'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

'Lonely As A Cloud'

by Sandrine Lopez




"I wondered as lonely as a cloud..."

Celine wished she could. Her soft, fine-as-mist body, high above the world. Over and away from the messy muddle of people, their noise and annoyance.

This was why she watched clouds, as a weather station monitor. She had her own cloud in tow, like a guardian angel. Even as a girl, there was always one over her. Some called it mood. She named it 'joie', the French for happiness.

She was happy in her top-of-the-hill world, more home than home itself, reporting for a nearby airport. It was reflected in the summer downpour. The unrelenting wetness made her smile.

Until Eddie arrived.

The first Celine knew of him was the crunch of tyres on gravel outside. A car door slam intrusion. Then his silhouette in the station door. Sunlight began to filter through her clouds, lending him a halo of iridescent rainbow wings.

To Celine, sunlight was unhappiness. Blue sky grew above them, scattering her tempestuous clouds away.

No!

She ran to the window, as sickening pus-yellow sunlight illuminated the country below. Sensed the messy people cheering as their Saturday weather turned.

No longer any clouds, not even hers, above. Only the lifeless, desert-like emptiness of azure light. The single pimple of the sun on it. Blistering painful heat.

"Turned out nice, I see." Eddie offered.

Celine's glare back was just as blistering.


* * *

Eddie held the station in awe. A technological heaven watching its meteorological counterpart.

"Weather fascinates me." he explained, "The Met gave me permission to visit. Didn't they inform you?"

Snowdrift of unopened mail propping up a corner. Celine gave cold front. A shrug.

Eddie, like the sun, filled rooms with cheery social light. Welcome wherever he shone. Except here.

Where others forecast using mechanical means interpreted by experience, Celine had an instinct for weather, only using station measurements to confirm what she felt, give unemotional figures to the plane people. She was never wrong.

Except now.

Meteorology. Definition: Study of the atmosphere and its phenomena. Celine could taste the air, its subtleties and nuances, as a food or wine connoisseur would. But she had miscalculated the human element. No interest in it. Now one, like flapping butterfly wings creating tornadoes, had thrown her. A sacrifice to chaos.

Eddie could cut the station atmosphere with a knife. No expertise required to sense that.

He opened a window to let warmer air in. A rainbow-coloured butterfly flapped in.

Warning before the storm.


*

"Tell me about the clouds." Eddie asked. Ice breaker, if any.

With a sincerity doubting sigh, Celine yawned a way through textbook, 101, definitions.

"No, not what they are. Tell me about how they feel."

She seemed to see him properly for the first time. Visibility clearing, half a smile.

Celine led him to glass, her window on the sky. A single cloud, solitary drifter, her 'joie', had once again taken residence above.

"Imagine that swirling body, overcasting the whole sky." Celine's true passion emerged, "Its textures and colour, shades of grey, blotting out the sun."

Eddie considered. "The sun gives life. Some still worship it."

"False idol." She countered, "So does water. Life started in the sea." Vague gestures between them. "We're still largely water too." Eddie smiled. Some were a percentage of sun too.

They watched the weather quietly through afternoon and evening, clouds darting back and forth until they clothed the descendant sun in gold and red.

"Would the sunset be as glorious without clouds?" Celine pondered.

"Or without the sun?" Eddie put his hand partly over hers.

Surprising herself, Celine entwined her cool fingers with his warm ones.

50 per cent cover, she considered the cloud ceiling. Neither one forecast or another.

Mirror of her mixed emotions.


*

Night was the only time Celine didn't mind clear skies. Moonlight was coolly soothing, even in summer.

"You realise that moonlight is only reflected sunlight." Eddie told her.

Celine nodded. The glow from the celestial crescent reflected on his profile too. Man in the moon lite. Still too earthly for her.

"It's late." She said. "There's a bunk if you want to stay."

More tolerance than acceptance but a warmer clime for Eddie, as he took the top bunk, above her.


*

Sun up was 06:12.

Celine was already awake, watching her sky. Still 50 per cent cover. Undecided.

Forecast could go either way. Chaos in a coin flip. Unfamiliar tastes.

Eddie was akin to his meteorological namesake. Behaved differently from the larger volume of people. Unlike her weather, unpredictable.

"Good morning." His voice behind her.

The outside door and window rattled in a sudden wind. Clouds were buffeted past as Celine's mind raced. Beaufort scale six, rising.

Eddie studied the atmosphere as he walked towards her. The barometer was falling. But Celine was far from depressed. She actually beckoned him to watch the growing tempest.

"Isn't it wonderful?" she asked gleefully, as rain speckled the glass. Growing to trickles as heaven opened. New waters.

Eddie had to smile, a different reaction to expected. Celine really loved the clouds, the rain, unlike most who wanted sun and heat, as he did. Forces of nature. Equal yet opposite.

Damn it, he thought, she was the clouds, the rain, the very weather. But an inversion from the norm. That made her even more interesting. Personification of his fascination.

Impulsively, he took her chin in his fingers. Drew her lips to his. Kiss the rain.

Lightning flared outside. Something sparked.

The barometer continued falling. Eddie stepped away, letting her consider.

"No pressure." he said finally, as heaven dripped and splashed outside.


*

Celine found him outside. Just standing in rain, letting the cold wind hug him, run its fingers through his hair. The flash bang of lightning and thunder overhead lit and shook him.

He saw, and shouted over the torrent, "I'm trying to imagine what..." Threw his head to the grey sky, then arms wide before wrapping them round his drenched body.

At her bemused frown, he squelched to his car, revved the engine and was gone.

As Celine unsteadily padded among the puddles, the rain stopped. The sun peered through her clouds, shook its shiny head at the storm wrought devastation.

The clouds dissipated to 50 per cent again, a tapestry of sapphire and pearl hue.

Wetness on her cheeks. Uncertain if they were tears, or a memory of rain.


*

The rest of that day was sun, with only a strong breeze.

Not what she forecast. Celine felt as blue as the firmament.

Fuck the weather, she thought, fuck people! And fuck Eddie!

Her sky was empty. As above, so below.


*

Celine phoned through the forecast to the airport, then spied the drift of mail. Shoveled through it for ones postmarked Met Office.

Eventually she found it. The letter even had his number on it. Thumbed it into the phone pad with heavy determination, like hailfall.

An answer came there none.


*

The sun retired to its horizon bed, weary at mopping up after the storm. Weary at her day too, Celine slumped in the lower bunk. Closed her eyes to blot out the dying brightness.

The forecast was clear skies with the odd scattered cloud. That figured.

A splash on her face. She blinked away the drop. More fell on her arms and legs.

Then Celine was aware of a man-shaped cloud lying on the wire mesh, faux sky above, its mattress removed. A cloud which softly rained on her.

How Eddie got there, why he still dripped from the earlier cloudburst, she didn't care. Stranger things in heaven and earth.

A new angel over her. Slowly he descended from bunk heaven, and found a new one in her.

"I missed your call but recognised the number." He told her.

He looked weathered. Damp and cool from the earlier tempest. Celine liked that against her. Peeled off his rain-filled clothes. Felt the charged potential within him, like lightning.

The weather may be predictable but Eddie wasn't. She would have to work on that. Find ways to forecast his behavior.

Celine warmed him with her pale unsunned complexion. She was not without heat either but hers was the hot wet clinging humidity of summer. Of dew burned to mist by sun.

Eddie ran his lips over her in a pitter-patter of raindrop kisses. Then they were both clouds, damp and grey in twilight, their textures swirling and mixing in the growing wind. Summer evening perspiration, like condensation, all over.

They shared their moisture, dripping and splashing as much inside, as it was pounding on the night dark glass outside.


*

For that night, the rain was torrential.

*end*


#wankwednesday #cloud

'Once In The Journey Of Life'

by Sandrine Lopez

- - - - - - -

Don't want to be the wallflower, the quiet one, shy girl, person no-one speaks to... ignores.

But it's my nature. I like to watch people, see how they move, dress, talk, live. Call me a student of the human condition, if you like. It's a bit like the sex my friends always talk about. Either a giver or a taker. I take quietly, passively, without them knowing, share their existence vicariously. But I remain detached. Partitioned. Separate. There, but not really...

Words, tales, gossip, instead of the experience, taste, feel itself.

So I set out to be a part of it. Change, transform, re-invent...

