My Writing

Sunday, October 31, 2010

Fiction: "The Tenant" part 4

(Original work of The Lustful Literate.  Please respect creative ownership.)

The Tenant
part four

Whenever had he wanted a woman this badly?  Not her succulent thighs or thick, dirty blond hair – but the hidden depths?  He thirsted to be let into the shadows inside her.  He wanted into those eyes so badly his chest ached.  He made fists of his hands and pounded the mattress on either side of his reclined body.  He felt he could actually die of this feeling.  He pressed his open palm down on his erection, willing it to subside, forcing it, as much as he could without truly paining himself.

And then there was a “click” from the hallway.  Her door.  Was she coming out?  Another drink?  A cigarette?  He couldn’t hear her in the hall.  He moved slowly to his own door and peered out toward her room.  The door was still closed.  He furrowed his brow as if to question her gesture.  Had she unlocked her door to emerge and then changed her mind, forgetting to re-lock?  He stood in front of her door and looked down.  No light emerged from beneath.  He put his hand around the door knob; it felt hot.  He pulled away quickly as if he’d been burned.  He looked at his palm in the darkness, opening his mouth to let escape a silent breath of painful yearning.  Confused, he tried again.  Turning the knob, slowly, as to not alarm her, he felt an icy chill up his forearm; it continued in a lightning jet of pain to his shoulder.  Once again, he let go of the knob.  But having turned it somewhat already, the door creaked open an inch. 

He peered through the crack, a stab of guilt slicing through his thoughts, like a child seeing something beyond his years, something he should not see but cannot look away from.  Wanting the view all the more because it seemed wrong, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness within.  Searching the bed for the curve of her form, he could not see well enough.  He glanced away, back into the hall.  He hadn’t seen anything, but the desire to had set the vision hard in his mind, as if the lights were bright on her body, highlighting its contours, its shadows.  The imagining gave rise to his manhood. The cotton and wool could not hold him in.  Quickly, he shuffled back to his room, bare feet sliding almost silently on the wood floor, angry with his own anatomy.  He simply couldn’t go to her like this, like some inexperienced school boy looking up to woman of knowing.  He had to offer her more.  She’d been propositioned too many times to be impressed by this.  He could see her reaction—rolled eyes, a sigh, a demeanor of pity.  She would be disappointed because that’s what she’d expect: his erection, his pleading eyes.  It’s what he felt but could not show.  She wouldn’t be able to see what was silently waiting behind the veil of the biological reactions of his body…that this was not about that.  He didn’t have to fuck her.  Indeed, his body craved her in the most primal sense, but his mind railed against it; intellectually, he could rise above simply wanting her, but his animal instinct was strong.  She’d hear it as a lie if he tried to explain.  Others had probably tried it as a method for sounding trustworthy or sensitive.  He didn’t have any reason to be either.  She wouldn’t respect those qualities anyway.  But she wouldn’t respect an erection staring her in the face on its knees pleading for her touch, either.

He sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for it to subside.  He drained the last few drops of whiskey and returned to her door.  It was open wide.  He looked behind him, back down the hall toward the living room, then stared again into the darkness of her room.  He reached back down and briefly attempted to tame himself, pressing the base of the shaft toward his left thigh.

“What do you want?”

Her words made him jerk and take in a startled, sharp gasp of breath.  A drop of sweat floated down his left cheek.  He said nothing.  What could he have said?  How could he tell her?  He had to touch her skin and smell her.  Walking to the foot of her bed, his silhouette was framed by the glow of the drapes.  He couldn’t hear her move.  She remained still and silent.  Placing his right knee on the bed, he let his weight fall forward on to his hands.  Knee over knee…hand over hand, he crawled to her side, spun sideways, and lay next to her.  He inhaled slowly and deliberately, taking in her musky aroma.  It burned his nose and made his throat constrict.  He closed his eyes tightly and fumbled for her hand.  She made no effort to close her fingers around his.  Like a dead body, she let him take her hand, but didn’t respond to him.  Her warmth, though, radiated into his palm.  She was so hot.  But she was dry.  How could her palm be so dry---not perspiring in such heat?  He held her fingers in his hand tightly, willing his words into her skin without speaking.

“It’s alright,” she whispered.

He could feel her looking at him, the heat of her eyes on his cheek…could almost hear the single tear sliding down her own.

Her body turned toward his.  His breath stopped, his heartbeat quickening.  Fear.  She placed her hand on his chest, traced her fingernail to his shoulder and down his arm to the hand that was still holding hers.  She picked up his arm, stretched it straight across her pillow and lay her head on his shoulder. 

He lay awake for several hours in that position, not knowing if she slept.  It didn’t matter.  He was holding her, holding the essence of desire in his arms.  He let it wash over him like the sweetest shower, saturating his skin.  He was cool now.  She wasn’t burning him anymore.  He’d survived somehow, and now here he was, relaxing in its wake, the softness of its contentment.  He’d never again know desire like this, like an electrical storm, all-consuming.  And all at once he understood that to bully the current or force it into submission would be futile.  Men had been trying for thousands of years to bridle the power of these waves.  But it was not until this moment that he realized simply giving in was far more satisfying.  He knew there was no battle to win but within himself.  She was not an enemy to be conquered, a book to be read, a project to study.  She was not to be simply enjoyed or entertained.  Or feared.  She needed to connect: only connect…the most basic of human requirements.  And this moment, a moment that could not be recaptured, was the only thing he wanted of her.  A kiss, or more, would be a knife in the back of this feeling.

In the morning, he would pack his things and go.

Fiction: "The Tenant" part 3

 (Original work of The Lustful Literate. Please respect creative ownership.)

"The Tenant" 
part three

He couldn’t tell if she meant it, was being evasive, or had become suddenly irritated.  He didn’t want her apology either way.  He walked over to a stack of records, next to the player, rifled through them, turned a few over in his hands to examine the lists of songs on the backs.  He chose one, and replacing the opera with Beethoven, turned up the volume and turned again to face her.


“Will you dance?”

“I don’t dance.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too intimate.”

He snorted under his breath in sarcastic disbelief.

“Closeness scares you?  You walk around here with the confidence of a damn courtesan.”

She scowled at him and looked down at her hands.

“I’m not a whore.  I know you think I am.”

“I don’t.  I don’t know what you do with your time, and I don’t question it.  But you damn near bleed sexuality everywhere you step.”

He paused and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt.

“I don’t believe you’re a stranger to desire, at least.”

“Desire is entirely different from intimacy.”

She stopped, forehead wrinkled in consternation, trying to figure out the right words to explain what made so much sense in her mind but so little now that her mouth must be the vehicle for its arrival.

“Desire is what comes before obtaining the object of that desire.  It’s still innocent – maybe not in thought, but in its inaction; it is not the sin itself.  Desire is clean.  And no, I am no stranger to it.”

She was gaining momentum as her thoughts were finding new life through her words; it encouraged her confidence to blossom in to a rising wave of indignation.

“Neither, sir, do I fear intimacy, as you have so boldly assumed.  However, just because I allow you look at my naked body, and just because I walk around this house with nothing under my robe does not mean that I am necessarily seeking your attention.”

“But how can I ignore it?  And why should I?”

“I don’t want to dance.”  She closed her eyes again, looking exhausted and beaten.

“Alright.”  He felt as if he’d overstepped some boundary.  She’d never spoken so many words to him in all the time he’d know her.  And in her words he saw something he hadn’t expected: vulnerability.  She had become defensive.  She wanted to think herself clean.  And he knew she was now.  Somehow, knowing this gave him courage.  He felt like he’d won some little battle with her and with himself.  He’d been afraid of what he thought she was: impure, imperfect.  She was creeping into his veins, slowly, warmly, and he sighed with the release of his own silent admission of her.

“I’m tired.  I think I’ll turn in.”  She took her glass with her as she glided into the darkness of the hallway and into her bedroom.  He heard the click of the latch on her door.  She’d never locked it before, and he was struck by the sound.  Was she afraid of him?  Or was she making a point?

Suddenly he felt angry.  How could she assume that he would do anything warranting a locked door?  He was a good man.  He’d never hurt anyone in his life.  Had he?  He sat on the couch and put his head in his hands, resting his elbows on his knees.  Was it something he had said?

“Stupid!”  He said under his breath.  He pounded his knee with his fist in scolding.  He’d compared her to a whore.  Somehow, in his observation of her, he’d stripped the humanity from her and plastered her with a hideous label to explain his own fear of her.  He’d found it so natural a comparison that he assumed  her to be like his impression of her:  heartless.  And now he realized his error.  He also realized the problem – her problem.  If he – this nice, kind, unassuming fellow – could think this of her, then imagine the creeps who followed her home every night.  Lecherous men with wives and old enough to be her father.

It was her burden.  Men looked at her and didn’t see pure, natural, innocent beauty; they saw sex – a whore to be bought and fondled and left.  He began to feel the irony of it all as the light from under her door disappeared and he heard the springs bound in her bed as she sat down.  She was as pure as they came.  Maybe, somehow, purer.  She was like faith, which cannot exist unless it is tested.

He lay down on his bed, fully clothed – his mind unsettled and restless.  He couldn’t put his finger on it, couldn’t make sense of his sudden need for her.  It was like she’d just come to life for him, just become human, and she was expansive – taking up his every breath and each incandescent thought.  She was seeping through his pores.  She was on his breath.  Her essence was in his blood, and he was hot with her presence; it was practically burning his skin, making his thighs itch and his chest sweat.  His temples pulsed.  He made fists of his hands as he remembered the feel of her lips around his finger—her tongue sliding along the underside from the base to the tip; not difficult to transfer the sensation to another more expectant part of his body.  Raising his hands to cover the throbbing movements, make them cease, he groaned deep in his throat.  It felt like she was on top of him, straddling, riding him.  He could almost hear her soft moans, the little cries, the soft quick breaths that mimicked her touch.  Her fingertips…he felt them tracing lightly the soft brown hairs that began at the V of his collar bone and led to his sex.  Her lips…he saw them wet and glistening as she arched her head back, moving rhythmically over him. 

She wasn’t really there.  But it didn’t matter: he felt her.  This was desire.  And he was content to drown in its complexity.  This…this feeling was what he saw in her eyes.  He’d seen it the first time he met her at the pub.  In the darkness of the bar: desire – not for him – maybe for life…the sky…the bombs going off overhead in the distance.  It filled her to the brim and overflowed, spilling onto the floor.  That’s what all those men followed.  And he’d just slipped and fallen face first into its sweet density.

Fiction: "The Tenant" part 2

(Original work of The Lustful Literate. Please respect creative ownership.)

"The Tenant"
(part two)

He didn’t knock.  He simply placed hand to doorknob and twisted his wrist.  It didn’t surprise him to find it unlocked.  She wasn’t trying to draw him; he knew that.  It was only the way she was.  Immodest.  Dangerous in her inattentiveness.  Unguarded.  She never tried to draw the attention of men; but maybe that’s exactly why they were always looking and always following her home.  It made the young man nervous.  He feared her, but the fact that he feared her made her seem strong enough, in his perception, to take care of herself.


She looked up at him from the claw foot tub.  A lady would have tried to cover herself, would have at least feigned surprise, mock humiliation.  A woman pretending modesty would have at least widened her eyes, opened her mouth to protest.  But she simply looked at him as if she were fully clothed, comfortable to meet with a stranger in this way.

“I just want to look at you.”  He spoke without fear of rejection.  Because he knew she’d let him sit next to her, touch the water, in silence. 

She said nothing, just continued with the business of grooming, sliding the razor down her cream-lathered leg, extended over the edge of the tub.  Moving slowly, methodically, as if creating a work of art, sculpting her own smoothness.  For the first time in his life he wasn’t worried about what to do next.  He didn’t even care if this was it: the last time he’d ever see a naked woman.  Somehow she had that power.  It was her seeming confidence.  Her carelessness with him.  She wasn’t asking for anything, wanted nothing from him.  Lying there in the water – engulfed in steam – she seemed cruel and enticingly exotic with mascara melted in half-moons beneath each eye, her cheeks rouged heavily with heat.  She seemed ripe for the touching, soft and slightly swollen from the steam.

“Do you want to touch me?” She didn’t look at him as she asked the question; but she sounded sad somehow, and he thought to himself, that in other circumstances, he would be trembling.  He knew he could have her here and now on the bathroom tile.  He knew she wouldn’t resist.  And maybe that’s why he walked away.

