Stolen Moments

She rummages through old photographs while I stand over the stove, making dinner because she swears she can’t cook, so I cook instead.
“I can barely make white rice,” she claims all the time, a dammed lie we both know she loves to repeat. “It either comes out soggy or smoky. You don’t need that kind of instability in your life.”

The kitchen is hot and humid, and she swears she can feel her hair frizzing as we stand there. Still, she keeps coming back to talk to me, holding old pictures in one hand and a joint still burning in the other. I don’t complain, not caring that the smoke is going to set off the detectors again. In turn I keep asking her questions from a distance so that I can see her in front of me, not in pictures online.
She kisses me between the shoulder blades, pressing her face against my back, and exhales. After a moment she thrusts a picture in my line of sight, one of six kids in an auditorium, and points to a skinny boy with too many teeth.

“Mira que lindo!” She exclaims, and I blush.
“That kid was a geek,” I respond, embarrassed.
“That kid was hilarious,” she retorts with a smile.
She doesn’t try to lie, and for that I’m grateful. There was a time she didn’t even notice me, and we don’t pretend otherwise. Once she did I had to have self-control for the both of us. It was a nice problem to have.
“I was afraid of everything then,” I say.
“I remember thinking you were a bully,” she replies and I balk.
“I was never a bully,” I shoot back, also not for the first time.
“Maybe,” she says, shaking her head in a noncommittal way, absentmindedly rubbing a scar above her elbow on her left arm. “But you were at least hiding in the shadow of one.” I don’t say anything.
She paces around the kitchen and sighs, turning to the next picture.
“We were all dumb back then,” I shoot back.
“Yeah, but I was punished the hardest,” she replies, and I don’t argue.
She’s not lying.
***

We’re smoking in the pool while the neighborhood is asleep, waist deep in the water and getting high. I’m showing self-control for the both of us, but I still can’t help holding her against me. Still, she’s pensive, staring up at the sky fascinated, happy that now that she’s far from the city she can see the stars again.
“After you left the second time,” she says, facing away from me. Not when we were kids but the first time it really mattered, you left me your coat. I hung it in my closet and never wore it out, but I swear it still smelled like you for weeks. It was the most erotic smell in the world. Like sweat and deodorant and heat even though you were long gone. It made me feel like you weren’t that far away. Sometimes when I’d miss you I’d hide in my closet, crawl inside that coat and inhale until I felt better.”
“That sounds like you,” I say with a big smile.
“Shut up,” she says, blushing, still smiling at the memory.  “I remembered that I did write about you once,” she tells me.
“Did you?”

She takes a deep breath and I wait.
“I wrote a story and kept it in my notebook just to feel like you were close. It was about you. It was about us even though I didn’t use any names, and of course she found it. Went through my notebook and counted every single piece of fucking paper until I was nothing but a pile of tears and fear. She fucking loved making me afraid, and when she started reading it I tried to snatch it away, but she cornered me and slapped me just like…”

She stops and takes a puff. “Even my dad had to pull her off me.”
I try to hold her. “You’re stronger because of it.”
“You’re right,” She replies in a steely voice. “Anger is one hell of a motivator.”
***
“What do you want most in this world?” I ask her. She’s kissing me everywhere, leaving dark red lipstick stains all over my body. She jokes that she’s marking her territory, a kernel of truth that I know is ready to explode under the right amount of pressure. She kisses my forehead and my jawline, lingering there.
“You,” she replies, kissing me again on one shoulder.
“What do you dream of?” I try asking again, working hard to remember the point that I was trying to make.
“You,” She replies, kissing the other shoulder.
“Seriously,” I say, an accusation.
“Seriously,” She responds, kissing down my chest.
“You have to want more,” I say to her, incredulous.
“I already have everything else,” working her way down my stomach.
“C’mon, there has to be something.” I say, my voice getting huskier involuntarily.
“There isn’t,” she says softly, shaking her head.
“The sooner you figure out what you want, the sooner you can get over the past,” I say. She stops.
“Fine, then, if it’s that easy, say the thing you won’t say,” she says to me, and I blink twice.
“Huh?”
“Tell me what you haven’t been telling me all of these years. Say it. Say the words that you know I want to hear. Say it, and I will drop everything else for you.”
I shake my head. “You can’t do that.”
“I want to. For you.”
I look at her. She’s staring at me, wide-eyed and silently pleading. I know what she wants to hear, but I can’t. I have to be self-control, for the both of us.
She sees the decision in my eyes and laughs without a word, loud, boisterous, bitter, and kisses me deeply. I spread my fingers across her soft skin and pull her close. As the seconds pass the years and the armor fall off, and she becomes herself again: vulnerable and soft. Sex personified and full of desire, a force to reckon with and much harder to contain. I don’t even try.
She whispers instructions between moans and groans, telling me exactly what she wants, what it feels like to her, telling me to go on when I’m afraid I should stop and telling me to slow down when she’s afraid I’ll leave her behind.
She’s intoxicating, and I again consider running away with her, leaving everything behind so that we can hide somewhere, forever maybe, just the two of us. I could never get enough of her; an unlimited numbers of days and nights to test that theory in peace is worth risking everything for.
I’ve almost made up my mind, but then the frenzy ends. Even though I try to hold on to that hope, to that optimism I always feel when I’m part of her, no matter how hard I try reality sets in.
What the fuck are you doing? I ask myself. There’s too much. She’s too much, and that’s not what real life is like.
I clear my throat. “Do you need a ride to the airport?” I ask.
“I already scheduled a car,” she replies immediately, armor firmly back on. She’s facing me but her eyes are closed. “Corporate benefits.”
She jumps out of bed and starts getting ready. I sit there, not sure what to do. I immediately start to feel like shit and try again. “There’s still time,” I say. It’s a cop-out and we both know it. The change is subtle, but I can see that I’ve made her angry. It’s the most non-committal way I could’ve phrased it. I don’t say there’s still time for us, or that we still have time, and the difference matters. Still, neither one of us likes to argue.
“I’m considering celibacy,” she says.
“That’s a lie,” I counter.
“We all lie to ourselves,” she says, walking up to me. She grabs my left hand and kisses my palm softly and lingers there, leaving a perfectly crimson pair of lips on rough skin. She pulls away and closes my hand, holding it against her chest.
“Save it,” she tells me. “Until next time.”

More

I don’t just like writing about the bad things. So here’s a little erotica to finish off your Monday. 

This one, however, got a little away from me as I was writing it. Started out as Library, and turned into an erotic ode to Poe. 

Quoth the Raven, oh well, you know. 

(WARNING: Sexually explicit material below and not for children under 18 years of age)

“Baby,” she whispers in the dark. I reach out to her and feel a breast, and she groans.

I push myself off the bed half-asleep and climb between her. She’s spread-eagled and ready, almost in the same position I first saw her in at the library long ago.

My dick hardens at the memory. As I rub my cockhead against her warm slit I can almost picture her perfectly, kneeling on that old carpeted floor, perfectly round ass facing me, almost as if it was trying to escape her pants below.

I could see her red thong.

I dip my dick inside her a little and she moans. Her pussy is tight and I know she’s sore. We’ve been fucking all night, napping to catch our breaths and napping again, never getting enough. And she wants more.

I remember how I could have stared at thong forever, and then she turned to look at me and I was done.

I start to fuck her. She lets go of her knees and pulls me closer to her, pulling me low.

Oh that smile. That smile. That smile that told me she knew exactly what I was thinking, that she knew exactly where I was looking, like she’d been waiting for me all along.

I can remember that smile forever ever, even after everything is gone.

I start to fuck her slowly. My face is in the pillow and her tongue is on my throat. If I had died without touching her, I would have been happy to be reincarnated into that flower-printed carpeted floor.

Oh, but she surprised me. Stood right in front of me and handed me a book. Said, “For you, Loverboy,” and walked out the door.

The Kama Sutra, of course.

I was shocked into stone. It was months before I saw her. For weeks I thought about her. Wondered if I had imagined her, if I had scared her off.