Typical, tale of my life, the night I choose is victim to one of the worse public transport fuck-ups ever. We never get the full story, like we ever do, but the tannoyed weary announcements invent new excuses to explain why our train has all the speed of a snail, direction of a moth.

Eventually we're dumped on an already packed platform, the dark, crowd loud heat of a Friday night gone bad. No choice but to change here and catch another crippled carriage. Just one more stop down the line to go. Pity the poor souls damned to travel further, for an eternity on the midnight delights of British Rail...

I feel overdressed, my own change drawing lusty looks and piercing whistles. My heels are higher, the skirt much shorter, blouse too tight, too sheer, wishing I'd worn a bra... Unwanted bodies pressed against mine as we all vie for personal space.

A tumble, a tide, of tortured travellers down the platform to where there's space and air, however summer burning, to breathe. I have no wall to flower against, spotlighted under a lamp. The only darkness for hiding is the platform edge.

One other body detached himself from the crowd, standing near, on the edge too. Admiring glances, up and down. Could be any smart casually dressed clubber, on his way between scenes, or just on a journey, no destination in mind.

Not especially good looking, attractive over handsome, but confident against my fight not to be shy, demure, ignored. I sought attention, realise now you get the unwanted with wanted, chaff with wheat, bathwater with the babe. Subconsciously I move away, while every nerve is magnetised to him, my eyes, smile, as I back off, not knowing quite what I want, don't want...

Risk the platform spotlight as I move to the other side. He follows slowly, first with gaze, then slow but sure steps. It becomes a slow dance, as I totter from edge to edge, until he stops in the middle, watching me pace back and forth like a trapped animal.

Eventually I decide he may be just what I need. For all I know he could be married, have a girlfriend, be attached, wandering eyes but not motive. I return the admiring gaze, the taunting smile, revel in his spotlight. It's reflected back, more intense.

The only sign I can give, fighting the nervous wall of self-doubt I still cling to, is a one word conversation, more unsaid than said, and flash of my ticket. My destination. Whether you like it or not...

He slowly flips his own ticket out, and replies singly too. His objective. Beyond my stop. Welcome to join me?

There's a thundering trundle as the train aches from slow to stop beside us. It's going both our ways. There's a brief parting as we embark through different doors, eyes still locked, until the pushs, bumps, grinds and shoves karma us together between carriages. Standing room only.

The need for everyone else to get off Hell's Platform presses us together. As if our sardine tin audience is watching, waiting, clamouring for us to get it on.

I lean back against the wall with him ironing my clothes, gently, slowly, hotly, up and down, me still in them, in time with the train trundling on its track. The wall gives slightly to one side, door of the unisex toilet. I feel behind for the handle, draw it open, jump inside. I see his pained expression of parting, even for a loo break I don't actually need. Then, as the door closes, I impulsively reach out, drag him inside, close and lock it behind me, gasping. There's a muffled 'woooo' from the crumpled crowd outside, some clapping.

Now he's the trapped animal. Certain of what he'd like but unsure of what I want. He's not the only one. There's a third creature inside with us, within me, starting to pace and pound round my gut. Growling for attention. Wants I'm beginning to crave.

Just him, me, and this being of desire. The last two, like converging tracks, become one...

Grabbing his lapels, pressing my lips to his, I push him down on the toilet seat before he has a chance to return my forceful smooches. I'm bent over, standing room only, feeling burning needs to take him, even if he doesn't want it. Taking actively, no longer passive. Is that right? That's the wall I've always had. The flower wilts from the new heat... a twisting, wild creeper grows in its place, entwining round him.

He grips inside my thighs, pulls them apart so I'm plonked heavily on his lap, straddling him. Buzz of excitement, gasps of tension. We're really magnetised now, attraction pulling us bodily to each other. I can feel his stiffy through his trousers, the meagre thin fabric of my panties. Know he wants it inside me. I'm so aroused, so high, so full of need I don't just want to press my naked skin to his, I want to be inside him too. Part his body and snuggle beneath the cover of his flesh. Two animals becoming one.

The journey between stations is usually a few minutes. At its current crawl, we may have ten or so. Make them all count...

One...

Bumpity-bump... bumpity-bump... Train on its tracks.

