Invocation

The first time it happened, she thought it was a fluke.  A trick of the mind.  A grief-induced hallucination.

A year after his death, still mourning, she suddenly remembered a game she used to play as a child.  She would sit in front of her mother’s tall mirror in the dark, one dim flashlight bulb illuminating the reflection in front of her.  Sometimes she played with a friend – but often, she was alone.  She would repeat the name of someone she knew who had passed over and over again until she swore that their face had replaced hers in the mirror.  She stared at the hard shine and watched them watching her, alone together.  She should have been afraid; instead, she was just fascinated that she could reach beyond.  That they came to her when she called.

She was soused when she saw her husband in the mirror.  She’d brought home a stranger from the bar, needing to fuck the pain away.  She lit candles, put on soft music, and asked him to bend her over in front of her boudoir mirror, yank her panties down, and fuck her.  As he railed her, the physical pain overtaking the mental anguish, she looked up at his face, and wondered.  She whispered her husband’s name.  Jayden.  Again.  Jayden.  Inaudible replications, building on themselves, tumbling out of her mouth.

And then she saw him.  Her mouth opened into a silent O that trapped her; she blinked, looked down.  She was drunk.  The room was swaying.  But when she looked back, his face was still there, staring back at her with a familiar combination of love and longing.  Her walls shuddered against the stranger’s cock; his voice gave guttural groans as her husband squeezed his eyes shut, then smiled.

“Oh, god – did I hurt you?”  The pick-up asked.  “Wh-what?” she stammered, jerked back into the moment.  “You’re crying,” he said.  “I guess I just needed some release,” she said and smiled, wiping the tears away.  She thanked him for coming, said she needed time alone,  and rushed him out the door.

The next night, she dressed up in a way she hadn’t done in years.  Put on makeup, straightened her hair, dug her one pair of heels out of the back of the closet.  Not that it took a ton of convincing to get someone to come home with her, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

He was, after all, the love of her life.

 

Future in Your Eyes

“I’m Viv,” I say, as I shake your slender hand.  The first thing I notice are your earrings – feathery and dangly and brushing your freckled shoulders. Only I don’t know they’re freckled yet.  The second thing is your smile.  You have crooked teeth, like me.  Your smile is wide and welcoming and disarming.  Your dimples tell me I should trust you.

Then I look at your eyes, chocolate porter-colored behind small, rectangle-framed glasses.  They unfurl like a whirlpool in reverse.  At first I only see colors, sparkling and bright.  Fireworks and fairy lights.  Then the images start to come into view.

I’m scooping your knees up while your arms hang tight around my neck so a stranger in front of Ghirardelli Square can take our photo.  You’re eating mochi on a stick, giggling while we walk around a festival in Japantown with my friends.  We’re on the tilt-a-whirl at the Santa Cruz boardwalk, spinning as fast as we can while I try not to crush you.  We’re slow dancing to “My Funny Valentine” at Martuni’s, your red satin dress melting my hands.  We’re lying on a blanket in Dolores Park, my arm around you, your head nestled into my chest, soaking up unexpected sunshine.  My family is telling me how much they adore you.

You’re on your hands and knees on a spanking bench while I tower above you, flogging you.  You’re flush with almost-coming, your eyes shut tight, your head thrown back.  We’re kissing and kissing and kissing and kissing, hands all over each other.  I’m ripping a towel off of you so I can get one of your nipples into my mouth as quickly as possible.  We’re making love quietly and urgently in my parent’s house, shuddering and soaking the sheets.

You’re telling me you foresaw this – we would either get closer, or we would break up.  I’m regretting the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth.  I’m sobbing as I walk down 24^th street in the Mission, not really knowing where I’m going.  You’re looking at me with eyes that say, “Why have you broken my heart?”  I’m looking inside, unable to find a good answer.  I’m writing you an apology.  You’re writing me an update.  We’re meeting for the first time in a long time with faint smiles on our faces and hope in our hearts.  We’re hugging goodbye and saying how happy we are to be friends.