And then one day she stood behind me at the grocery store.

I thought I had gone insane. I asked her her name. She cackled and said, “Lenore.”

I grabbed her hand and brought her home. I held her close to me and slammed the door. And then I peeled her clothes and dropped them to the floor.

And then I fucked her, on the bed, in the kitchen, in the shower, more and more.

I thought I was dreaming, held her face and kissed her, begged her to never go. She nodded and said, “Of course.”

And now inside her, warm and tight and and hot like fire, I’m ready to burst once more.

And I will let go of her, nevermore.

I’ve got it from here

I’ve Got It From Here 

(WARNING: Sexually explicit material below and not for children under 18 years of age)
Originally published here 

“I don’t eat pussy,” he tells me, like he’s at a restaurant commenting on the menu and not perched between my legs, wrapped around me on his bed.

He looks up at me expectantly, and I can only nod a hesitant okay. What else can I do? So I nod, and stay silent, trying to hide my disappointment when he moves up to kiss me, the matter settled.

He kisses like a champ. It’s what brought me here in the first place. We met a few hours ago. I think his name is Greg but I’m not entirely sure. We said hello. He made a comment about the music, and then we started kissing like old lovers that found each other again.

And he took my breath away.

And here we are now, lying in his California King bed that’s much too huge for one person, and I ask myself how many women he fucked in this bed since the last time he changed the sheets.

Maybe I shouldn’t think about that.

I wrap my legs around him. His skin is smooth and soft, and I find myself rubbing my hands down his back, lost in the moment.

I wonder what kind of sex he expects us to have with oral sex out of the equation. It’s been a long time since I’ve had sex without going down on the guy.

Like he’s reading my thoughts, he kisses me. And takes my breath away again. I can feel his hands working my breast, and soon I relax into him, silently pleading for more.
We started both fully dressed. I realize that and work to rectify it, unbuttoning my shirt for him, so that I can feel his hands on my skin.

He pushes my bra out of the way and takes my left nipple hungrily into his mouth. That, at least, he is willing to put his mouth on, and I am grateful.

I tug at his pants. He takes the hint and unbuttons them for me. Then, realizing he might as well, he climbs off the bed and takes his clothes off completely, and I get to see him naked for the first time.

And oh, he is beautiful, with a fine streak of dark blonde hair running down his tight stomach to his crotch. Even his pubic hair is blonde. Short and soft, nestling the biggest dick I’ve seen in ages. The girth is impressive. I take it into my hand. It’s already fully erect, standing at attention, with a cockhead that’s smooth and bulbous and it makes my mouth water.

And I stop myself. You don’t eat pussy. Fine. Then I won’t suck your dick.
Such a shame, really, I think, pulling my panties off. I’m a girl who loves to suck a dick well. I believe in a job well done.
I also believe in returning the favor.

So instead of sucking him off I grab him by the cock and guide him back to the bed.

He doesn’t disappoint. My pussy is already wet and ready, but it still feels tight as he slides inside me. I can feel him stretching my muscles, making way and it feels incredible. Like a much-needed massage.

Like he’s relieving some tension I didn’t even know I had. I lie back and relax, and he takes the cue to lead the way, sliding all the way inside me and stretching me out for himself.

He starts slowly at first, accommodating himself inside, rubbing his crotch on me, stimulating my clit and making my eyes roll to the back of my head.

It feels amazing to have a cock inside me again, to feel his weight on me as he splits me open.
He stretches me out so I can take all of him, and soon he’s sliding in and out of my dripping wet pussy like he belongs there. Like my pussy already knows his cock and is more than happy to have him.

“Harder,” I tell him, and he complies, pounding me hard and fast, just how I like it. It feels so good I spread my legs wider for him, holding my toes in each hand, inviting him to go as far inside me as he can.

It’s a wild ride. Every time he pounds me I can feel him stretching my pussy open widely. It sends shocks of pleasure all over my body, and I want more.

And then too soon, he comes.

I hope he can at least finish me off; he pounds into me twice, rolls over and sighs.

And I laugh out loud.

