'Shape Of Desire'

by Sandrine Lopez




Do wishes, dreams, fantasies, have edges? A shape you can define... ?

Mine is slender. just enough curve to keep guys interested. Not that there's any lack. But I'm loyalty, faithfulness, defined. I love my boyfriend John. It's nearly our first anniversary together.

Then why am I so... bored?

He's not far off tall, handsome, dark. But somehow, somewhen, we got in a rut. The physical side of things, so wonderful at first...

"John, it's a bit late? I've got shitloads of stuff to do tomorrow... "

His hand creeps up my thigh. I want him too, but there have few nights recently where we haven't. Trying to be responsible here...

"Stop it!" I slap his hand away, playfully, as forcefully as my dwindling resistance allows. He doesn't believe me. To be honest, neither do I.

"You know you want to... " He nibbles my ear, pokes his tongue in...

Giggling like a little girl, I playfight him off. He can't keep his hands off me. Not long after, I can't help myself either.

"Tit for tat!" I yelp, dragging his shirt off as he fairly rips my blouse open. "Hey, play nice, I need that later."

He laughs at the word 'tit'... typical! His bare arms show nice tats too... I run my tongue up one, tasting his arty scars. His searches out my exposed nipple, suckles it, then more of me, into submission.

We're a writhing, barely dressed, chuckling twist of entwined limbs, joined bodies. The fun of mock wrestling melts into the joy of shared, heightened pleasures.

We giggle after too, like naughty kids...

Memories, the feel of him still on me. In me...

When did that stop, John? Where did the fun go? We're more schedule than spontaneity now.

Yes, busy work lives... tick. Don't live together yet, own homes to run... check. It's still good but fucking him, and him fucking right back, should be mind blowing. Knocking socks off. Tickles all over. Forgeting who I am! Like it used to.

Where was I? Oh yes... shapes of desire.

I guess our relationship has gone square now. We're two lines, opposite sides, of a box, separated by routine and habit. It happens...

Our anniversary is next weekend. I plan cards, gifts, surprises, as any girlfriend should. And, down the pub after work, chat with mates about them.

"You think John'll like this?" I go through my checklist, after the latest spending spree. A quiet murmur of 'uh huhs' and 'yups'.

They're not even looking.

I follow their stares. As one eight-eyed creature, a quartet of female lust has homed in on the very cute bit of guy ass, tight slacks draped to perfection, hanging from the bar. Very nice, but...

Back to reality. One more round, then home to party plan.

I'm surprised no-one fights me to get the drinks. As luck has it I find a space next to Mr Cute Ass. Intuition tells me four pairs of laser sharp sight are burning holes in his bum.

"Hiiiiiii!" A smooth voice, deep with intent. Sing-song tones. Embrace, snog, and 'sleep with me', rolled into one short word. I sense, rather than hear, the collective gasp behind me. Part of me I thought dormant stirs.

I rattle off my order, about to pay when a dark, chocolate-coloured hand waves a twenty.

"My pleasure, for you girls." I've resisted so far but now have to look him in the eyes, sultry brown, molten cocoa, a gaze that penetrates like...

Pins and needles...

"Thank you." I blush. He tsks and shakes his head. Takes my chin in a strong, gentle palm and kisses me fully. My pursed lips suddenly unlocked by the key of his tongue.

"No, thank you." My body takes moments to catch up with my whirling mind. His taste in my mouth lingering. When my eyes open - shit... when did I close them? - he's gone.

"Your change, miss?" The barman drops coins in my hand, along with a slip of paper. One lapse of consciousness later, I'm sitting at the table again, surrounding by open mouths and wide eyes.

"You absolutely lucky slut!" Laughter all round.

Swig my drink down in one. "Sorry girls, love and leave... "

Standing, I drop the coins in my purse and uncrumple the receipt, only it's not. A name and a number. It can only be Mr Chocolate. I should throw it but instead...

Good evening, this is your wake up call.

*

I am getting to that shape... believe me.

Without even knowing, John and I have dwindled to two points.

A third point makes a triangle.

His name is Clem.

Amidst preparations, my thoughts drift to Mr Made-Of-Chocolate Clem. Chocolate is my weakness. Now the god of Chocolate tempts me even further. Not talking calories or pounds added to my weight but whole fucking kilos. Of him. On me. Fucking.

A single taste, like a drug, expands to addiction. A name and number. Stare at it for whole lunch breaks alone, John-less nights. A need. A fix.

I wake in the John-less bed, the night before our anniversary eve, dark around me closing like a sheet manifestation of Clem, until it presses on my bare hot skin. Then realise my fingers are between my widened thighs, delving, slipping into heated wetness, digging further...

Another embodiment, wishful naked urges, of him.

Cold sweats. Hot flushes.

My lust is wide-eyed awake now. I need to nip its bud that evening after work. Call him to decline, politely.

Only it doesn't quite work out that way.

"Let's meet and talk about it." His deep, mesmerising voice suggests.

I can but obey.

*

When I get to the bar, the same we met in, Clem is chatting away with an all-too-familiar face.

John.

I feel like I've been set up. Entrapped. Then realise it's John's regular too - where we met. Habit made me careless. Coincidence brought them together. Biting my lip, I step forward and say, "Hi."

Both John and Clem turn, thinking I'm addressing them alone. In a single motion, they lean to kiss me...

I should be glad, somehow, but can only wince when they pause, glance at each other and...

Huh?

And...

You?

A moment everyone tries to avoid. Do I fancy Clem? If I'm honest...? Do I still want John? Think so. Rules tend to say, end one relationship before starting another. Get over it. Clear rebound territory. Unless you drop someone for another. Not the first time, I doubt the last. On the other hand, the first law of wing-walking says...

Decisively, John hugs me and kisses with passion. It's like home, welcoming and comfortable. Familiar. Yet that can breed contempt. Has it already?

Then, as if challenged, Clem sweeps me in his arms, plows a burning channel between my lips with his tongue again, one side to other, before letting go. The pins and needles return, vengefully, pricking where I'm most sensitive. Arousal redlines into breathlessness.

I've barely steadied when John takes me, a heart-stopping smooch you only dream about, his hands almost crushing my pelvis into his groin. The largest erection ever awaits, separated only by fabric, decency and time... mainstays of civilisation. My insides do a heated, soaked, backflip at its pressure.

It's probably the crudest of clichés but Clem is now a wild tribesman, claiming his woman. With a low growl, his embrace is untamed, animal, predator on prey. His kiss is ownership, body and soul. What he lacks in size he makes up for in compact hardness, jungle diamond, cutting through my glass relationship. Forget him, his mouth explains wordlessly, I am all you will ever need...

Score at half-time... two-all. Just.

The barman slams his palm on the top. "Oi, you three... if you want to cause a scene, do it outside!"

We've acquired a small audience around the pub. I take John and Clem, one on each arm, and we exit hastily, stage left.

*

My nearby studio flat.

I can sense John wanting to protect me but Clem is laid back. As if he can taste victory in my attraction, a humid panting need, alone. Bring it on, his body language responds to my excitement and John's petulance equally. I angle myself between them.

"Look," I begin, "It's all a big misunderstanding... "

"He is your man, yes?" Clem has an uncanny grasp of the obvious. I nod, shamefaced. He roars with laughter. "He is handsome. I like him."

A pause while I pick my jaw up from the floor. Then John's which is beside it.

"I am new in town. Making friends. I like you both to be my friends, yes?"

As disarming apologies go, that's pretty unbeatable. All's well that's ends well, you're probably thinking. That's not really a triangle, is it?

It gets better. Or worse, depending on your point of view...

Clem embraces us both, group hug all round. He looks at John, kisses me again, deeply, passionately, with a laugh. We all laugh. Then he looks at me, kisses John with the same vigour, and roars with joy. John and I, sort of, don't...

"All friends!" Clem claims.

Excuse me while I check that dictionary definition again... ?

"You do not mind I chat your man up?"

Normally I'd be jealousy personified if another girl so much as glanced at John. Even though I think things have cooled, I understand how he feels. But another guy?

Am I smirking now at the thought Clem was actually hitting on John in the pub as well?

"So... " Searching for polite ways to ask, "...you're bi?"

Clem spreads his palms outwards, "Girls... guys... why discriminate? I love you all."

I am so glad that's sorted.

"But I am better lover. The best. Fact."

If ever a more daring gauntlet had been thrown down, I'd like to hear. I'll admit Clem has the edge. John plays safe - symphony compared to jazz. Once I learned John's tunes, able to sing duets with him, I always knew where the notes were going. Clem improvises, makes it up as he goes. It's all new. That's his appeal.

"I think... " I begin, surprising myself, "I'd like proof of that."

