in their natural state (much like a skull sliced open to reveal a brain), delighted with the contrasting colors of the sloughed-off skins against their innards.  Having a tactile experience – any tactile experience – breeds my desire for more, and by the time I’d run my fingers through a scattering of beans left to dry, I was ready to feel all of your textures.  The cartilage maze of your ears, the soft spirals of your hair, your layers of blood-warmed skin covering taut muscles.

The countryside sleeps early – farmers who are used to a cock’s awakening have an internal clock that knocks them out as they lie – but we were buzzing all night.  Unable to sleep, we crept through rows of pale moon beans until we reached the shores of Lake Kivu below.  We’d intended to sit on the sand and canoodle a bit, but as soon as your lips touched mine, everything was on the table.  You slipped my Cool Max T-shirt and sports bra over my head, not put off by days of hiking stench; I slid my much-too-short pajama pants off your long legs, and we edged our way to the water.

We inched in together, but I was the first to submerge, diving in fingertips first, coming up to smooth my hair back and wipe the parasite-infested water from my eyes.  My breasts shone in the half moonlight – incentive enough for you to swim over to me to cup them lovingly in your massive hands.  You kissed my neck and I encircled your cock in my curling fingers, stroking it to the music in my head.  We glided deeper into the water, and I wrapped my legs around your waist.  You stood deep enough to allow you to grip my hips and pump my body along the length of your cock, the buoyancy of the water aiding your effort.  I tried to hold on, but your seal skin made me feel like a drunk girl on a mechanical bull.  My hips bucked this way and that, my hands fishtailing all over your back.

A sudden breeze chilled me; I flopped backward into the water, dolphin-kicking away toward the beach.  You followed, grabbing my ankle and dragging me back.  “Not so fast,” you said, wrapping your arms around me in a vice grip.  “You owe me one more kiss.”  I leaned in, soaking, til my lips were just grazing yours, and I breathed into you.  “Bring me back up that hill and I’ll give you much, much, more,” I replied, my promise fluttering in echoes, bouncing off the silent, drying beans which were winking at us under the moon.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked             

The Engineer and I both hiked the same trail in Rwanda, but not together; this is a fantasy of what I would have liked to happen had we been hiking in tandem.

 

Second Time Around

When I was teaching in Korea, I noticed a large cultural difference in terms of how students would address creative questions.  This became very apparent when I asked my university students the following question:

“If you could travel back in time, when and where would you go?”

In the US, students might answer that they would go see ancient Egypt, dinosaurs in the Jurassic period, or Woodstock.  My Korean students, however, would always – without fail – tell me that they would revisit a time in their own life in order to change it (usually to study more or take a test over!) or return to an age when they had more free time.  It’s because of their answers that this idea popped into my head.

Pocket Watch, Clock, Time, Old

If I could go back in time, where and when would I go, professor?  That’s a hard question.  Maybe you want me to say something about some big historical event or a famous person I might meet, but to be frank, there are moments in my life I want to go back to.  Missed opportunities.  Moments of regret.  No, not the chance to study abroad or take more advanced classes.  The chance to have more lovers.  You’re blushing, professor.  No need; I am just answering your question.

Let me give you an example.  You always ask us to give examples to show our answers, right?  So here’s mine.  Last summer, I took a trip to Europe with Jun to celebrate our last year in university; you remember me talking about this before.  We were at a hof one night in Zurich talking to a small group of Swiss women; Jun wasn’t feeling well and went home early, but I stayed.  I was left with two women, both so beautiful.  They had shiny hair, soft skin, perfect teeth.  They were young like us, and we talked about the difficulties of expressing our thoughts in English.  Well, to make a long story short – we all drank many beers, and these girls started kissing each other.  I had never seen that before; there are gays here, but they hide.  I watched them, so surprised – and so… well, it was exciting.

One of them took my hand and leaned in to my ear; she asked if I would come back to their apartment with them.  I had never done sex with one person, and here were two girls asking me to come with them!  Professor, I was so scared that I couldn’t.  I was afraid that I would be bad at it.  That they would laugh at me.  Now, I regret that.  So to answer your question, professor, if I could go back in time, I would say to those two Swiss women, “Yes.  I will come with you.  But I am inexperienced, and I need guidance.”  They would say to me, “Yes, we will help you.”  They would take me home and teach me everything.

I would give them as much pleasure as they wanted, and I would touch them the way they wanted me to touch them.  I would lie back and let them touch me and kiss me, wondering about my luck.  I would have – what is the expression you taught us? – seized the day.  Professor, I don’t want to say too much, because you seem uncomfortable.  But in my mind, I live that night every night.  If I had a time machine, I would make a girlfriend in my first year instead of getting high test scores.  I would kiss many girls on my trip.  And I would enjoy my time with the two women I dream about every night.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked