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

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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

Deep in the Heart

Driving down the 10, Alison held her breath.  She hadn’t seen Jax – now Jack – for at least five years.  They didn’t speak for the first two after their breakup, allowing themselves time to grieve.  Then came a Christmas card, then a catch-up email, and finally a phone call in which they were awash in relief at being able to laugh with relaxed and whole-hearted endearment.

When she diverted to highway 35 after Houston, Alison loosened considerably; the drive along the gulf was gorgeous, and she’d forgotten the raw beauty of rural Texas.  She allowed her mind to wander as she sat in her car on the ferry toward Mustang Island, fondly remembering holidays and morning routines with Jax.  The smell of sandalwood in her hair; the Friendsgiving when they’d accidentally set the kitchen on fire; the way Jax knew the precise moment to slide her fingers in while licking Alison’s clit.  Her ability to make a spanking feel like a reward instead of a punishment.

Still thinking about being bent over Jax’s knee, she started at a knock on the passenger window.  Snapped out of her reverie, she glanced over and inhaled sharply; she might not have recognized him had she seen him in a crowd.  She rolled the window down; Jack leaned gracefully against the sill and said, “Hey – aren’t you my wedding date?”  His radiant smile, now hidden by a shadow of facial hair, was the same.  “Come on in, sailor,” Alison replied; he opened the door and slid inside.  “You look beautiful,” he said.  Alison laughed; she was still in her morning sweats.  Jack, on the other hand, was looking handsome in his fitted suit and tie.  She thought of the last time she saw him wearing a suit – it had been on their last date.  They saw Giselle; afterward, he requested a lap dance in their living room.  She remembered straddling him, pulling his tie between her fingers as she leaned back, letting it fall as she ran her own hands up her breasts.  She rode him on the couch that night, their Feeldoe snug inside him, her cunt smearing the silicone with thick juices and involuntarily pulsing around it.

He snapped his fingers in front of her face.  “You okay?” he asked playfully.  “Great,” she responded, smiling.  “I was walking down memory lane.”  “Oh – I think I’ve been there,” he said. “Right between Regret Road and Amnesia Avenue, right?”  “Right,” she laughed.  This felt easy.  “I’ve missed you,” he said, looking at her with warmth.  “Same,” she said.  As the ferry started nearing the dock, he opened the door and looked back over his shoulder; “See you at the wedding,” he said, and just like that, he was gone.

The day was a blur of sand, ceremony, loving words, champagne.  There were fleeting pangs of sadness as Alison thought about how she’d wanted this with Jax, moments of sentimental longing when their friends exchanged vows, and ebullient exhaustion on the dance floor as Jack spun her around and around.  She’d forgotten how good a lead he was.  As they spent most of the reception catching up with other people, Jack suggested that they take a walk together along the beach to have some time alone.

They talked about work and hobbies; Jack had taken up the guitar and was playing open mics, and Alison had been promoted at the job she’d left San Antonio to take.  “I’m proud of you,” he said, stopping to look at her.  “I know it was a hard decision for you to leave.”  “Jack,” she said, the floodgates being held back by much too thin a membrane, “I’m so sorry.  There have been a million times when I think I should have stayed.”  “We both did what we needed to do in a situation where there was no easy answer,” he said, and grabbed her hand.  It felt reassuring and strong.  His touch gave her an unexpected jolt of desire; her somatic memory took over and her body felt the pads of his fingertips pinching her nipples, his palms separating her thighs.  “My hotel is right here,” he said, motioning up the beach, still holding her hand; “Come in for a drink?”  “I’d love that,” she said, sorrow morphing into stirrings of arousal.

Tequila, Drink, Beverage, Bar

Jack poured shots of tequila – her favorite – and toasted her.  “To your promotion,” he said.  “No,” she replied.  “To your transition – I hope it was everything you hoped for.  You are a very dashing man.”  “Everything and more,” he said.  “I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”  “Tomorrow?” she asked, flushed.  “If I have things my way, you’ll be waking up here,” he said, and looked at her with questioning eyes.  She tilted her head back, letting the smooth tequila roll down her throat, burning in the best way possible.  She returned his gaze.  “Pour me another shot, and I’ll think about it,” she said, smiling.  “Whatever you say, my little cauliflower,” he answered.  She reacted viscerally to hearing her old nickname spoken by this slightly-deeper but forever familiar voice.  “You – ” she started, unable to complete her thought, her heart racing.  He traced her collarbone with one hand, and her cunt flamed; leaning into her ear, he whispered, “Don’t think too hard.  We’re only here for one night.”