Clem folds his arms, nods knowingly at John. "The lady has tasted, and finds you wanting."

Thanks Clem... wouldn't have put it quite so indelicately. But yeah, with you in spirit...

To my further surprise, John picks up that gauntlet - sorry for mixing metaphors but things are now pretty stirred anyway - and runs with it.

"Perhaps," he tells me, "Clem is right. You're not as good a kisser as he is."

Now I'm jealous.

Triangles were never this complicated in simple geometry...

*

My bed, more specifically my naked body, has become a game board. Black versus white, like chess, dark against light, as far as my guys are concerned. Competitive sex, winner takes...

Hey, did anyone actually decide what the prize was?

Clem and John, bare as myself, one either side, pick up from where they were in the pub. My lips bounce between theirs, mulling on their respective snogs. Clem still the innovator, explorer of every part of my mouth, kissing so hard he almost grinds our teeth together, setting me in exhilarated edge. John there to caress and comfort with his tongue.

Their bodies advance over mine, a creeping barrage of skin, hot flesh pressed, sometimes slipping over, or sticking to, the damp perspiration slowly covering us all. I can hear their hearts in stereo, and when they synchronise, it makes my own pound faster, match the rhythm.

My head cradled in John's arm, and with his free hand, habitual stroking I know so well. Clem breaks formation, kneels up to use both hands on me, in tandem with his mouth, fingers and tongue in deft manoeuvres down from my neck, gently attacking a breast, claiming the nipple on it, finding ribs under skin, falling into my belly button. Then the last push towards my exposed muff, and beyond...

Dark plays to win.

John flips over, his lips and tongue at my toes, quivering over them, alternating suckles and licks, then working upwards. It's an old trick but massaging my legs relaxes me blissfully. Thumbing my calves, a hand strongly pummling each thigh, he gains territory like a pro.

Light... my fire.

To John, I am home ground, experience the advantage. Clem strikes me as always on guard, learning with every step. Each taste of me remains fresh to him. I gain from his child-like elation, permeating with new discovery.

The two players raise the stakes of the game. Touch and tease burns into naked arousal, appetites to be satisfied. I've been hot since John's first kiss, horny after Clem's, now my blood boils as both seek to better the other. I might be the trophy but it's win-win for me either way...

For the first time, their hands meet over my mons, pausing in a finger face-off. Clem slips down, easing my parted thighs wider with a slight flick. John cups my whole pussy in his palm, blocking him as one tip swirls deeper into my softly soaked slit. Suddenly the oppressive proximity, the subtle drowning in two men, means nothing compared to that first tender penetration. The one spot round John's finger is all I am, and it finds voice in a single shuddering gasp. Need in hands searching, finding steadiness by gripping a rigid erection near each hip.

I can sense Clem batting John's hand aside, then... intimate sensitivity counts two, three, all four of his fingers, powerful and long, slicing, rippling inside. John's single finger was bliss, Clem is pleasure almost to pain, as I'm stretched, opened. Just as I think, body and mind on fire, that awe - delight and fear - can go no further, John is there too.

Somehow he worms index finger and thumb alongside, tight against each other, then parts them delicately inside me. Widens them, widens me until I can take no more. He gently grips Clem's fingers and eases them back out, massages his palm slowly over my whole aching cunt, soothing me towards a resolution for round one. The release makes me spasm involuntarily under his welcome caress. As I climax loudly, both John and Clem find a side of my open crying mouth and kiss it.

"So I was better, yes?" Clem sounds less certain now.

The room, their two faces so close to mine, stops spinning through the afterimage fireworks of orgasm. Pale sun of John, dark eclipse of Clem...

"Together... " I gasp, "You were both incredible... together." Not exactly a lie but would familiarity with Clem diminish sex the same way as had with John? Maybe competitiveness makes both keener, stops either from becoming complacent.

I want to know more... want both inside me. Does Clem fuck with the same creativity, that noble savagery, as his kisses? And can John learn from it like he just did?

Can John even bear the thought of Clem fucking me? Not just discretely in an illicit affair, but right here, right now, right in fucking front of him?

As if reading my innermost forbidden thoughts... okay, perhaps the expression on my face as I contemplated that, gave the game away... Clem rolls onto me. Slips right into me, without so much as a by your leave.

"Fuck!" I gasp.

That wasn't a request, Clem.

But he does anyway. I should be resisting, complaining, for John's benefit if not mine, even if curious, craving, for this black bi boy. Surprisingly, John doesn't leap to my defence either. I feel him holding my hand, tightly, reassuringly, then...

As Clem has lowered his lips from mine, down my breast to my nipple again, John kisses me. A repeat of that lovely smooch in the pub.

Have they taken my saying, that together they were incredible, literally?

My soul, our year-long cosiness, goes out to John. He parts my lips as only he can know how. Embraces and cuddles my shoulders. He can still make my heart beat fast.

Down below, Clem's pubes are rougher than John's against my muff. Brillo pad rough, and he scrubs me in ways that would get any oven sparkling. Just don't put a bun in there...

Clem isn't as big as John but what he lacks size-wise he more than makes up for innovatively. Recall my own fingers pretending to be him. I was nowhere near in practice. He seems to rush round inside, child in a sweetshop, hurrying from side to side, up and down, to feel all of what's on offer. Finding points that give me pleasure, twitch and quiver, to those inner responses, he revisits them and makes them his.

Exuberantly, energetically, his.

John's lips wash my neck. "Fuck!" I pant, again. This time, it's pure longing. For either. Both.

John's tongue shags my mouth. His pushes match Clem's rhythm, whose cock is on overdrive now. My hips are arching round him for a multiple. His teeth nibble at my nip.

My arms reach up, one clawing at John's back, the other pulling Clem to me, compulsions for him to be closer than close. Grab his chocolate arse and make sure he's as deep as possible. Thighs wrapping, feet locking, up, over, round, behind.

Give me that sweet creamy chocolate goodness...

And he does. God with a cap 'G', does he!?

Fever breaks my senses. Bursts of glowy perspiration on my body, as one by one, each topples like dominos. Eyes blinded by colour, taste of John in my mouth dulling against the matchless flavour of Clem's cum twanging like taut elastic beneath my belly. All I can feel is skin pressed to mine... I no longer know who is which. The sweet but sharp scent of my guys' sweat dripping on me. And the rushing roar in my eyes, that drowns out our chorus of shouts and sighs, to become the song of angels, accompanied by bells ringing, very loudly.

Enough of the metaphors already, girl!

My twat is opening and closing round Clem so fast, it's almost like a small round of applause. Again, maestro!

Didn't I just say... ? Back to the moment... the sex...

I'm at death's door. I must be dying. Going to heaven. Surely.

Clem has just fucked me the great-grand-daddy of all fucks. If I thought sex had become tame with John, here it is again in all its glory. It's like having new batteries. Oooh... did I just think that out loud? Or being plugged into the mains. I feel my hair is standing on end, as goosebumps prickle all over.

Fuck...

This time, because I can't decide. It would be too crass to ask John and Clem to change places, have the other fuck me as I snog his competition. See who is really best.

Wouldn't it?

"A tie... " I finally get enough breath back to whisper. "You're both... fantastic."

Clem looks disappointed. So does John. To them, I'm copping out, skirting choosing an outright winner.

Gnawing my lip, a big glowy, orgasm-inspired lightbulb of an idea flickers, then shines bright above my very messed hair.

"Why don't... you two choose?" I decide. "After all John, you said Clem was a better snog. Perhaps you should check that for certain, then see if I'm as good under you?"

My eyes dart back and forth, looking for approval. Clem seems up for it, if his wet, dark cock hardening in my palm again is any indicator. I grip John's for a sign. He's not going limp, at least.

"Best of three?" I smirk, and slip deeper in the pillow, guiding my two players' lips together to kiss each other over me. There is no resistance.

"So when you two have finished," I sigh contentedly, aware of their musky perspiration continuing to drip on my face and breasts, scented with potential, "I'll be waiting down here... "

So that's our new triangle, our new-found shape of desire. A three-sided relationship, personified by my mons pubis... the lowest, darkest point is me and what I am. The other corners point to John and Clem. Our square may have lost a side... but it gained an edge.

Maybe it won't last beyond this night. Perhaps it will.

The clock chinks to midnight.

Oh... Happy anniversary, John darling.

I hope.


*end*


Victoria Blisse's Sunday Snog

'Three Little Words'

by Sandrine Lopez



I Love You

It began as a game. Short, sweet nothings texted to keep each other interested.

Katherine started it, and to make them short, so much sweeter, the rules were:

Three Words Only

So Christopher sent back:

Be Mine Tonight

Katherine gave a little smile as she read it, feeling her heart skip a beat. Her reply had to be more considered, raising the bar.

Bring Back Sexy

For she knew he would. He already had, and Christopher anticipated that.

Don't I Always?

You smug bastard, Katherine thought. But what she keyed back on her mobile was:

Really Mean It

Christopher felt his temperature start to rise. Katherine usually only said something like that when she really meant it too. Really, deeply felt it. He could sense a growing impatience in the words, so texted:

Don't Wanna Wait

The reply was obvious.

Neither Do I

It was half past two, and Christopher had already eaten. He suspected Katherine had too, so a lunchtime quickie was out of the question. It was Friday. Would either of them be missed for the last few hours?

Wanna Skip Work?

Katherine might be tempted, but anticipation was everything. Keep Him Hungry, she thought, but her text said:

Not A Chance

There was a significant delay. Katherine wondered if she had upset him, put him off.

Still There Honey?

Several minutes more, and nothing. Katherine checked her mobile for signal, and got full strength. As she slipped it back in her bag, it chirped.

Touching Your Muff

Katherine gnawed her lip as she felt a familiar twinge in her panties. She looked around the office to see if anyone had noticed her blush. Anne walked past to use the photocopier nearby. When her back was turned, Katherine asked:

Is It Hard?

No delay from Christopher this time.

As A Rock

The tingle between Katherine's thighs slowly melted in a hot soft dampness, and she shuffled uneasily in her chair. Her legs were crossed neatly under the desk but there was a growing desire to part her thighs. She was able to play that game too.

Imagine Me Sucking

Christopher could all too easily. He was in a board meeting which, thankfully, was coming to a close. Even so, he had difficulty keeping his mind on the concluding minutes, as he read Katherine's text, and his hard-on threatened to lift the table up.

It took two to tango, to flirt, to make love... even over the air.

Clit Needs Attention

Katherine shifted her position in the chair, tense shivers trapped beneath the skin of her stomach, and replied:

Asking Or Telling?

Christopher's answer surprised.

Know So Darling

And he was right. Katherine didn't need to slip a delicate finger between her trembling thighs to sense the swelling bud, starting to ache with need. If he kept this up she was going to leave a damp patch on the chair through her skirt, and that would be beyond embarrassing. She would get her own back.

Tonguing Your Tip

Christopher gave a bit of a jump, and banged his leg on the underside of the table. At least he hoped it was only his knee.

The chairman looked up from his speech and papers. "Are you okay, Chris?"

"Just some cramp." Christopher smiled meekly. God, he had to get out of there soon, or it wouldn't just be a very obvious and enormous erection he would have trouble concealing. He could feel the slight sticky leaking where Katherine's imaginary tongue was playing on his thoughts.

"Nearly done." The chairman reassured him.

So am I, Christopher thought. And sent Katherine:

You Absolute Bitch

She was ready for that.

Nowhere Near, Lover

This time it was Christopher who got even.

My Fingers Inside

Katherine gave a small, involuntary whimper as her desires began to run wild. David, who sat almost opposite, looked up.

"Need a pee." she told him and, picking up her bag, stood and minced to the ladies loo. Katherine hoped her skirt wasn't betraying the wetness that had so far soaked her panties, making them think she already had.

Katherine gasped as she shut the cubicle door, and thumbed back:

Sucking Your Balls

See how you like that, big boy! Then Katherine eased her skirt up, and wiggled out of the clingingly wet undies, before rummaging in her bag for the spare pair she carried in emergencies. And god, was this one. The sirens were sounding, and red lights flashing already. Inside her muff had become a very dangerous zone.

Deep Dirty Digging

Clean, dry panties bridging her knees, Katherine sat on the loo. She was aware she was perspiring, more than her thighs starting to tremble. She couldn't stop her fingertip slipping down and touching herself. With her free hand, she texted:

Rubbing That Stiffy

Katherine was unaware Christopher had at last, desperately, got out of the meeting and was likewise secreted in a toilet cubicle. He replied:

Enquiring Or Wishing?

Her nail flicked over her clit, now so acutely trigger sensitive she thought she was going have a small, urgent climax right then and there. Her thumb stumbled over her mobile keys.

I'd Do Better

In his cubicle, trousers down, Christopher stood holding his cock, caressed its solid, hot, veiny length.

You Aren't Here

That settles it. Katherine counted to ten and brought her raging libido under control as far as she was capable. Weekend begins now, she thought, and patted herself as dry as possible before straightening her clothing. Then she had one final adjustment before she got back to the office, and excused herself for the rest of the afternoon. Thankfully, her boss waived it off with a kindly, "Have a nice weekend."

I intend to, Katherine thought. Her next action was to text:

Yours Or Mine?

Christopher smiled. He knew that must also mean Right Fucking Now!

Did I Win? He sent.

Katherine wasn't going to give him the benefit of that victory. His prize would be her, anyway.

Well Did I? Christopher pushed.

There was another delay while she got to her car, keying the ignition like a woman possessed. Before she drove off, she had to know where. And there, at last, was Christopher's answer.

The Closest. Quickly

His place.

Already There Sweetie. Katherine replied.

And with a screech of tyres, she joined the traffic at speed.


*

Christopher's car was already in the drive by the time Katherine arrived. She parked beside it and checked her mobile.

Guess I Did

Katherine had almost broken land speed records in her frantic drive across town.

Wipe That Smile

- when she really meant This Time Yes. And Next Time No.

An instant response.

The Door's Open

Katherine didn't even bother locking her car as she skipped up the steps and threw herself into the hall. There was silence but she suspected Christopher was already in the bedroom. She asked anyway:

Where Are You?

Hide And Seek

Katherine let out a shriek of frustration, and pounded up the stairs, matching the pounding in her panties, driven by lust gone wild. Nope, Christopher wasn't in bed or the room. She raced onto the landing, mobile in hand.

Cruelly Denying Pussy

She listened intently for giveaway keying sounds.

There's No Justice

Damn, Katherine thought, he must be on silent, the bastard! She would have to draw him out.

Softly Sweetly Dripping

She kicked off her heels and padded down the stairs. If Christopher was upstairs, she was sure she would have heard something.

Getting Warm Perhaps? He teased her.

Hornily Hot, Honey

In the lounge, Katherine looked round and spied the toes of Christopher's shoes under the full-length curtains. She put her mobile on silent as well, and thumbed in a text ready. Got you now, she thought, as she tip-toed slowly towards them. Send:

Peek A Boo!

Katherine pulled the curtains to one side but found no Christopher. Only his shoes. She didn't have time to react before she was grabbed from behind, to be tossed onto the big soft sofa.

"Peek A Boo." Christopher grinned. And then he jumped on her.

Katherine welcomed his weight on her, his hands finding their way all over. One reached up her skirt, teasing its way up her thigh but fund no other clothing, only a warm, welcoming wetness.

"No panties, sweetie." she purred.

Christopher hummed his approval. "Three little words..."

"Stick with it." Katherine told him, as she unbuttoned his shirt and ran her fingers over his chest. Then she started on his trouser belt but being pinned, it was awkward for her. "Take those off." she demanded.

Christopher knelt up and shrugged his shirt off, undoing his trousers with bold confident moves. "Your wish fulfilled."

"Socks as well." Katherine raised an eyebrow. Christopher peeled them off, and towered over her in just his silk boxers. Which, she noticed, had a very large damp patch upfront, where something long, thick and hard was making an effort to push its way out. She reached out and stroked the damp material with a smile. It twitched a bit.

"My fault, perhaps?" she asked.

"It always is." Christopher replied.

"Mmmmm, my hero." Katherine knelt up and teased the boxers down to reveal Christopher's huge erection. As she pulled them down his thighs, she let her lips find the tip, and ran her hot tongue over it.

Pausing for a breath, she looked up. "Is that nice?"

"A rhetorical question?" Christopher gasped.

Katherine gripped his shaft and slowly stroked its long girth, with a satisfied sound. Then she took Christopher in her mouth again and sucked on him lustily, rubbing and twisting his cock in her palm.

"Oh. My. God." he whispered.

"Uuh mmm mmmuhMMMM?" Katherine hummed, mouth full. You taste delicious, she thought.

"Mouth full... rude." Christopher chided her humourously, as he stroked her brunette hair.

"Hmmmuh uh uhmmm." Whatever you say.

Katherine pushed Christopher back on the sofa, his cock still between her lips, so he half-sat, half-lay on it. She gave him a few moments more of exquisite sucking and rubbing, before kneeling up so he could take her clothes off as well.

"Your turn now." she advised. He eagerly undid her blouse, unhooked her bra, and let her skirt fall. With a neat kick, she sent the last garment into the corner.

"She shoots... scores!" Katherine grinned.