Half an hour later she emerged from the bathroom in a faded peach silk kimono – her hair piled on top of her head, wet only at the tips, creating a frame for her glowing face.  Her bare feet, toenails painted red and chipped, made a little puckering noise on the wood floor in the hallway, then turned to a padded whisper once she reached the ancient Persian floor rug (too old for the colors to be deciphered) covering the most worn, and possibly water-stained, section of the living room floor.  She poured herself gin, straight, in a chipped glass.  On the front of it was etched the emblem of some hotel on 5th Street that had closed down years before during the Depression.  She’d probably picked up a whole set for free when the business (and the owner) collapsed.  He watched her from behind his evening paper.  Floating to the record player, she put on some obscure Italian opera and slouched into the graying ivory armchair opposite him, swung her head back, letting the last sip of her drink trickle down her throat, and let her left leg hang over the threadbare arm of the chair.  The pose forced her kimono to slip open across her upper thigh; and with each metered swing of her leg, it opened a little bit more.  But her head was still laid back.  Her eyes were closed and her lips silently mouthed the sad story coming from the speaker.  He put down his paper, set it on the table beside him, stood, and walked toward her.  He took the glass from her and turned to refill her drink, when she grabbed his hand.  His back was to her, and he stopped his next step.  She caressed his fingers, leaned forward and took his index finger in her mouth, letting her tongue mingle with the salt of his skin.  He remained a statue, unsure in his immobility.  She sucked the finger to the tip, her lips releasing him before her tongue, and then fell into her previous pose, yet this time – due to her sudden movement – her kimono lay completely open from the waist, exposing the soft down that hid her innermost workings.  This he didn’t see as he continued his route to the bar, struggling to control his composure, his desire to turn to her and take her into his arms.  He would not let her unnerve him, use him like another of her witless toys.  She would be the death of him.  Her indifference would kill him, if he let himself feel anything for her.  And he knew he could never really have her…really – like a lover.  He could only have her like a whore, empty inside.  Too many others.  And now she was mad, and there was a certain power in her coldness and distance.  Once, she must have been amazing, vivacious, the kind of woman men clamor around, like moths to a burning flame, knowing but not caring that she would ruin them.  As far as he could tell, she was just a beautiful shell now.  Something someone puts on a shelf to admire and takes down once in a while to hear the ocean again, remembering more pleasing times.

She closed her eyes again as he handed her another drink.  He didn’t stare at her from his chair like an animal.  That’s what she loved about him.  He tried so hard to avoid being like the others.  She found it charming, and it made her feel less mean…somehow less numb.  But with this, came the fear.  The smile left her lips.  She opened her eyes and looked directly at him, hiding from her, even out in the open as he was.  He was looking out the window, his back to her.  She’d seen him do this a dozen times before; he was trying to gain control the only way he knew how: to avoid her eyes, as if she were Medusa and might turn him to stone if he looked into them…as if to look at her were to communicate something deeper than either of them were ready for.  But her gaze bore in between his shoulder blades.  She traced the suspenders down his back and took inventory of his countenance – as if to memorize: white dress shirt, cuffs rolled to the elbows, thick, strong neck jutting from an unbuttoned collar, brown curls, soft cherubic lips – almost feminine in their curve.  His grey wool pants hung from his hips as if tailored.  Bare feet made him look like a child.  She brought a finger to her lips as she noticed the light brown hair on his right foot.  He curled his toes under, an absent-minded movement someone does without thinking.  But he was feeling the heat of her observation, knew he was being watched, and the movement was one of discomfort and anxiety.  He felt cemented to the floor, wanting so badly to move anywhere – to just walk around the room.  But he couldn’t will his feet to do anything more than curl his toes back and forth.

Her audible sigh breathed air into his lungs, and he turned toward her boldly.

“What do you dream about?”

She looked at him, a reluctant smile playing at the corners of her overplayed pout.  Pupils widening, eyebrows lifting slightly, her reserve seemed almost imperceptibly more shallow, penetrable even, for a moment.

“Why?”

He took a few steps toward her as he spoke.

“Because a person’s dreams tell much more about them than the life they actually lead.”

“And why should I tell you, then?  Why should you know more than what you see everyday?  More than anyone else?”

“I suppose I can’t answer that.  I simply wonder.  It’s like you’re oblivious to how you must appear to me.”

“I’m sorry.”

Fiction: "The Tenant" part 1

(Original work by The Lustful Literate - please respect creative ownership.)