Bumpity-bump... bumpity-bump... My heart pounding so loud, so heavily, it makes my unsupported breasts jiggle.

Bumpity-bump... bumpity-bump... Rubbing against each other. Clothes in the way...

Two...

Raise myself so we can fumble, tear, at his trouser belt, button, zip. Hug his waist to lift him so he can tug them down. Then his boxers. Freed, his erection springs up. Just the thought of it easing, no... grinding, into me... a low subconscious whimper, moan, sigh... call it what you will, it's mine.

Hadn't really thought I'd need them so soon, if ever, at all, but fumble in my bag for a condom. Stretch tear the wrapping, stretch it over him. Stretching my panties to one side as I settle back down on him, sheathed skin on skin, inside skin. Ooooh, that first contact, touch, penetration, slide, embrace of my twat around him, moments of bliss, snuggle, grip. And it keeps going in, fuck, is it ever going to stop. Eventually, our thighs connect. He's all the way.

Three...

Shrug his jacket off. Unbutton what I can of his shirt. His hands support the small of my arching back, as he tugs at my blouse with his teeth, popping it open until he can kiss my nips, snog them, sucking needily, greedily like a baby. That goes all the way too. Up, around, down... shocks of sensation connecting with him deep up, full of him, in my gut.

His hands under my thighs, lifting my knees, my full weight on him, over him. I'm no model, stick-insect, lightweight. But he likes it, loves it, obsesses against my heaviness as he jiggles, pumps, pounds, up into me. Bringing us closer, closer, still...

Four...

Humpity-hump... humpity-hump... Bouncy up and down.

Humpity-hump... humpity-hump... In and out, right in... and right out, in out, in out in out...

Humpity-hump... humpity-hump... Closer, so close now...

All the way.

Train as fast as it can go.

Five...

Clawing at each other, tongues in mouths, mingling of wetness, excitement, intensity.

He lets go, gives it all up. My purple painted nails dig deep into my palms, toes curl within stockings and shoes, teeth gnawing lip, parted lips, sighs, moans, cries, tremble all over, shudder, convulse...

Another one word conversation. He says, "Yes... ". I just give a chokey squeal of perfect pleasure, sensing every white-hot last spurt, hug him to death, his stubble against my cheek and throat.

Six...

More smoochies, kissies, snuggles, long moments. The bliss of after, comfort of just holding, being, existing within each other...

Amazingly he's still hard, huge, hot, held fast in my gut. Super-sized sensations from a satisfying, long overdue, unscheduled shag...

Seven...

Return ticket ride.

I struggle up, off him, let him stand. His condomed cock glistens as he peels it off in a thick wedge of loo paper, drops it in the loo. Whiteness dribbles from him, splashing around, on us. Its sticky scent drives me, dares me, to risk bareback.

I bend over, brace myself on the toilet seat now. Look back, look him straight in the eyes, yes again. Yes! No words, just instinct. He gathers up my skirt round my waist, tugs my damp panties down, just enough to reveal, let him see, slip slide into, my wet anticipating hunger.

Humpity-hump... humpity-hump...

His knees angle between mine, spreading them, thighs parting. His strength against the taut tugging binding of my undies. Push me. His firm hand grapples forward, clawing my shoulder, whole body, back onto him. Pull me. The other reaches under, hammocks a free swinging breast, massages it, my sucked sore nipple. Pinch me.

Eight...

Swaying, rocking, colliding in rhythm with the carriage. Falling, cascading, against, within each other. Bodies in transit, between places, hell and heaven. Closest yet, another climax. Him, me, one tripping over another. Powerfully, explosively, loudly, lingering. Mingling with the scream of train brakes, objective reached.

My vision blurs, misty-eyed, mascara smudging... soaring, roaring in ears, rushing of blood in my head, all over, all the way, legs give way but he holds me up until finished, suckling on his cock with my cunt, milked, drained...

Nine...

Bump... bump... bump... Train slowing for station approach.

Bump... bump... bump... Our hearts, bodies, breathless pants, ease down from their brief marathon.

Bump... Limbs separate.

Bump... Souls tear apart from union.

A mop of tissues, off skin, dabbing clothes, flush away the evidence.

Quick studies in fastening clothing, straightening hair, modesty, composure...

Ten...