I’m not done, not even slightly, and thought it felt amazing to be pounded by a dick as wide as my wrist, my clit is still twitching from the incomplete orgasm it’s currently housing, waiting to explode.
He looks at me, incredulous, and I laugh out loud again, staring up at the ceiling and moving my hands down my body.

My pussy is sopping wet to the touch, and sensitive. It feels like my clit is engorged with arousal and is practically peeking out of the folds of my vulva, begging to be minded. I find it immediately, and though it’s sensitive, I manage to place four fingers flatly on it and massage it. My clit is too sensitive for direct touch. I prefer a palm to a finger, a massage to a flick, and right now as I am about to come it is so sensitive that I close my eyes and lose myself.

I can feel him watching me as I am masturbating. His breath flows over my nipples, it’s ragged and uneven and I can feel his excitement, but it doesn’t distract me. I am lost in the feeling of my own fingers pressing on my clit, moving fast, and boy, do they know where to go. And soon, I feel that moment. That moment. That moment when you know you’ve gone from just feeling good to erupting, and I feel my orgasm, finally being set free. It’s a hard one, that one that catches you a little by surprise by its intensity.

The first wave of convulsions hits me and I collapse.

I groan, I twitch, I moan.

My clit is too sensitive now but I still keep my fingers in place, moving them in increments, too sensitive for more, but still needing that last twitch, that last convulsion inside of me.

I let out a deep breath when I’m done, and stare up at the ceiling again. My body is vibrating now. Humming pleasantly, energized. I get up quickly and start getting dressed.

He’s surprised by my speed and stutters. “Ummm,” he manages to say. “Do you need me to take you home?”

And I laugh for the third time, and I kiss him. He is at least, unequivocally, a good kisser.

“No, its okay,” I tell him. “I think I’ve got it from here.”

Instructions

(WARNING: Sexually explicit material below and not for children under 18 years of age)

Next time you have a chance to take a deep breath, let it be one where you’re inhaling the scent of my skin as you wrap your arms around me, and we’re alone, finally for the first time, in a building with no doors so no one else can come in.
And time will finally, finally stand still for us.
And when you breathe out, let it be laced with sweet words that only you and I can understand, with sighs and moans that form no words themselves but mean:
 I’ve missed you.

 I want you.

Come closer.

Don’t go.

And promise me you’ll run your hands over my skin. In fact, I demand it, I demand that you touch me every chance you get, with spread out fingers and flat palms, over the same parts of my body I sometimes catch you staring at when you think I’m not paying attention.
C’mon. I’m not stupid. I’m just a girl with a crush.
And I will whisper in your ear about that first time, that first time we kissed and it was not nearly enough. And then I will whisper to you every single thought I’ve had since then and act out a few.
Your lips were here.
Do you like this?
Oh, I’ve been wanting to do this for you so badly, I’ll say, and every syllable will be true.
And I’ll smile.  
And you, oh I already know you will be fascinated by the sight of me on your lap, smiling and undone, with bruised lips and my underwear exposed, so that all you have to do is lean forward and dip your fingers inside my sex.
But you won’t. No, you’re too polite for that.
But let’s pretend that you do. This is my fantasy, you see, and in this one you’re the aggressor, not the polite businessman in a three-piece suit. 
That can come later.
Instead I will lean into you and you will pull me closer so that we’re chest to chest, tangled and entwined, and you’ll finally touch me where I want you most, a preview of what’s to come. And I’ll lead the way so you can make me explode.
Slow.
Firm.
There.

And I will shake with the realization that you’re touching me, that you know me in this way. That you know my taste.

Oh what a lovely thought to have. Better when it’s true.

That alone will be enough. 

When I come, there’s two ways you will be able to tell: I will moan. In a deeper, much more intense way. The difference is subtle but it’s there.

And I will let you know.

But if I lose myself, if I forget all thought and don’t know how to speak, then don’t hesitate.

Just remind me to breathe.