“Nice to meet you,” you say.  “I’m Emma.”

 

Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

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.

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.

“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.

Dirty

This one is for you, my nest.

 

I come home one day to find you out back in the garden; you’d come home from a long day at work, ready to relax, only to remember that you’ve got a ton of stuff to take to the tip, and it has to go in the morning – so you’d better load up the car tonight.  By the time I get home, you’ve spent an hour carrying armfuls of heavy rubbish; you’re sweaty, dirty, and sore.  I float in, cool as a breeze after having been in an air conditioned office all day, to see your back muscles flex as you pick up the last load.  You turn around, look me in the eye, and drop it where you stand.

I chuckle.  “Long day, lo-?” I start asking, but before the words are out of my mouth, your lips are pressed against it and you’re clutching me with soil-crusted fingernails, not giving a shit if you leave streaks on my pale peach blouse.

You are ravenous.

You charge, forcing me to the trellis against the back wall of our building – the one with the overflowing plum-colored bougainvillea – and crush the flowers with my back as my purse slides down my arm and slips to the ground.  “Stay,” you order me, as you rummage for something among pots, tools, and patio furniture.  You find a length of twine underneath a pair of gloves and swiftly tie my wrists together like a boatswain before attaching them to the trellis above my head.

You unbutton my blouse and shove the top of my undershirt under my tits, letting them spill out so you can apply vacuum pressure to my nipples; I’m so taken with surprise that it’s a few minutes before I realize that the neighbors could see this.  All of them.  The thought of it makes my cunt burn.  I want to get on my knees in the earth and take you in my mouth, only I can’t.

As soon as I think it, your belt is unbuckled and your cock is out, popping up from behind the confines of your jeans.  Watching you stroke yourself and not being able to touch you is torture and rapture.  You reach under my skirt and move my knickers to the side so you can gather up my nectar with your fingers to use as lube to stroke yourself with.  I watch you take the flowing juices from my body and use them as your own, wanting to tell you that it’s not fair – if you’re going to smear them on your dick, do it by sliding into me – but I don’t.  Instead, I watch wide-eyed, heart thudding, as you continue to wank with fervor.

Suddenly you stop.  You press your mouth to my ear and whisper, “Do you want my cock inside of you?”  I choke back saliva, and before I can answer, you’re on your knees, yanking my knickers all the way down and my skirt all the way up.  “Well done, love,” you say, taking a hooked finger and drawing silky webs away from my thighs.  I whimper.

You draw up a chair, tell me to spread my legs as wide as I can, and continue wanking.  Deep into your reverie, you stand up and leave me alone outside for a minute, exposed for all the world to see; you come back, work a large dildo into my cunt, and tell me to clamp my legs.  You sit back down and watch me intently while stroking yourself until your pleasure forces you to close your eyes halfway; I try to clench the dildo hard enough to make myself come, but I’m not quite there.  Perhaps you take pity on me seeing me strain – or perhaps you just want to fuck me.  In any case, you stride over, take me down from the trellis, and lead me in by the twine, assuring me that the best is yet to come.

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.

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.

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.

PrinciPAL

As Livvy did such an ace job writing a doctor parody, I thought I’d take a crack at writing an education parody for EuphOff!  It feels a bit more lilac than purple, but it is full of absolutely terrible puns.  I’m not actually entering the contest because I also have the exact same toys to give away and am still trying to figure out the best way to do that (Satisfyer reviews forthcoming!), but this was SO much fun to write.  Also, trigger warning: This is a piece about an administrator and a high school student.

“I hear you’ve been behaving very badly,” Principal Johnson said, cupping Tina’s chin in his rugged, yet tender, hand.  Tina looked down at her cheeky cleavage and blushed; her button-down white uniform shirt could barely contain her nubile breasts.  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said innocently, her enchanting eyelashes fluttering just so.  “You’re supposed to graduate next week, Tina,” Mr. Johnson said – “but I don’t think that’s going to happen with an F in English.”  “But Mr. Johnson, that teacher doesn’t like me!” Tina protested with a startling urgency.  “I think she’s jealous,” she pouted.