The carriage shudders to its own climatic stop. Was it good for the train too?

A journey's end. The show over, our audience is already moving on. Release the door, and I join the flurry of people, swept away backwards, eyes still locked, with a last call of his name. I call mine out too, introduction after intimacy, but what does it matter... Mr Tom Two-Stops-Up-The-Line? We'll probably never meet again.

Even now, only a memory, echo, remembrance, scorching hot, sticky wet, white keepsake, where it counted, tantalisingly cooling, dribbles caught in the towel sandwiched between my damp panties and raw cunt. Oozing out squishingily as I shimmy, tender thighs painfully aware of each other, out the station.

Hook up with my friends, squee hugs and air kisses. But even my perfume, body spray, can't mask the musk of him, the unmistakeable smell of sex, spunk, and my deepest self too.

"What is that scent you're wearing?" As if they need to be told, all far too knowing for that. Add to that a laddered stocking, unseemly crumpled skirt, an undone button, forgotten in haste...

I shrug, "I just... grabbed what was handy." A smile, smirk, hands-up guiltiness acting innocent.

No longer entirely ignored but I keep my mystery while they gossip, speculate, try to entice it out of me - unlike his cum still freely leaking, now cool as if thick clingy perspiration - with drink, raised eyebrows, more sexy, lusty, bawdy tales of their own.

I just find the wall again, cling to it, but liking the new dark, growing, taller self, petalled head held high, a sunflower now, glowing.


*end*


- - - - - - -

#wankwednesday

'Clueless'

by Sandrine Lopez

-


"I suggest Reverend Green did it with Mrs White, using his lead pipe, in the ballroom!"

Miss Scarlet sighed, "That's not how you play it."

Professor Plum chuckled, "Are you absolutely sure about that?"

Mrs Peacock raised an eyebrow, "By lead pipe, you mean..."

"That he was as hard as one, yes!" Plum confirmed.

"I say," Colonel Mustard weighed the long rope in his hand, "This is a bit saucy. Tying up and whatnot."

Scarlett's eyes rolled ceiling-wards, "And that isn't what it's for either."

"Ooooh, I don't know..." Peacock purred, sidling up to the young blond soldier, caressing the cord with delightful anticipation. "Your room, or mine?"

"It could be a crime of passion..." Scarlett considered. "The candlestick suggests a romantic liaison."

"Well I say to hell with crime. Let's stick with passion." The tall dark professor fondled his moustache suggestively in her direction.

"Or perhaps they were into erotic hot wax foreplay..." Peacock spied the candles flickering in the darkened study, her eyes glazing at some fond memory. The heads of the others turned sharply towards her, raised eyebrows over wide stares. She became aware of the attention. "What? Oh, did I say that out loud?"

Plum chortled to Mustard, "That'll put some lead in your pipe, my boy!"

Scarlett cried, "And we still haven't found out where Reverend Green and Mrs White have got to. I suggest we search, together. Safety in numbers."

"You've obviously not menaged enough, honey." Peacock murmured. Scarlett went as red as her dress, before leading them out.

As they passed the dining room, a distant scream called out.

"Well, I'll be blowed!" Mustard exclaimed.

At his elbow, Peacock suppressed an appreciative smirk, "Later, honey."

Mustard pulled the pistol from his belt and dashed forward. "Some bounder is killing her."

Scarlett's pulse raced. Now this was more like it! Aroused by the dark thrill, she hoisted her evening dress up and tottered after him. Peacock stroked the rope she carried, and sashayed on high heels after Mustard, wondering when they would tie the knot. The Professor eyed the voluptuous firm behind, and strode after her, muttering, "Lead... yes, definitely lead."

The woman's cries got louder as the foursome neared the ballroom. There were exhaustive pants within, a man exerting himself. A woman's loud cries.

Mustard's finger was tight on the revolver trigger. "The scoundrel must be beating her!"

"That's one way of putting it." Peacock's comment was worldly-wise as she turned the handle. "Gee, am I the only one round here getting some?"

Framed by the door, they saw Reverend Green in flagrante delicto, trousers round his ankles, with Mrs White, long skirt hoisted up higher than her spread knees. And it wasn't Holy Communion he was giving, despite her repeated calls for God.