The Tenant
part one

1941

They’d been living in the same house for 67 days.  But she looked at the dog with more affection; and she spoke to herself more often.  He was immanent, however.  His circumference was widening in her space.  He was filling the air with his need for the smell of her hair, a glimpse of the garter holding her one threadbare pair of stockings in place, too low, just above her knee, to be sexy, just high enough to remain out of sight, for the most part.  They were flesh-tinted; though she’d wanted black, she could not afford color.  She could barely afford the heat it would take to warm the bathwater she was running.  He could smell the lavender and mandarin wafting on wings of steam from under the door and hear the tinny sound, echoing and muffled by the closed door, of the water hitting the porcelain.  A book of human anatomy was splayed across his lap, a glass of cheap whiskey in his hand.  His mind clouded, his vision hazed, and his breath became shallow as an tingle sprang forth, with rising insistence, like the tickle of an insect, down his neck, through the hairs on his chest, and finally landed with softness and urgency at the seat of his sex.  Instantly, he felt guilt.

This was not a woman he loved.  They’d never even touched, except casually, in the process of handing off a drink, giving and accepting rent money in the hallway.  But the aroma she left behind, even during inconsequential actions such as these, undid him.  It wasn’t the lavender, but something deeper, closer to her skin; something emitted from within.  She was sex, and she  seemed to know it.  No modesty, no decency, no seeming understanding of her effect.  Or maybe she did.  Maybe she figured any power a woman could have should be used for gain, for a place at the table, for a seat on the bus.  Maybe that’s all she was.  And maybe that’s why he couldn’t help himself, wouldn’t stop his thoughts, pressed her image onto himself in his mind, guilt growing more transparent with each inhalation of the thickening smell in the room.  He wondered which see-through nightgown she would traipse around the house in tonight.  He imagined her in burgundy, his Helen of Troy, knowingly smiling, feigning desire she could not, would not, feel anymore. 

Her faults:  those were the things one remembered about her—the things that made one crazy with need for her…the need to touch with one fingertip the tear in her stockings, to graze with one’s lips the fraying hem of her black sequined dress, to kiss with one’s tongue the chipped red polish on her nails.  From a distance:  just enough shadow to highlight the crevices and curves; just enough space to hide the scars, loose threads, and lipstick two shades too dark for her pale face.  It wasn’t even painted on straight—a slightly crooked line on the right side of her upper lip made her look reminiscent of a child playing dress up with her mother’s things.

She’d been in need of a boarder.  Money was tight.  More than that.  There was danger of going without.  It was an advertisement that had drawn him in.  But the crimson slickness of her smile sealed the deal.  He’d met her over lunch to quibble logistics…but there was nothing to argue.  It was a simple handshake kind of agreement.  She needed the place in the daytime.  He needed a place to study at night, a place to set his hat, lay out his clothes, prepare a meal, take a drink…sweat in peace and masturbate to a dirty magazine once in a while to ease the stress of exams.  He wasn’t to be there from 8:00 until 4:00.  They could share a few minutes in passing; but she made it clear she needed quiet, time alone, while the sun was up.  She worked at night.  He wasn’t to ask.  But he didn’t have to.  He didn’t want to.  He couldn’t tell that to his naive Midwestern parents.  He couldn’t explain that.  So she became Matt, a young medical intern at the hospital where he was observing twice a week.  She became 19, studious…there could be no calls to the house; he’d have to make the calls home.  And they didn’t ask either.  And he thought to himself that it was amazing how little asking happens when we think we know the answer already.  It’s always when one question, the right one, the only one, the obvious one, is the one that would shock us into reality…someone else’s…and show us how wrong, really, most of our suppositions are.  And yet, realities, whole lives, are based on those assumptions.  Without them, we forget how to breathe.

He’d signed on only for the summer months, hoping to find a better, less finicky situation, a more appropriate roommate.  She hoped by that time, she’d have enough money to leave town for good, head to New York where she’d find work writing for a magazine.  She was a writer; which came out sounding false, almost laughable, through her wine-stained lips as she brushed a strand of dark blond hair out of her eyes.  Everyone knew brunettes were the writers.  Blonds were good for the cover.  They were good between the sheets.  They were meant to be heard screaming your name, seen licking their lips, not asking the difficult questions or wrinkling their pretty white foreheads in consternation, sweating over a typewriter. 

