Sunday, November 17, 2013

Age Twenty, by Joseph Allan

We gathered that night in Dan's basement, friends from high school
tethered by family elastic, sprung back to our native suburb for the
holidays, and struck sparks off each other around Dan's dad's pool
table, drinking soda amid the shelves of solvents and the old camping

Gabrielle was almost as I remembered, my tiny quiet mouse in the
corner by the washer and dryer, waiting and watching for her shot. One
detail caught and held my focus, with a ridiculously gratifying
pleasure for such a small thing: instead of her battered everyday
jeans she wore pinstriped wool suit pants that I had never seen on
her, and never saw after. And each and every time she leaned across
the edge of the table to try a long shot she obliterated my
consciousness, just straight-up blacked out my higher mental
functions, with the perfect tight fuzzy flannel curve of her
pinstriped ass. Here's a truth that was designed entirely for my
entertainment: every shot's a long one when you're barely five feet

And she was still, as before, the willing prey of my lust. She nodded
and smiled at the inanities I deployed to get her to myself, and
smiled and accepted my offer of a ride home, and smiled and agreed
that it was far too early to call it a night, and smiled and took off
her seatbelt while I parked the Civic in the gravel lot facing the
municipal airstrip.

How she writhed on my fingers, sopping and swollen in the passenger
seat, lit all in yellow by the trail of runway lights! My hand
slippery under the opened flaps of those lovely pants, and under the
white cotton beneath, as she wriggled and gasped like a happy minnow
on the pavement, mouth and greedy lips on my cock, our twin
concentrations blissful and indivisible, until the high beams of the
airport patrol truck lit the condensation on the rear window, and it
was time to move on.


The glass is foggy.

As I glide the razor from my ankle to my thigh in one long stroke, I feel an unexpected shiver down my spine then hardness against my left hip. I smile and turn, pressing my water-warmed body against him. He pulls tighter. Our bodies connect from loin to mouth. He hungrily gropes as hot water runs off our skin and steam rises.

Cupping my ass, he lifts me as I simultaneously wrap my legs around him. Kissing his slick lips. Fingers clutching his ropey neck muscles.

“Close your eyes,” he says. I do and slowly slide down the length of his body until my cheeks rest on the cold shower bench.

He adjusts the showerhead. Rhythmic beats of water drown out every sound as it pounds my breasts, then pools just above my bellybutton and finally rushes down like a waterfall between my lips.

In one quick movement, my legs are over his shoulders.

Running his mouth up the length of my inner thighs, he pauses at my center; his tongue and hot water run imperceptibly over my clit. My favorite orgasms are through oral sex. He knows this.

His hands glide past my stomach in search of my nipples, caressing them first, then circling. They perform in response. He pinches them. My weakness and a gasp slips.

Returning to my wetness, tongue teasing as his fingers press firmly into my thighs’ skin, coaxing them open. Further. Almost too far. Exposing even more.

His tongue’s stoke persists patiently. Continuing with intent and a precision only possible from years of dedicated practice.

My thighs burn and quiver. Deep inside it’s like a faucet is left on, filling me up too fast. And a vacuum is sucking my entire being from my fingertips and toes straight to my pulsating clit.

The water goes from too hot to cold without a moments notice. Every muscle in my body clenches.

My mind goes blank.

And I float into oblivion.

Friday, November 15, 2013


It is always in the touch,

fingertip hovering, almost

a touch and a drop that waits

for the moment when

with a movement so slow

we join. A drop,

an intake of breath.

--for Trifexxxtra

Thursday, November 22, 2012


She smiled, reminded of that day they first met. Alcohol, she teased him, was what did it for her. But she knew that was a lie.

No, she'd been tipsy before, but not like that day. That was a different kind of tipsy. The kind that made her feel wanton. That made her want to touch him. When she stood outside that pub and people she knew ran out to welcome her, she saw him through the glass. Just sitting there, making no effort to move, with that hint of arrogance and unmistakable hunger in his eyes.

She'd heard of him before, and he of her. She looked forward to seeing him and boy, it was all she'd hoped for and more.