"Obviously not." Scarlett sneered.

Plum puffed his way from behind, his monocle dropping, "Top ho! I was right all along!"

With a sigh of despair, Peacock snatched Mustard's pistol, aimed between Plum's legs... and shot him in the ballroom.


- - - - - - - -


#wankwednesday #plum

The Hitch

Coach rides can be so boring. Especially long overnighters between college and home. It's Friday night... no, I check my watch, it's very early Saturday morning now. Everyone else is probably asleep or out clubbing, except me and the other passengers. I can't even doze, with the unseen countryside, punctuated with the odd streetlight, whizzing past the window on one side. And him on the other.

He's pretty hot but I can't pluck up the courage to talk, shy mature student that I am. So I bury myself in my erotic novel & try not to think about him. Try not to think about it. Him and me. As I get deeper, more engrossed in the purple prose as the characters fuck without abandon after pages of foreplay, described in the filthiest, most arousing of terms, it's difficult not to paint them as myself and his embodiment of cuteness, only the thickness of our clothes away.

I've got a pleasant itch between my thighs, and glance at him sideways. His head has lolled back. slightly towards me, eyes closed. Hopefully he won't notice, as my irritation needs attention, and I slowly but deliberately hitch my denim skirt up, a bit at a time, on the side away from him. My fingers work silently to make the movements look casual, until they are able to... yes, just touch the fabric of my undies. Then another swift hitch of my skirt, and they find the leg band. Tug it delicately away from my damp skin. Up a bit more, in a little further, and my nails sink in warm sensitive wetness.

I give a small shudder, glance at him quickly again. Still breathing low and slow. I let my fingers swirl lazily, skinny dipping myself, teasing the tingles, and continue reading with my left hand propping the book in front of my eyes.

Jeeeeeeeez, that is good!

With deft skill learned from doing this too many times in private, a slender finger curls the page of the one-handed book over to more fictional fucking, as the other acts it out as best a few fingers can. Which is pretty fantastic for now. Before long I'm only browsing the pages casually, as I let my fingers work out my more lurid fantasies as only frustrations can.

I'm so deep in myself, my own imagination, I almost don't notice when my fingers are joined by a soulmate. A larger doppelganger. Like giant fleshy ants, my fingers tap the other to make sure it's real, and it taps back 'Oh yes. May I join you?'. Or something similar. I tap back 'Why not... ?'.

My eyes had closed in bliss and I'm now too scared to open them, as the big fingers scurry off quickly, for a quick hitch of my skirt on the other side, before it snuggles down beside mine again in its bed of slippery, soaked sensuality.

It can't be him, can it?

I decide not to open my eyes, not even turn my head, just let my hands, fingers, nails tap out what I'd like. Guide that oh so gorgeously big hand, long fingers and exquisitely strong nails search out my needs and satisfy them. Maybe not as sensitively as mine but fuck, who am I to complain? They're buff fit fingers, guessing they work out enough in their own wanky way, so as his palm cups the fluffiness of my mound, I feel like I'm watching... no, that's not quite right, feeling a pro at work. A bodybuilder flexing his abs and six-pack, all for me. And what delicious moves.

My hand leaves his, easing back in admiration as his fingers plunge in, like a swimmer diving into a pool, swirling through my depths. My hand flattens across my belly, sensing his motions under my surface as they curl up and around. And it isn't long before my horniness clarifies and sharpens into a short orgasm of pleasantly satisfying intensity, rippling and quivering over his fingers.

But he doesn't end there. Gentle soothing caresses stroke and calm my insides to sleep, and forgetting where I am, let alone who, my head lolls to one side and I join it.

There's a jolt and I awaken suddenly as the coach comes to a halt at my home station. It takes me a few seconds to recollect how and why I drifted off. Then a blushing realisation, glancing down then up. My skirt has been hitched back to my parted knees. He is getting his bag from the overhead store.

My face expresses a single question: did it happen between us? His only answer is a wink and a blown kiss. Then he is gone.

Damn!

But my body knows something did, in the way bodies only can. And when I'm alone and in need, I'll always remember his fingers hitching their own way inside...

It'll do, for now.


http://eroticnotebook.co.uk/erotic-writing/wank-wednesday/hitch-wank-wednesday/