When You’re Gone

It’s like the world stops when you’re gone.
Like I can’t get out of bed, and I stare at the walls and ceiling, waiting for answers that will never come.
I can’t see colors when you’re gone.
They’re duller, blander.
 I wear my favorite shirt to bed, the one you gave me the first time we had sex, and though I know its green I stare at it, only seeing gray.
I search my room for evidence of you. For something, anything, to prove that you were here, that you exist, that you love me.
I search my room for signs of you, first, curiously, just for something to prove that you’re not some sort of fragment of my imagination, some sort of sadomasochistic fantasy I’ve created for myself.
But then, I search frantically. And before I know it I’m tearing things apart, digging through my closet, pulling out entire drawers and emptying the contents on the floor, searching for something, a picture, even a pen you once held.
Just something to prove that you are real, that you were mine, even for a little while, but al I am left with are whispers and memories, and I’m all alone.
It’s always easier the first few days after you leave.
I can still feel you on my skin. Still smell you on my pillows, still taste you on my lips.
I replay every second in my head.
I think of your smile. The sound of your voice.
I touch myself the way you touched me, and then, I refuse to touch myself at all, not wanting to erase the feeling of you.
You’re all I want, all I want to feel, and I crave to feel you again.
And then misery sets in.
It doesn’t take much. It never does. A comment perhaps. A song. Even the smell of fresh laundry and soap can sometimes set me off.
You’re not here.
Why? Why?
You don’t love me.
Why? Why?
And I can’t cope.
I miss you so much when you’re gone.
And then, like a wish come true, you’re here.
And I can’t help myself.
I’m so happy I could cry. Sometimes I do.
I touch your skin. Oh, how I love your skin.
Like warm silk.
And I want to wrap myself in it and forget everything.
Oh, when you’re here, when you’re here, colors are brighter.
I’m happy, I’m myself again.
It’s like the world makes sense again.
And time moves, too quickly now, and I memorize every touch, every sigh, every smile,
During that time it’s like the world is ours.
I feel invincible.
I’m in love.
And I’m yours, and you’re mine, completely mine for a time.
We tell each other stories.
That one time you drove me home, when we were strangers and I was lost.
The first time you kissed me.
The first time I made you laugh.
The first time you made me lose control.
We rehearse the first time we met.
I remember that day like a collection of photographs, always finding something new in the margins. You, on the other hand, remember every detail.
I’m fascinated by you and I tell you so.
You kiss me in turn, and I melt.
You exhaust me, consume me, but it’s never enough, never, and though you’re lying right next to me I’m filed with loneliness for you again.
And too soon, Always too soon, you’re gone again.

And I’m alone. 

Altars

(WARNING: Sexually explicit material below and not for children under 18 years of age)
Sex is my religion, and he is the altar I worship. On my knees, impaled deep, so that I am open wide and vulnerable, full of him.

Full, full to the brim. He stretches my insides. Fills me in a way that I feel complete, inside, finally, and I cannot think of a life without him.
I grind my clit into him and groan, riding him without rhythm, grinding instead of bouncing, so that he is hitting all of my spots, and I come in a rush of spasms and deep moans. Crumple like paper on top of him, praying.
And he’s not done with me yet.
He is the altar to my religion, and he worships me, like I worship him. He places me on my stomach. I am barely coherent, still in the middle of my orgasm, letting him take over me.
His dick is still wet with my juices, and as I feel him nudging against my asshole, I spread my cheeks open for him.
I am his altar, and I am open for him.
He fucks my ass wildly. It’s intense, tight, and I can feel another orgasm building inside me. He senses this and gets on his knees, picks me up by the hips and pulls me back towards him, and then he slides both hands down to my clit, and we fuck, oh we fuck, until we both come, hollering like animals, and collapse.
He still inside me, and I am still coming, a hand still on my clit, another creeping up to my breasts. 
And we both love each other, like a religion.

Eyes Open

(WARNING: Sexually explicit material below and not for children under 18 years of age)
I keep my eyes open while he kisses me, trying to commit every second to memory. I want to remember the way he feels, the way he looks so that I can remember him later, when I am alone and thinking of him.