But she was a tease, after all. Not one to give in easily. And he was persistent, not one to give up, at all. So came the night, 48 long hours after they met, when she stepped into his bedroom.

And he touched her. And she him. And he kissed her. And she him, feeling his hardness against her thigh. Hearing his jagged breathing. 

But she was a tease, after all. She pushed him onto the bed and stood between his legs. And undressed for him, taking all the time she needed. Unzipped her dress and unhooked her bra. Then ran her fingers up her legs, looking into his eyes and began peeling off her stockings.

What a night it was! He punished her for making him wait, for making him tremble with desire. What delightful punishment it was! His hands and his tongue. And the rasp of his stubble against her thigh.
And him, inside her, when she begged and moaned. The way he moved and the way she...

... "Your coffee, miss!" "Thankyou", she rasped out, her throat dry, sighing as she checked the time, waiting for the man she bedded and wedded six years ago.

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

Every single time

I like to imagine I'm the kind of thing you don't get too often. When I recall the length of your fingers, I think about what it would be like to tug at the button of your jeans, strained tight over your cock. I'm not sure you've ever been with someone like me. And I think, without knowing, of course, that I could be good for you.

I imagine your head thrown back, eyes closed, and I wonder how many girls have gotten on their knees for you. My lips pass over your velvety skin, and I breathe you in. I draw my tongue up the length of you as we seek out and find the shared rhythm between us.

I don't know how long we could stay drunk on the newness of it, but I imagine it would be a very sweet high.  Don't tell me you don't think about it, too.

I imagine you tangling your fingers into my hair, thrusting yourself into my mouth. I think about catching your eye with my own, smiling and moaning. I don't need the lights off, and I don't need the blankets pulled tight. I told you—I'm something you've never had before.

There's a lot of talk about power and head. As far as I'm concerned, there are at least two ways of looking at it. You could either say you're fucking my mouth or you could say I've got your cock between my teeth. Or you could take the sum of the parts, recognize the vulnerability on one side, the power on the other, and the fact that we both keep coming back here. Your fingers in my hair and my lips the shape of a secret, the strength of your hardness and the wetness of my cunt remind me that we're both getting something from this.

And that gets me off every single time.


“This party is boring.” She groaned to Carolyn as they sipped martinis.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him moving towards her. He’d been looking at her for an hour while pretending to talk sports with the guys. She knew that look.

Feeling him graze the small of her back, he swiftly grabbed her hand pulling her wordlessly towards the door. She stumbled in her heels behind him. Setting her drink down with a smile.

He still hadn’t said a word when they entered the house. Spinning her around, he used their bodies to quickly close the door. With his body pressed against hers, his hands wandered to her bare thighs then her behind. She felt his hardness as his touch explored her dampness. Both were breathless in their quiet house.

Taking her hand, less firmly this time, he led her upstairs.

“Lay down. Let me undress for you.”

And she did.


As he watched mesmerized.

Touching her bare skin deliberately as her black dress slipped down her body, she stood before him in black pushup bra, black lace thong and black heels.

She crossed the space and straddled him. His erection was pushing against his zipper.

Removing his shirt, button by button, then his belt, she crawled down the length of his body pulling off his pants and underwear in one tug.

Kissing his inner thighs, she began making her way up leisurely. Past his stomach, pausing at his ribs, nibbling both nipples, finally reaching his neck. She whispered, “I love you” into his parted lips before taking his tongue in her mouth.

He pressed against her thong desperate to enter her.

Swiftly flipping her, he started at her neck feeling his way all the way down her center. Shivers engaged her every nerve ending as his tongue found everything.

And he didn’t stop caressing her with his hands or mouth until he got the answer they both wanted.

Her back arched.

He pushed inside.


K.G. Waite

Tom sprawled naked upon the countertop. Catherine rummaged through the house looking for a length of twine. She glanced at her watch nervously: at any moment the doorbell might ring. She found the twine and quickly bound Tom's legs before dipping both hands in the melted butter.

“Derrick,” she shouted.


“Can you open the oven? It's time to get the turkey in.”