"Scores is right." Christopher agreed, and guided her thighs so she straddled him, knees either side of his legs. Katherine didn't need to guide him. His cock was rigid and upright, and the wet depths of her pussy slowly settled around him as her mouth had done, moments before.

Katherine began to rock herself on her lover's blissfully huge and hard erection, letting her cunt ripple over him. Christopher's head lolled back in ecstasy, as she stroked his face, lovingly. "Welcome home, darling." she sighed.

Christopher took one of her pert nipples between his lips and, as he moved from one to the other, sighed. "You're an angel..."

Katherine giggled, "My halo's slipped."

'I'm so dead..." Christopher could barely speak. He knew exactly where that exquisite, golden ring had fallen to. What it now surrounded.

"Gone to heaven." Katherine added, as he found hers. The tip of Christopher's cock seemed to reach up inside Katherine, and massage her heart. Caress her soul.

Their gentle motions began to increase in speed and urgency. Both had been driven to the extreme edge of horniness by the text game, and now they needed release from it.

"Faster, sweetness, faster..." Katherine sighed, bouncing up and down on him as if he was a trampoline.

"Are.. you.. close.. ?" Christopher asked.

Katherine nodded, though that was difficult for him to tell as she juddered up and down. "Fuck... yeah... nearly... "

"How... about... now?"

"Yeah... yes! YES!"

Christopher brought his hips up a few times more before Katherine threw her head back, and gave a sighing scream of rapture as he let go of everything he had. The burning heat of his cum filled her, as she felt all her pent-up Friday afternoon frustrations melt away inside.

"Come... my angel... " Christopher gasped.

Katherine's next three words were more sounds of intense, inexpressible, pleasure.

"What... was that... ?" He urged her.

Three more sounds. A high moan of bliss. A cry of sudden, surprised sensation. A squeal of... something hidden, untold.

"Works for me... " Christopher conceded.

Katherine slowly descended from her cloud of ecstasy, a glistening stain of hot perspiration now dressing her smooth pink skin. As her sensibilities returned to her gaze, she took in the powerful image of Christopher in front of her, beneath her, inside her. She didn't need to see the musky, heavenly sweat on him. As she ran her hands over his chest, she could feel the drips moistening her fingers. Her thighs, spread over him, also testified to his all-enveloping wetness.

"Do that again." She smiled.

Never The End...



Victoria Blisse's Sunday Snog

#wankwednesday #word


- - - - - - - -

Sandrine's notes:

This was my initial submission for UStar's story competition in 2009. I thought a simple idea would suffice, especially as the names had to be specific for reader personalisation. But while it was fun to write, it probably didn't have the impact or international scope they were looking for. I still enjoy its straightforward approach.

'Visions Of The Past'

by Sandrine Lopez



They tore down part of my life. A whole chunk of my history.

25 isn't that old. It's OAPs, grannies, grumpy old gits, who moan about what no longer exists. Forests replaced by towns and cities. Fields lost to buildings, motorways.

I never thought these would also be destroyed like countryside, stripped away.


*

Driving to my beautician, I never used to notice my school. Always part of the landscape.

Then someone killed it. Like the twisted guts of classrooms I once sat in, now spilled open in architectural gore, my stomach turned. One whole exterior wall savaged away, a gaping mortal wound of demolition.

I felt violated, in shock. Town planning murder under a sunny blue sky. Sky I could now see clean through it.

I chat with Sanjula but being newer to town, the school means nothing. Watch her strip off my leg fuzz, wondering what greenery was exfoliated, before it was built. She uses talc to ease the pain as hairs are torn away. The laceration in my life lacks that buffer.

I drive by the school again. There is no samaritan, no doctor, to help.

Its time is past. Like dinosaurs, neanderthals, the dodo. Strange new extinction. And an attempt at preservation.


*

My new digicam seems unlimited after the 35mm SLR Dad once gave me. Over 700 photos compared to 36 max - no competition. New replaces old. I suddenly feel guilty. We all do it. Life uses and discards.

I stand by the dead school. All the children have long since bled out of it. The nervous system of teachers and admin transplanted elsewhere. I take pics of its rib-cage girders, the bones of its columns, the sightless stare of what was reception.

I want to be closer before this is lost forever. A gap in the low-voltage fencing I could squeeze through. A lazy summer Saturday mid-morning. I shouldn't be seen. Ignore the danger signs forbidding entry. Get tingling shocks from the wires.

Scrambling, crunching, over scattered bricks I step right inside, hanging reinforced concrete silhouetted against the sun. It's scary, stomach-churning, to stand where I once learned, now a hollow stiff. I remember the sounds, calling of register... Ramona Rodriguez? Here, sir... the smells... girls' perfumes and boys' sweat... her friends, peroxide hair and shortened hems because guys like leggy blondes... The school lives again briefly.

Silence echoes in the emptiness. Except for a noise, the crunch of boots on rubble.

"You really shouldn't be here, miss." A man's voice. I turn.

There's something familiar... it's been years and he's filled out. No longer the skinny teen but a well-built, better defined, man now.

"Moanie?" he uses my old nick.

"Natter?" An I-D clipped to his navy sweatered chest gives his proper name and job - Nathaniel Wallis, Security.

It would be him. Ex-school boyfriend. Lover. Not just any but the first. The one who demolished my virginity.

There's that awkwardness you have with exs, guys who haven't only seen you naked but been inside you, beyond intimate. A tingle of frisson deep down, a candle still burning. A trickle on my thigh. Perhaps summer perspiration, or maybe an echo of memories.

Grip my digicam uneasily, as snapshots of starter sex surface from my subconscious. Frighteningly naive fumblings, that inelegant playground between sex education and supposed experience. Boys boast and girls gossip.

You'd either done it, or hadn't.


*

Snapshots: Spring '03

I've been study-buddied with Nathaniel Wallis to help my sciences. He's weak on English. What a geek...

First study period. He doesn't say a lot. If you can't think the words, how can you write them? But he's good on science. I may just pass...

Been twirling my hair when studying. Noticed how grey Nat's eyes are. He's not bad for a boy actually...


*

"I... I..." Caught like a naughty schoolgirl. "The school'll be gone soon.... I wanted to make sure..."

"Yes." Nat doesn't say much. Still has deep grey eyes. "I'll escort you out, Moanie. But won't report the trespass."

"Thanks." I smile.

"Will you..." He's awkward, "Miss this place?"

A shrug. "Some of it." We pass the remains of the main hall.


*

Snapshots: Summer '03

Saw Nat as we queued for exams by hall. I showed him crossed fingers, he gave me a big thumbs up. We did good I think...

Nat asked me out. Well, go to seaside for the day. We held hands & kissed. Think he's my <3 boyf now...

I call him Natter, because he doesn't. He dubs me Moanie, because I am.

I PASSED!!! :-D Collecting results with Natter and gave him big snog. He failed English. Feel like I let him down. 'Words don't matter.' he said. That actually says a whole lot


*

He leads me out a different way. I'm not sure it's deliberate but past the bike sheds. He looks at them, me, then away.


*

Snapshots: Summer '03

End of year results school party with Nat. Both 18 and adults now. Got very pissed & giggly. As I wobbled round dance floor he steadied me & whispered 'Let's do it now... ' Took me outside to bike sheds under summer moon. Hot dizziness for Nat. Or maybe it's the alcopops.

Always thought first time would be romantic & lovey-dovey. In bed with flowers. Think Nat's done this before, he knew what to do. I thought I did but...

I passed biology because of Natter. He musta paid more atten to sex ed. I just went 'eewww'. Gross! More gross than that frog we dissected. Thought I was gonna be sick...

He does know words. Tender ones to ease my pain because it hurts at first. 'Do we have to... ?' I asked, as he lifted me up on bike railings, pulled my panties down, and eased my legs apart. He snogged me meaningfully. That's a yes then?

It's weird having a guy inside you. Feelings, twitches, movements, which aren't yours but gradually are. When Nat came it was like he made part of himself into me. Still wondering if I came or not. Girlfriends say you know when you do because it's like nothing else ever. So very intense even if I didn't.

Mum & Dad rarely swore so I never did but fuck! Ohmygod... fuck! Can see why people say it now. It's the most extremes word for the most profound feelings. Like being electrified. Every little hair on my skin being pulled. Hugging, kissing, tightly as we grind on each other. Sneezing inside... an irritating itch then suddenly, satisfyingly, letting go. Sweet soreness after.

I think I'm sure I did...


*

Nat opens the security gate for me. "Still live just over the road. That's how I saw you. Handy for this job, 'til school's gone..."

I frown at the reminder.

"Fancy a cuppa?" he asks.


*

Snapshots: Autumn '03

Natters licked me and I went down on him. Words don't matter when you use tongues like that.

Mum found my diary. My private thoughts about Natters trespassed. She hugged me & cried. I cried too. I'm not a little girl any more.

Dad is angry. Grounded me for a month. Confiscated my mobile, & keys except when going to work.

I'm not a fucking little girl! Mum & Dad shocked. I'm a fucking woman! They know. Words matter. Two months.

I try & see Nat whenever. Call him from work. Miss Rodriguez, the phone is not for personal use! Verbal warning. Words matter.

Snatched 1 til 2pm shags with Nat. Packed lunches at first, then shorter infrequent snacking. Just as I was getting good at it.

Theory of sex education. Practical application. Those textbook words now matter, make sense. It all fits. Grade B+. Loving my wetness. Squeezing on Nat's dick when he's inside. Liking his weird oozy taste.

Grounding ends December. We'll be together for Xmas.


*

I peer through the lounge window of Nat's place while he makes tea. His parents are away.

A mug is plonked on the table. "You can see more upstairs." He says.

Nat is right. The view is better. Where we stood, the open classroom. I aim my digicam and shoot.


*

Snapshots: Winter '03

Grounding ends.

I see Nat at long last but he says he's seeing someone else now. Me dissected frog-like. Heart torn out. I love you, Nat...

Cry myself to sleep each night. Want to die...

Parents ask what I'd like for Xmas. What I want they can't give.


*

Nat's hand on my shoulder. Whispers in my ear.

Ignore the danger signs forbidding entry.

We suddenly grapple at each other's clothing. Tear them open like the side of the school. Expose our skin to the hot air in his bedroom. An old summer night again, newly confined in walled daylight.

No more naive fumblings. We'd done it many times since. There's a breathless naked moment, facing each other, silence only broken by our panting.

Words don't matter.

Walls come tumbling down.

Our flesh collides, he slams his body against mine as if to demolish it. My nails excavate at his back so hard I might be drawing blood.

Wall of his room shudders as he lifts me up, knees draped over elbows, and grind my muff while I'm rammed against it. As he opens me up, the inner walls of my wet cunt tremble too but don't give way, just yet.

I can't help but think of school. How it brought us together twice. Lessons learned there.

Like the dead building, my time with Nat is past. I consider this, several years late, as getting him out of my system. I don't feel for him anymore, but I have needs.

And he was always good at biology.

Security minded pro now, he does a complete search of my every limb, each nerve, on his bed now. Lips on my skin. Tongue between my lips, toes, thighs, against my swollen sensitive clit. His fingers stroke my hair, massage my stomach, claw at me, gripping and spreading... then his cock slips into my gaping openness again.

My body feels taken apart, deconstructed, by the fearlessness of his fucking. Intense then, extreme now. My teen years are past, budding maturity replaced by the fullness of womanhood.

He still feels weird inside but bigger, more experienced. Bold feelings, wild twitches, confident movements. When he comes, I do for certain this time. If a building could scream when it's demolished, that's what I sound like. Loud, deep, crushed. Inner walls give way.

Attishoo, attishoo, all fall down!

I was useless at French but know la petite mort. Only, not so small. Death by dirtiness. Dirtier than muddy grass stains on a girl's playful knees.

But no longer as green.


*

Nat's parents are back a week Monday. I don't want him to know where I live now but take the Friday before off so we can be together again in his bed. I never did throw sickies, even at school. I was a good girl. Once.

I consider the end of school epitomised Nat dropping me. Its destruction is a new start.

We fuck each other silly, as across the road the heavy machines finally tear it down. I don't want to watch but the satisfying sounds of its passing mix with my own, as Nat teaches me more about biology.

Adult education. Sex: advanced theory & practical. New positions. Creativity welcome.

The sounds, wet sucking, slapping of Nat's cock inside... my moans of pleasure... the smells, scent of sweat, and the sharpness of his cum stirring my wetness... the sights, his face against mine, then above me, below me, as we build new structures with our entwined bodies...

Grade A+

Study buddies no more. Fuck buddies... perhaps.

I take some pictures of his exhausted, naked, sleeping body on the bed. Review them later, like the photos of school, then delete them all.

Use and discard.

I'm past caring.


*end*


Fuck Me Friday: Smut for the Weekend by Aisling Weaver

'The Look, The Book, My Life'

by Sandrine Lopez


- - -


A lazy, half empty, half-baked, off-peak beach bar, between civilisation and desolation, on the road to nowhere. A one in a million chance meeting as I'm just passing through, destination unconsidered, librarian on a break.
It's desert hot and dusty outside, uncharacteristic November, red indian summer. I'm sipping my chilled drink as he comes through the open doors, like a warm breeze trying to act autumn cool. There's something not quite right about him, like he doesn't belong, doesn't fit into the boxes society demands. The kind of person people cross streets to avoid because he innately makes them uneasy, without them knowing why. Plenty of spare seats available but those few scattered sober and unsober bodies shuffle vaguely to claim their territory. Don't want you here, the great unspoken shout.
Separating unruly dirty blond hair and stubble struggling to be a beard, his blue grey eyes dance between laid back and panic. Orders a drink but, frisking his pockets, has mislaid his wallet. He finds it after, in the lining of his jacket. By then I'd come to the rescue and paid for it.
If it is a wordless chat-up routine, I have fallen for it... looks, lust and libido.

His name is Kristoph.
Writer.
From the first time he speaks, I want him. Such poetry and life in so few words. Pretentious perhaps, but I'm a creative, an idealist too. That instant, I am already lost, and the more said, the greater the labyrinth.
Lyrical.
Other guys talk of mundane things, the drudgery of everyday life, rat race run and outdistanced. Any brief encounter, basic instinct, dangerous liaison, tainted by greyness.
Theatrical.
Kristoph aspires to greater things, sublime fantasies perhaps, but ones so like mine, he's like a thief in my thoughts. Anticipated answers, symbiotic speech. I no longer need to say anything, because he knows the whole conversation, the intellectual intimacy of our intercourse.
Dramatic.
But I do need to be there, because words are not enough, even if in my mind they are already made flesh, within my own flesh. His tongue crackles like fire and burns my soul. So hot my skin is soaked and shaking. My underwear clings, from perspiration and other wetness.
Epic.
The merest suggestion of a kiss, let alone sex, from full lips that entice me with lingering and luscious language, makes me gasp because any of his dialogue is prophesy.
Foretold as we meet, our fate sealed by introduction.

Sitting, opposite sides of a table. One drink. Two. Three. He pays, then me. Alternating rounds, raising stakes.
My fingers grip the slender dripping icy glass, wishing for a damp but hot equally solid something.
His fingers dip the cool liquid within his tumbler, sharing unspoken cravings. Desire for another heat. Brings the tips to his lips, kisses, then sucks them. Does it again, gets me to lick them. My lips devour him, over nail and knuckle. Our eyes haven't parted since meeting.
We raise our glasses in a toast. Sharp chink, ideals, hungers, bodies wanting to meet with a slice of noise, twist of lemon, intoxicating smooches. Tongues between lips.
My round. Coffee, trying to clear my stolen head but keep the flow going. Need to know what he writes.
"It's not what but how it is expressed." Kristoph replies, points to my cup.
A latte. Takes my hand, dips a delicate finger in the froth topping.
"Swirling patterns of liquid, coffee complementing milk. Different shades of brown fighting to stop becoming one, the same. The foam... look at all the bubbles. Like people in a crowd. Two pop together. Become one... again and again."
Raises my finger to his mouth. Steals froth from it, tongue under nail. Seduction. Sucking me in. A lightning flash sharp sensation up my arm. Diverging into thoughts already tensing, relaxing, as one, and down my body, where I instinctively squeeze and let go also. Condensation like moisture caught inside the pages of my thighs.
Kristoph's lips lingers on my sensitive knuckle, before falling away. "What would you have me write?"
He doesn't need an answer. He knows. Has always known.
"Intensely arousing, gut deep, wrenching emotional tales... pinching your breath away, the heart drumming, mind burning, juices cascading..."
No guess.
Realise our chairs have subconsciously sidled together. Almost touching.
"If I were to write your story... ?"
To be an actual character in a book, not just vicariously living out others. The thrill of that, yet the fear of being alone with a man I'd only just met.
Who I feel I know, both of our lives. Except...
"And your name?"