She moved her face to the side, feeling his lips graze her cheek before meeting hers; the feeling of his tongue against hers flooded her with dopamine.  The body continues to react long after the brain struggles to forget, and her wanting overtook everything.  With their breath intertwining and the lingering scent of sandalwood in the air, she settled into her body and let the tension and pleasure build, and build, and build.

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

**Sometimes when you start writing and think your piece is going to be one thing, it morphs into a completely different thing; this was meant to be much more smutty than it is.  Highly smutty non-fiction about an ex forthcoming!

He Thinks of Everything

The Engineer picked me up from Gatwick holding a handmade sign on which he’d written a pet name for me; he stood in the arrivals hall for thirty minutes holding up this 8×11 piece of paper while I went through immigration*, chauffeurs and business associates staring at it with confusion and amusement.  I’d told him not to bring flowers because I wanted to jump into his arms.  “No problem,” he said.  When we arrived at his car, there they were, in the boot instead.  “You told me not to bring them in,” he said when I protested.  On the way to his, he went old school as we listened to a mixed CD he’d made of all the songs that were important to us.  “I got you a sim card,” he told me on the way home, “So you can reach me when I’m on the road.”

At the entrance to his flat were a pair of purple fur-lined slippers for me; they fit perfectly.  I dropped my bags in his room; he showed me the shelves he’d cleared for me, and we flopped onto his new bed to make out.  We shared the contents of our shag bags and laughed over the fact that I’d brought a lot of things with me that he had bought, so he could return them… and we could find other things we liked.

In his lounge, a pot of my favorite flowers sat on the dining table and a huge bottle of Bailey’s – which he loathes, but I can’t get enough of – was perched on the bookshelf among other bottles of booze.  DVDs of a couple of my favorite horror movies were placed into his collection; he’s not a horror fan, but thought it would be fun to watch one with me.  In the kitchen: a French press and a bag of dark roast (despite the fact that he’s not a coffee drinker) and two different jars of cranberry sauce in the cupboard.  “I know you wanted these for Thanksgiving, and I wasn’t sure which one to get,” he told me.  In the bathroom, a bag full of bath bombs so we could take hot baths together on cold days and a bottle of massage oil for our weary fuck-exhausted muscles.  He thought of every detail to make me happy and comfortable.

When we fall asleep at night, I’m the big spoon; I wrap my tiny body around his giant frame, and for some reason it feels right. Sometimes he falls asleep on the couch, his head in my lap.  I stroke his hair and whisper, “Let’s go to bed, honey.”  When we wake up in the morning, he pulls me toward him and holds me tight for a few minutes before diving deep under the covers to spread my legs and lick me, waking up my center and my hunger.  He gets ready for work while I drift back off; before he leaves, he comes in, leans down, gives me a kiss with his full lips, and whispers, “I love you, Hummingbird.”

Last night, when he came home, I was sitting on the kitchen counter wearing a zip-down vinyl dress, fishnets, and his red silk tie, mug of mulled wine in hand.  “Cup of wine?” I asked quietly as he walked toward me, bathed in candlelight.  “No,” he said, never taking his eyes off me.  In between kisses, I let soft words dance into his ears: “We still have some toys to play with.” He retrieved a couple of floggers and a bottle of lube from the bedroom; when he returned; he turned me around and gave me the beating I’d been longing for before putting me back on the counter, sliding my copper-colored lace panties down over my legs, and hitching the dress up so he could plunge his lubed-up cock into me.  I wrapped my legs around his waist and breathed deeply as he moved in long, slow strokes, building up anticipation for when he pulled me off the counter and bent me over it, pressing my hands to the tiled wall and sinking his fingers deep into my hips.  I came twice standing there, my hair spilling out of its band, and once more in his bed – our bed – after he carried me there.  Lying underneath him, I unzipped the dress, exposing my pale breasts and belly, the red tie pointing down toward my swollen cunt.  I held him to me, whimpering in his ear, calling him “mi amor” in hushed, desperate tones.  He was sweating by the time he came; I inhaled the scent of him, and my body unwound.

