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
gear.

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
tall.

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.

Anonymous

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.

RedJim99

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