Katherine... my name is Katherine.
Reader.
Just hear him say my name makes the already hot, oven close air unbearable. Drawing heavily at the sultry, oxygenless nothingness that still separates us. Barely. Drowning in promise.
Romanticist.
Our spirits have already been intimate, romping playfully between the sheets of imagination. Our bodies must join also.
Fantasist.
I thought I knew men. How they lay themselves on me, the heat of their skin against mine, in me, naked urgencies of night. And how I respond, surrounding them with enthusiastic thighs and clawing embraces, hungry mouth and eager cunt, until we climax, quiet or loud, sighs or cries.
Daydreamer.
Even the best, the most satisfying so far, pales next to Kristoph's words, crafted into art. Language made music. My heart taps its toes and clicks its fingers to his rhythm. My twat throbs to his quietly uttered decibels.
Stargazer.
Blood curdling screams as molten cum erupts into me, at the end of body shattering positions grinding like tectonic plates under earth, are a whisper in comparison. Yet, when Kristoph quietly hisses 'Fuck me Kath...' in my ear, it unfolds into the greatest love-making ever in my mind, an aural orgasm in three mere words.
And not 'I love you'...
Kristoph has already had this conversation.
I am just reciting the transcript.

My words, ideas, yet his binding of them.
Fuck...
Noun. Verb. Adjective. Interjection. Injection. The most versatile word ever. The most multi-faceted act believable. One word. So many positions. Variations on a meme. Me, me...
Me...
Him, that is. One person. I want all those variations, positions, multi-faceted acts, with him. Alone.
Kath...
Me. I'm already halfway between young and old. What does he see in me? What meaning in the space between my words? Between my legs?
And together?
"Say it again." I want to be certain.
He does. I already am. Have always been.

Same road to nowhere.
Bed is inevitable. Has always been.
In the space of those few short drinks, my libido has already planted a flag on the perfect pinnacle of Kristoph's promise, and the only way forward is down. Once that first pebble, his concise invitation loaded with potential, tumbles down the mountain of lust, the avalanche of our fucking is unstoppable.
A rolling stone...
Night would be my choice of venue... a short separation, anticipation, chance to decide. Breathing space when every breath, as my thoughts, has been taken by him. I want time to wash off the dust. Clean my sour sweat into sweetness. Make myself halfway acceptable.
Kristoph dismisses any delay for a nearby, impromptu hotel room. Doesn't bother with silly pseudonyms like 'Mr & Mrs Smith'. Boldly signs both our names openly, one almost on top of the other, with filthy weekend daring.
Make hay while...
Early afternoon sun scorches through open curtains on our bare dirty skin.
No words this time but the unvoiced melody of physical needs. A gentle start would have been nice... quiet overture, instrument building on instrument - touches, kisses, caresses, embraces - to a symphonic climax. No, we hit the bed running, and don't slow down.
Gaze long into the abyss...
Nietzsche warned us, but Kristoph is already there. It gazes back also, pulling him into my holiest, blackest of holes. An absence of me that is everything I am about, what makes me woman. Concealed shade, which the light white of his spunk wants to illuminate. Where I want him to shine, glistening like liquid quicksilver.
Darkest before the dawn...
Shadows fall over the room, setting sun of our high noon idealism replaced by impending twilight, as if my blackest of desires are an eclipse.
Accelerating still. Kristoph's hips jerk within my wrapped thighs, the deep digging of his shaft a blur of sensation, flicking through my pages, as my own hips grip and grind back. Our searing bodies, heaving chests, grasping, gasping the humid searing air.
Fearful symmetry as our bodies clammily cover each other, twisted and hungry.
Burning bright... like tygers in the forest of night

Same nowhere. Different bed.
Days. Nights. Pop together. Become one, strobing, light over dark. Black over white. Yet never grey.
Kristoph and I have popped together. Neither telling where each ends and the other begins.
Both one many-limbed person, pleasuring itself, as we are it. Caressing, rubbing, yielding, succumbing.
His physical self-indulgence soft covers us in a jacket of his making.
Gratifying myself thrills him, us both.
Because we are one coin, just flipsides, mirror images. Head tails. Yin yangs.
So as you open my book, read the torrid swollen pages and delve into their meaning, I tear you open and huddle inside the lurid soul of your profession. Study, deconstruct, as reader, and as one written.
Am I more than pussy to Kristoph. Someone to push his inspiration, a right to fuck, into?
Is he more than cock to me? A body to fill the gap in my life, myself as that yearning abyss.
Perhaps we both want more, but certainly no less, than that.

Adaptations
We cling to the room, claw at the bed, each other, for some meaningless division of time. An hour? A day? A lifetime?
Based on real events
Kristoph is ghost writing the novelisation of my life now. I supply the details of my fantasies, between the sheets, between the pages... my car hurtling us ever faster along coastal road, empty windswept fields one side and crashing waves the other, as he weaves them to words. He's more eloquent with language, tapping away on the keyboard of my body. Describing my character with his fingers, crafting it with his tongue.
Only the names change
No index to what I am, no Dewey Decimal Classification. Fact becomes fiction, embellished here and there, cross-referencing biography (921), english literature (820) and human anatomy (611) into genre-bending erotic tales (Category AR: Adult Romance).
We experience every coupling ever fucked, distill them into short, intense, timeless narratives of each other.
To protect the innocence...
He's my knight in shining spaceships, I'm a damsel in this-little-black-dress. Him Tarzan, me Jane, swinging from the chandeliers. The only limit is imagination, though fictional-fucking-for-fun-fantasies loses something in translation when forceful-for-real-fucking finally fatigues us both. Until the tragi-comic silliness of it all has us in tears of laughter, smiling painful limbs.
Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates Life
Only it doesn't in this case, does it Kristoph?
You bend my confessions, memoirs and desires to make the plot, the scenarios, more exciting. But the closer you get to my perfect sex scene, fabulously fearless fucks and steamily scorching shags, the less like me it is. Am I your fantasy female for real, inspiration and muse, or am I the one being reworked, edited, abridged for your amusement?

Work of fiction...
Kristoph: Katherine eases her Mercedes sensually into the parking space outside the isolated coastal bed and breakfast, controlling its penetration with practiced guidance.
She stands coolly taking in the view, the waves crashing wetly below, while Kristoph hounds out, pounds in, the reception, hunter that he is, and pays out for a single night.
He tells the owner with a knowing smile, "We may not even need that long..."
The cases stay in the boot because neither need their contents. Each other's body is all that's required. Normally the stop is for petrol but now it is Katherine who needs refueling. Running on empty. Only hours before but burning up the previous injection like a gas guzzler in the heat and speed of her need. In this respect she is high maintenance.
Kristoph pushes the key in the lock, gives it some twists... and he is in.
The room is spacious, with a befittingly elegant ancient four-poster bed.
"Give me some time to slip into something more comfortable." Katherine purrs. And Kristoph growls in mutual, tiger-like appreciation.
In next to no time, 'comfortable' is similarly nothing at all, except the sheets. Her naked body rolls on the bed, a silent invitation for him to join her, join with her. Either one long elegant fuck, taking as much time as the four-poster had waited for them, or a series of short flawless lays, like the perfect pearls on her necklace.
The sun is a gentle spotlight over them, bathing them in a golden glow, lending their tans the aura of a god and goddess alone in a heaven of their own making.
Their bodies become one slowly, tenderly, merging... beginning with touch, continuing with flavour.
Katherine savoured Kristoph's cock between her lips, her tongue tasting the vibrant texture of veins. Then his tongue explores her from neck to toe, via her fluffy yet soaked pussy. Washing over each other like felines, as if trying to cleanse the other's dirtiness.
So many positions. Katherine picks and chooses like confectionaries in a box, gems in a shop, and Kristoph obliges, more than willingly.
Their motions were the soft rocking of the sea, branches swaying in the breeze. Then tossed by a squall.
Entwined with her, he penetrates the hot depths of Katherine's cunt with practiced guidance, seasoning it with his cum, crashing wetly when he gives her the fulfilling she desperately wants.
With cat-like squeals of delight, she writhes and relishes his passionate piqance...

All we want are the facts, ma'am...
Katherine: My car skids to a halt outside a small, out-the-way motel because you need a pit stop. Again. I won't be saying no, though.
After hurriedly paying upfront for a small dirty room we're through the door again, jumping out of our few sweat-damp clothes and on the bed. Running as though our lives depended on it.
Bump, grind, wooosh, oh my god yes yes yes...

Epilogues and other Addenda
What happens to the characters after the writer finishes their story, Kristoph? If your adaptation of me is biography, then people would know I still exist. Now between your pages, your sheets, the pliable soft or stiff hard covers, what remains beyond?
Like most sequels, each liaison could have creatively diminishing returns. Each fuck less satisfying.
Multiple editions or orgasms? One volume, or two, or a threesome? Will I warrant a novel? Short story? Single para?
Kristoph's tongue teasing between my toes...
A footnote even?
Perhaps I should read less into it. I have become a much-loved edition, one way or another. My corners are worn, the pages yellowing and dubiously stained.
But would I rather his embellished fictions to my naked bare facts?