The duvet glittered with my juices after they dried – a visual presence of our lust.  When I’m gone, he’ll still hear my whispers in his ears, and they’ll hold him in their arms until he can make it across the ocean into mine.

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

 

 

*Imagine the immigration officer’s delight when I declared that not only was I here to visit a romantic partner, but also that I’m currently unemployed.

Small World

Puno, Peru, 2006

I’m making out with a British guy who I met on an island in Lake Titicaca against a wall in a surprisingly bright dive bar.  I’m drunk on pisco and he’s got this lovely, moppy hair that I can’t help sinking my fingers into.  I’m pressing him into a mural and so ready to go back to his… until these two girls on the dance floor catch my eye.  I come up for air to look them over more thoroughly; one has short, choppy, platinum hair and a great smile, and the other is this dark-eyed goddess who sways gracefully.  I tell the Brit I’m going to get another drink, but then wander over to the women and start dancing and flirting with them instead.  I don’t know how it happens, but suddenly the goddess’s arms are around my waist and my hands are sliding up her arms and I’m licking her lips and my body is throbbing and she smells amazing and god I want my face in her cunt.  Apparently she’s not with the woman she came with, because when I ask her back to mine, she smiles and nods.  We buy individual cigarettes from a street vendor on the way to my guesthouse; this is when I find out she’s Candian – exotic.  I’d never been with a Canadian before (P.S. I love you, Canada.).  We drunkenly explore each other’s bodies, tangled limbs and hair falling everywhere and tongue barbells clinking against each other.  She tastes salty and sweaty and I cannot get enough of her juices in my mouth.  She goes back to her guesthouse after, and I’m left wishing I’d had more sex on this trip and relishing the feeling the metal balls of her clitoral piercing on my tongue.

 

Bali, Indonesia, 2013

I’m in a gay bar near the beach and bemoaning, once again, that there are no lesbian bars – a frustrating phenomenon all over the world.  After a couple of cocktails / watching a fabulous drag show / getting to know the lovely blokes next to me, I spot a small group of women hanging out against a wall at the other end of the bar.  I saunter over to them and ask where all the ladies are; “We’re right here!” they say and laugh, and I feel at home in their presence.  I start chatting up a small butch woman; soon we’re dancing and making out, and shortly thereafter I invite her back to mine.  As we walk toward her scooter, the guys I was chatting with hoot and holler at us, and I give them a big grin.  The vibrations of her scooter on bumpy back roads prime me for deeper pleasure, and I try to stay quiet later that night as she fucks me; she is an unregistered guest, after all.  She won’t let me reciprocate, but she spends the night, and in the morning she spoons me and works several fingers into me.  I grind backward into her hand while touching myself until I come in waves, pressing my face into a pillow.  We walk out together; the guesthouse workers shoot us curious looks, and we look straight ahead.

Bujagali, Uganda, 2017

Having spent the first month and a half of my Africa trip without a single travel sexperience, I could barely contain my libido.  When I spotted a muscular Aussie sitting alone with a computer at one end of the hostel, I struck up a conversation, keeping my fingers crossed.  He had a ton of stories and a wonderfully dry sense of humor, and we had good rapport – in fact, it was the easiest conversation I’d had all trip.  We both had other people staying in our dorm rooms, however, so I casually asked him if he’d still be around the next night; yes, he said.  I like to think I was breezy the next night when I approached him, but he could probably smell the “please please please fuck me right now”-ness on me.  We stayed up chatting until the other guests had gone, at which point I sat next to him and asked if he’d like to continue the conversation elsewhere.  I presented a challenge: that we fuck on every single bed in his dorm room (To everyone who stays in dorms and is grossed out by that, #sorrynotsorry).  No problem, he said; he used to be a professional athlete and had a LOT of endurance.  We vigorously and joyously boned in a different position on every bed, working up a hell of a sweat, and I came again and again and again.  It was that perfect one-night stand where you get along well and the sex is great, but you don’t like like them enough to want to see them again.  Sweet, sweet relief.  The hilarious part came two weeks later when I had another one-night stand with a German cop (it was bad, you guys), and over post-coital beers I found out that he’d happened to have met this Australian guy the very same day.

Which is to say: It’s a small, small world.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked
Normally I try to write a piece of fiction for Wicked Wednesday prompts, but this particular prompt is so intertwined with my real sex life that I couldn’t help but write non-fiction!  More coming on this theme…