I am mesmerized by his skin, the curve of his nose. I notice he has a small scar on his cheek and I touch it instinctively, wondering how it got there, wondering if he remembers the story, if he’s willing to tell me, but then I remember he is kissing me and I’ve stopped moving, so I close my eyes for a second, just for a second, until I am following his rhythm. 

And I moan.

Somehow I’ve lost track of myself and I notice his hands are in my panties. I don’t remember how he got there and I mentally kick myself for zoning out. I can feel him navigating his way through the folds of my pussy, and the thought of him finding my clit and wrapping his fingers around it sends a shiver down my spine.
“What?” He asks, noticing.
“Just cold,” I tell him, kissing him back. I don’t tell him that he drives me crazy; that I know my panties are drenched and that I’m slightly embarrassed because I have no control over my body right now, that I’ve been half in love with him, half confused since the day I met him.
Instead, I tell him, “Touch me,” and he runs his warm hands up my body in response.
I can feel my nipples tighten as he runs his fingers across them. I look down; my round, smooth areolas are now tight and wrinkled. He takes a nub in his mouth and I gasp.
“Bite,” I tell him, and he does, just a nip, and it feels like lightning. I throw my head back, losing myself again, but before I am gone for too long he picks my head up and draws me up to kiss him.
“Fuck me,” I beg, tugging his pants down. He knows I am impatient. He could choose to be cruel and hold back, force me to wait, but my impatience must mirror his own because he simply nods.
We are both half dressed. Maybe another time we will take our time, tease each other and play before sex, but I want him inside me now. So he complies, pulling that magnificent cock out of hiding. And my mouth waters.
I touch it; its curved in all the right places, wide so that whenever he fucks me it stretches my insides to the limit; I once came just from the feeling of it rubbing my clit.
He enters me. “How does it feel,”he asks. He loves hearing me talk dirty; I am more candid in writing. So I blush, and I hesitate, too shy to say it out loud even though I’ve written dirtier things to him in my sleep.
He chuckles, noticing my hesitation. “Tell me.”
“It’s so hard,” I exclaim. And it’s true. His dick feels like a club. I’ve been tight for so long it takes a few seconds for my pussy to adjust and mold itself to his dick, so that for those few seconds I am experiencing a state of exquisite pain that I don’t want to end.
“It feels perfect,” I tell him, and this is true too. I can ride him for hours. His dick is big enough that it stretches my insides pleasantly, but not too big that it hurts. He could be as rough as he wants with me and I keep wanting more. More. More. More.
He rides me, on all fours so that my clit only has a passing acquaintance with his body. I groan in frustration, trying to pull him down to me but he ignores the hint. He is afraid to put his weight on me, afraid that he will hurt me when the truth is it’s exactly what I need. To feel his weight on me. To know that its him.
Instead he gets on his knees and cups my butt cheeks, pulling me towards him without pulling away from me. I wrap my arms around his neck and continue kissing him, so that I am half hanging, half sitting on his lap. And here my clit is in full contact with that spot on his pelvic bone right above his dick. I could marry that spot. That spot right above his dick that fits perfectly on top of my clit has made me come more times than I can remember. I want to draw arrows pointing towards it; a bulls-eye, maybe. Something that says, Press Here For Orgasm So I know exactly where to go.
I am ready to come. My pussy is softer now, tense with the pending orgasm but molded perfectly to his dick. As I feel the orgasm building somewhere in the bottom of my belly he takes the opportunity to sneak a finger towards my asshole and taps it.
I gasp, jumping slightly. He chuckles, deep in his throat, but he doesn’t stop, slipping two fingers in my ass before I can protest, a reminder of what is to come.
In response, I clench my pussy around his dick tightly so that he growls, pulls me tighter with his other hand as he finger fucks my ass harder, and I come. I come. I come.
And boy, do I come; as I feel his knuckles inside my ass I can feel an uncontrollable wave of convulsions let loose. My clit is so sensitive by now I’m not sure how long this orgasm is going to last; I’m hoping for forever.

“Enjoy it,” he tells me. And then, and only then, do I close my eyes.