Alternative printings
To call Kristoph a writer and poet is an insult... his words, like his body, transcend elegant rhythms when imprinted onto mine.
The label of lover is a misnomer... beyond sensual and physical attraction, and into something metaphorical, metaphysical.
And the title of greatest fuck ever is a lie, because this is only the first chapter.
What is past may be prologue, but the obscene acts of his body, filthily into my own, have yet to find language adequate for the rest of our book.
Happy ever after?
Our mutual climaxes may be measures of closure, marking out silk soft pages, but there may never be an ending...


*end*


- - - - - - - -

Victoria Blisse's Sunday Snog

#wankwednesday #journal

'Last Night'

by Sandrine Lopez

The advert seemed innocuous enough... care assistant for a trip to a European clinic. After filling out application forms and the usual checks, I was set for an interview with the patient himself, Mr. Hall.

The doctors don't even have a name for his affliction, a nervous hypersensitivity that makes movement difficult with discomfort. It's now in a chronic stage, and increasing painkillers and analgesics only dull his senses so I'm told he comes off them for this first meeting.

What I didn't expect was a man no older than myself. The amount of care suggested someone almost incapable of looking after himself, so had imagined someone advanced in years. But illness is no respecter of age, striking indiscriminately.

He rises slowly from his chair, measured movements, trying not to look in pain. For whom each gesture chafes. Every breath cuts. But when our eyes meet it's as if we've known each other all our lives. New acquaintance, yet old friends. Or lovers missing their soulmate and reunited.

It's obvious the attraction is mutual but he doesn't want me in an awkward position, professionally or personally. I should not become attached. Can not.

His voice is controlled too, pauses when the pangs overwhelm, eyes closing for a moment before continuing. It's as painful for me to watch as it is for him in reality.

His explanation is brief, having learned to make every word count, a passion only pain can bring, constantly on adrenalin because he fights it always.

Then I see it reversed, the pain only passion has. When emotion takes you to the edge and further, when your soul learns to fly... or plunges into the abyss. I can tell he has experienced both.

He has some doubts, not about my experience, but time is short - the appointment is days away. I get the position. His secretary will brief me on the flight details and accommodation on the way out.

As I leave, he wears a bittersweet expression. A smile with a tear. He's glad it's me accompanying him... but somehow he's not.

I have an inkling of that too...


*

Mr Hall... "Please," he urges, "Call me Lester." ...needs drugs to endure the flight so for the most part he dozes. I watch over, unable to take my eyes off him, wondering if his dreams are filled with pain and anguish also.

The journey, thankfully, is problem free. At the hotel, we take dinner in our room. Though not wanting to exert him, I make conversation so we don't eat in silence. I know so little about him, wanting to know everything, anything.

"Will the treatment help?" I ask.

There's a long pause. "Yes, it'll help."

His vice is chess. A game not requiring much movement. My father taught me how to play and, as it makes him happy, distracts from the discomfort, I agree to a game.

He lets me be white, make the opening move.

White Pawn to E4.

"Do you have family?" I ask.

Black Pawn to E5.

"Parents died early. Left everything to me. Been in care all my life. One way or another."

White Queen to H5.

"I'm sorry, that's very sad."

Black Queen's Knight to C6.

He pauses. "They were spared my pain."

White Queen's Bishop to C4.

"No friends?"

Black King's Knight to F6.

"Don't get out much."

I see an opening.

White Queen checks Black King at F7.

Mate & Endgame.

The game is too short, too easy. I suspect he let me win just so he could see me smile.

*

I arrange a taxi to take us to the clinic the next morning, giving the address to the driver. It's a short, wordless, drive across the city.

I help Lester out and we climb the steps. A small plaque by the door gives a name which takes a few moments to register. It's been in the media, caused a furore over the world.

It's an assisted suicide clinic.

Lester has come here to die.

*

Lester doesn't let me in on the meeting. Apparently all the consultations have been done, and this is quite literally the final trip.

Why me? Why not his personal assistant, or nurse, or...

When it's time to go I'm burning with anxiety, anger, fear... assisting suicide is a criminal offence. But he explains someone 'unconnected' will be less liable. His staff will not go without but distanced from the act itself makes it look they do not directly benefit from his death. So does my new, unsuspecting position. He's thought it all through.

After we get back and I've made him comfortable he gives me an allowance to go shopping, enjoy the local scenery while there's time. There will be too much to do for the flight back, even though most of it is already arranged. The only specific item is to buy a nice dress. I'm hardly in a position to argue. But even less inclined for retail therapy.

I thought Lester may want to spend a bit more time together but he has some last calls to make.

"Shoo." Is the end of the matter, as far as he is concerned.

*

Tonight is Lester's last night on Earth. He's not sad, he's joyous. An eager anticipation that after so many years, he'll be free of pain. I have difficulty believing his choice but if I tell him not to do it, regardless of his own situation, then I'm just being selfish surely.

It's not my decision. Not my pain... at least not his pain. I have a different one.

Over dinner I'm the one who finds it agony to talk. Lester is, for him, more vocal. Still short, tense comments but more of them.

Professional detachment. I should be comforting and joining in his 'joie de vie', for want of a better term, not being a sulky bitch.

"Grant me three wishes." he says, out of the blue.

"What?"

"Indulge me." He closes his eyes as discomfort threatens again. These final hours he's going without painkillers. It's not to remind him why he's doing this but because he wants the closing acts of his time here to be lived, as felt, as fully as he can. Even if it kills him. It's not going to matter either way. To him, at least.

"Dance."

There's a disco in the hotel, and he leads me down to the floor. There's no further instruction except, "For me..."

Dance like I have never danced before, will ever again. Most there are couples, shaking it with each other. My partner sits and watches. In his eyes, the passion of pain, pain of passion...

Isolated in one corner, silhouetted by whirling coloured lights, I move slowly at first, finding a rhythm for him, imagining him dancing with me, bodies tantalisingly close but never touching because it would hurt. So my hands replace his, smoothing down my sides, discovering the sway of my hips. I make out even these shock, feelings of pleasure so intense they go through ecstasy and into something indescribable. Like the face of God...

...for no one may see me and...

A tear. Droplets of sadness on my cheek. My dance becomes one of extremes... a tragedy in twirling touches but joy for the end of suffering.

As the last slow, soulful track is played, for all too brief moments, Lester stands, moves slowly towards me and dances. It must be the most painful thing he can do. I'm reminded of The Little Mermaid, for whom every step is a walk on sharp swords but does it for love.

I'm not sure whose passion, pain, is greater.

The music stops. The dance is over.

I help Lester back in our room. He's wracked with agony but he laughs as only someone with nothing to lose can, "I enjoyed that."

*

"Make love."

Less a wish and more a suggestion. But not entirely for his benefit. He knows that if I touch him, kiss him, caress... hold... it will hurt. The more we embrace, the greater the pain.

I've enjoyed the dance, allowing intimacy without contact, a fantasy consummating our souls but not our bodies. I want more. I think he does... how can I go further without crossing that border, threshold, of agony.

I slowly peel my dress off, making it seem the shedding of clothes is a relief. Disrobing each layer, even the gossamer of my slip and stockings, brings blissful release from the featherlight pressure on my damp burning skin.

By the time I am naked, my pain has turned to pleasure, set free with only the still air, his gaze, on me.

I know men's looks, how they can burn right through you, eyes slamming callously into my body. But Lester's admiring consideration is soft, reflection of that knowledge and making sure it is tender and caring, as if a spring breeze.

"Make love."

He reiterates his wish, and I go through my dance again, this time on the cool soothing sheets of my bed. My hands become his again, adopting his mindset.

He continues his lonely vigil, as I tease my skin, each touch agony, every caress pain. The sensitivity of my nipples, swollen with arousal, are daggers through my chest... stroking my stomach a hammer blow... and when my fingers gently slide within, I'm clawed by angry, unleashed pussycats.

I'm more delicate than I've ever been but it pushes my limits. The torture is extreme... excruciating... exquisite.

I cannot bear any more, the relief of my hand's exit from between my thighs triggers release of another kind. Deprived of pain, a new bliss explodes outwards, all over...

In the moments it takes me to recover, tears blurring my sight, Lester has undressed. Instead of joining me, he lays naked on his own bed, beside mine.

The choice is mine. Given the white pieces, the opening move. I'd be betraying professional conduct if I do, and him if I don't.

His last night on this world.

Trembling, filled with trepidation, I slide from my bed and lie softly beside his body, naked together. He puts his arm round me and, still shaking with fear at the harm I may cause, I kiss him gently.