“And what might she be jealous of?” Mr. Johnson asked.  “She keeps making snide remarks about my body,” Tina said, finally looking Mr. Johnson in the eye. “She says that skirt length has an inverse relationship with depth of thought – but I have an A in all my other classes.  Do you think my skirt is too short?”  “I don’t know, Tina,” he replied.  “I’ll have to examine the evidence.”  Tina stood up; he walked languidly around his desk, stepped behind her, and crouched down, her apple bottom teasing his bulging eyes.  “Now,” he said, “You know your skirt isn’t supposed to be shorter than two inches above your knee.”  He ran his animated fingers up the backs of her trembling thighs until they reached the elevated hem of her skirt, far too scant for a schoolgirl.

“I have to graduate, Mr. Johnson,” Tina pleaded with crystalline teardrops threatening to fall from her large, impassioned blue eyes.  “Isn’t there something you can do to help me?”  “Perhaps,” Mr. Johnson said in a composed voice.  “I want to see just how bad you really are – let’s have a look at your best practices.”  “Sir?” Tina asked, her heart thudding in her chest like a timpani drum.  He continued moving his hands upward, under her skirt, until they reached the three-way junction of her thong.  “Tina, Tina, Tina,” he tutted, his fingers hooked into the skimpy strings, “I don’t think this is what a scholar would wear to study hall.”  I’d love to study your hall, he thought, suppressing a smile.

“But sir –” she started.  Mr. Johnson cut her off.  “It’s no use trying to talk your way out this time, Tina.  You’re going to have to show me that you’re willing to work to get me – er, your grade – up.”  He could feel his principal organ doing some higher-order thinking skills under his trousers.  “Yes, sir,” she said in a husky voice, feeling a few participatory flutters herself.  Mr. Johnson placed a piece of paper and a number two pencil on his desk; she loved the smell of his wood.  “Now, Tina,” he said – “You’re failing English, right?”  “Yes, sir,” she confirmed.  “I’m going to give you a few vocabulary words,” he said; “I want you to write them down, along with their definition and their part of speech.  Think you can do that?”  “Oh, yes, sir!” she said, eager to commence.  As she tipped her youthful bosom over the slender paper and took the pencil in her delicate fingers, he lifted her skirt.  “There’s no question about it,” he said.  “I’d like to punctuate your bottom.”

“Mr. Johnson?” she queried, a puzzled look in her eye. “Never you mind,” he said.  “Your first word is turgid.”  T-u-r-g-e-d, she wrote.  Looking so closely over her shoulder that he could smell her rose perfume, he gave her ass a thwack.  “Incorrect spelling,” he said.  Her cheeks flushed; he looked down and noticed his participle was no longer dangling.  Adjective, she wrote next to it.  “Good,” he said.  “And the definition?”  “I- I don’t know, sir,” she admitted.  “You’ll find out soon enough,” he said, adjusting himself.  “I don’t think this written assessment will work, Tina.  But don’t worry – we can do a performance assessment.”  “Oh, thank you, sir!” she said.  “Yesssss,” he drawled.  “We’re going to do some daily oral language.” She turned around to look at him as he unbuckled his belt.

“Now that’s a proper noun,” she said, looking at his pulsing paste-maker.  “I bet you’ve got quite a portfolio, Principal Johnson.”  He chuckled.  “I think you’re getting it, Tina,” he said, knowing his semi-moist treat stick was also about to get it.  “You’re going to make an excellent subordinate clause.  And remember,” he said as she dropped to her knees, her succulent lips parting as she readied for her hot lunch: “Show your work.  If you do well on this assignment, we can move on to conjugation.”

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.

             

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.

 

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.

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.

**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!