His other hand finds mine and draws it to his erection. Tenderly, I smooth it, knowing his gasps are a mix of severe sensations. With a single gesture, he indicates I should kneel up and take him between my thighs.

"Won't it hurt?" I ask.

"All the torments of hell." Love is endurance.

Tears roll down my face, splash on him like small bombs, as I let him plunge into my abyss. This position allows minimal contact, as I do all the moving. Gentle, delicate rises and falls over him, in time with our shallow, scared, breaths.

Perhaps it is his over sensitivity but he cums very quickly, almost economically. Like his words, he makes every small thrust count. Then, surprising me once again, with tremendous effort, a triumph of will over pained body, he rolls me over, lays on top of me. I want to wrap myself around him but this must be more touch then he can bear. The most I can do is caress his face as he slowly eases himself back and forth inside me.

I look lovingly into his eyes and if they are windows to the soul the view beyond is carved out of his landscape in anguish and torment. Breathtaking vistas, beautiful to behold but created by elemental forces over unimaginable time...

Time which is running out.

It takes longer, his second climax. His face is that of a marathon runner, pressing for the finish. Just one more step... one more push... So soft, so tender. Gentle grinds. So when he lets go his ejaculation is uncharacteristically physical, and for short moments I hold him close, arms on back, thighs round his hips, show what it means to me, as he gives me our unique, one-off, orgasm.

Then, spent in emotional and physical agony, he rolls off me and lies very still. Care-minded professional, I check his weak pulse, listen to his almost inaudible breaths. Even in the dim light I can tell he is too pale, on the very edge of life.

He turns his head to me, and smiles. Reaches up and strokes my hair.

"Live."

The last wish? Does he mean he wants to and... Or is it for me?

Then he holds my hand, closes his eyes...

Mate & Endgame.

...and is gone.

Live.

For what? Although I've only known him a few days, he has permeated every fibre of my being with his dignity and grace.

Some accuse people who commit suicide of cowardice but Lester was bravery itself. Just tired, worn down, eroded. I would answer back the accusers don't understand, that the law shirks responsibility by not protecting those faced with the hardest burden of decision. That politicians and the medical profession run and hide from this bigger question. Who is really afraid here... ?

I hadn't expected him to go like this. That having accepted fate, I thought we would at least wake in each other's arms, share a final breakfast, make that last heroic journey together.

I remember the song of our first, last, only dance.

Killing me softly...

Did he know this would be the way?

*

On returning, after a funeral attended only by myself and the few staff he had, there are the usual questions and tribunal. I answer them perfunctorily. It hardly matters. While Lester's solicitor sways the arguments in my favour but there may still be a charge. If so, I won't work in care again.

As I wait the long drawn outcome, I miss a period. A test confirms it... I'm pregnant. It can only be Lester's.

With this information, the solicitor has another surprise. Even though he could not have known if it would definitely happen, a last-moment codicil to Lester's will indicates any offspring has a fund. It's not wealth but as the mother of his child, we will be provided for comfortably. Like everything else, including his chess game, Lester needed to make sure of every possible move.

I do now have something to live for...

*end*




Victoria Blisse's Sunday Snog

- - - - - - - -

Sandrine's notes:

This was written as an attempt to express the sense of loss after a short but unbelievably intense relationship. The main crux was how to have an erotic sexual scene which was, in effect, the last thing someone ever does? To put it plainly, how can you fuck someone who is dying, who you will never see alive again? It was a difficult, and personally emotional, set of decisions... some, once again, drawn from real life.

Utensil

by Sandrine Lopez


It seemed to give him great pleasure when he described his cock as his 'utensil', which he had defined - from Wikipedia of all places - as 'a tool serving a set purpose'. And that set purpose, as far as he was concerned, was fucking me. Just that. No frills or foreplay. We'd just meet, have a few drinks and laughs to get in the mood, then he'd whisk me off somewhere non-too-exotic like a local B&B or, if we were daring enough, or more likely he just couldn't wait, a secluded dark alley or doorway.

This time I get a slightly better class of hotel. We actually have to sign in. I couldn't very well ask 'well, who am I to you?' in front of the woman behind the desk, could I. So I let him sign, trying to make out the letters in that quickie, spur-of-the-fuck signature, and hoped I'd got it vaguely right.

"So what was our name again?" I hissed quietly, as you led me up the first flight stairs to our room for the night. A whole night for once. "Ficklehubby?"

The tug of his hand almost dragged me as I tottered on my heels up the second flight. Fuck, he was really in need of getting in me tonight. I half expected him to stop on one landing, regardless of other people who may pass us. Visions of me stuttering, "Go-oo-ood ev-eve-ni-ning..." to stray couples not knowing where to look, as he hefted my thighs apart over the bannister and ram-raided my cunt without a care. At least I have some manners.

"Fuck buddy." He replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Of course. Silly me. Mr and Mrs Fuck Buddy. A contradiction in terms. The committed non-committals. Face palm. How could I assume otherwise?

He unlocks the door hurriedly, doesn't even bother to turn the light on before locking it again with a definite 'Do Not Fucking Disturb - Indiscriminate Shagging in Progress' slam. Before my eyes get accustomed to the darkness, I'm dragged across the room and thrown on the bed. How did he know where it was? Has he been here before? And if so, with whom?

I don't get to ponder anymore as the big strong hand that had twisted me onto the unseen sheets pins me down, while the other seeks me out. Tugging at my dress and his own clothes as one. Unzipped in blind haste. Panties tugged down. Hems lifted. My body violated. Quickly. Harshly. Intensely.

Excuse me, Mr Indiscriminate Shag? Mr Committed Fuck Buddy? Mr One-Trick-Wonder? Mind if I join in too? It's always breathtakingly fierce. Penetrating. Physical. Visceral. Gut-wrenching. Orgasms of experienced athleticism. Climaxes of exquisite fitness. But just body not soul. He doesn't like it when I suggest there's more to fucking than just a different position every now and then. I'd like to think I am more than a utensil. Have more than just one purpose beyond playing catch for his cum, now matter how it pleasurably scrapes every nerve, every fibre, with extremely blissful potency.

As I lie there, twitching with orgasmic shock, shuddering from his sexual spite, mind whirling with a thousand million responding nerves that finally merge into one fantastic feeling beginning between my thighs and disappearing through the infinity of sensation under my belly, I ask, "Am I capable of more?"

Of course I fucking am!

Come here, you gorgeous uncaring control freak. Come to mamma!

He's lying on his back, panting and gasping. Seemingly satisfied. He likes, loves, needs that urgency. Perhaps proving to himself he's a sex god, but the road to my hell is paved with his godless intensity.

I might not want commitment but shit, I want something more out of our fucking!

He usually needs a few minutes to recover and get hard again. I'm usually recovering as well. Letting the pain of his forceful fucking melt into something more pleasurable. It always does, otherwise I wouldn't come back for more.

Two can play at that game.

Still shaking but trying to direct that nerve-shattering, knee-trembling, giddy-go-dizzy post-orgasmic energy into a match for his wildness. I drag myself over him, straddle his thighs, caress his limp wet cock in my hands so it has no option but to stiffen and come to life.

His head rolls on the pillow towards me, "What are you doing?"

Like he doesn't know. I don't answer but use my tongue in more skillful ways than mere words, running it slowly up one side of his now hard dick. Tasting myself on him until it finds the lingering sweetness of his spunk still oozing from the tip.

There's a sharp hard tap from his hand on the side of my head, meant to dissuade me, stop me, but I don't. My lips press their attack. I draw breath, suck the residue of his cum from his cock. Under me I feel him twitch and jerk now. He may profess to not liking hand or blowjobs, says he doesn't like cumming in my mouth, but he'll reap the pleasure it gives, whether he likes it or not.

There's another more vicious slap through my hair. I grip the base of his cock and give it some meaningful jerks and rubs. Alternating between my mouth and palm. Suck, rub, lick, jerk. And repeat. And...

I sense his hand go to strike me again but my lack of experience is more than compensated by the fantasies of doing this to him. Doing it so well that his arm loses its motivation and his hand claws the sheets instead. His body writhes as I bring his cock to a pinnacle of throbbing stiffness and it spasms his cum onto my tongue. I keep sucking, lips tight over his hot twitching skin and veins. Keep massaging, my hands together over his cock in a prayer of passion. And as he is so spent, his body and cock going limp like a puppet whose strings have been cut, I lick his dick like a kitten lapping on his milk.

"Shiiiiiiiiiiiittt!!!" is all his dry, hoarse voice can gasp.

I'm not even going to bother asking if he liked that. He never asks if I like his harsh fucking, just assuming my return is compliment enough. I'll be back.

And despite his look of disdain after, I'm sure he will be too...


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