But these thoughts had not melded until now.  The picture was beginning to matter to him…as he inhaled the scent of her bath water.  Why did he remember her eyes across the table during their first meeting?  Why did it matter that they were blue with her first sip of cheap Chianti?  Green when he handed her his deposit…his last ten dollars?  Grey when she came home that first morning as he passed her without comment, hardly a nod of acknowledgment, that first morning in the hall?  More importantly, why did this remembrance bring to his chest a tightness?  And why was he walking toward the bathroom door? 

It was an odd night.  Classes were canceled, something the university called “dead week”, the week before final exams when there were no classes so students could study.  He had nowhere to go really and no money to even buy a coffee to keep himself occupied and out of her way.  So they’d been stumbling around each other for a few days.

The sensual overload was almost too much for him.  The scent from under the door was suddenly overpowered, momentarily, by that coming from her bedroom as he passed it.  He couldn’t help but stop for a moment and take it all in.  And he couldn’t quite help pushing his hand against her slightly open door, exposing the shadows of its interior.  Glancing briefly, somewhat guiltily, down the hallway to make sure he was safely viewing in solitude this place which had always been closed to him—forbidden, therefore all the more desired, he stepped into the room.  With only the light from the hallway and a small lamp on her nightstand, it was difficult to be precise in his collection of information.  A simple wood-framed mirror harboring several cracks trailing from a wound in the near center (an object thrown in anger? by her? by a former tenant?) on the wall above the dresser--almost identical to the one in his own room and most likely furniture that came with the apartment—sturdy and without embellishment, in need of refinishing.  Next to the mirror, on stucco wall:  a browned photo of an older woman with the same languidly empty eyes, a similar sultry pout, looking odd and in contrast to the high lace collar and cameo brooch of a more restricted age.  Running his eyes across the dresser, he uncovered from the gray a hairbrush, thick-bristled, almost black with tarnish, a small make-up bag with expected items peeking from within: a lipstick case, a compact, a handkerchief.  His fingers itched to open the drawers; they trembled as they pulled the drawers, which stuck and squeaked slightly, making him nervous, and yet, that much more excited.  The top drawer was filled with her under things, mostly beige, mostly worn, with fraying lace and dulled satin.  He ran his fingertips across them, suddenly feeling the urge to grab a handful of them, bring them to his nose to smell, to suck in her scent.  He felt himself harden as he inhaled; but to his disappointment, every trace of her had been stolen by detergent.  Disappointed, and more stimulated, he moved on.  The next drawer held a few sweaters, some folded shirts, a brown belt and a box of dull silver- and gold-coated jewelry, several pieces encasing fake gemstones.  However, it was the bottom drawer that held what he was looking for.  A black nightgown, still fresh with her scent.  Two pairs of stockings, pairs she was unwilling to discard, but which had too many holes to wear any longer.  Garters.  He closed his eyes and imagined her wearing these things…all of them.  He could see her standing before the bed, placing her foot on the edge so she could reach underneath her thigh to attach the garter.  He could see her hair falling into her face, the cleavage of her breasts as she leaned.  He imagined her straightening up, both feet, in black heels, on the floor, arms reaching up to pull the hair out of her face and up off of her back, letting it go to fall, to shake it straight, smoothing it once more before walking toward him, splayed naked and waiting for her on the bed.  It was almost too much.


And then he heard the water splash in the bathroom and was shocked grudgingly awake from his mental meandering, pushed the drawer closed too quickly, making a noise he hadn’t wanted to make.  He stood up from the bed, mussing the covers where he had left a slight imprint, and his heat.  His last glance of the room, as he quickly exited, was of her pillow, the curve made by her head still in the center.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Experience: "There's nothing like the first time..."

Here's another "pre-swing" post.  This was originally posted on 2-17-2008 at SwingersBoard It is a description of our first visit to New Horizons in Seattle.  And while the club remains a fabulous place to visit, the website has turned to complete crap.  Don't let the website turn you off.  It's a classy club, well worth the visit.

 

 

Broken coochie and aching feet

Posted 02-17-2008 at 07:19 PM by The Lustful Literate
Well, we dove...head first! Yes, yes...we "came", we saw, we conquered (our fears, that is). So, here's how it all "went down" (ha ha!!! I love playing with words).

We got all snazzied up, packed up the trunk, and dropped the kids at the babysitter with a "likely" excuse for heading to the city for a possible over-nighter. When we made our last turn onto the road where New Horizons is located, we decided to bypass our stop-off to imbibe a shot or two of liquid courage, since we only had about 30 minutes before orientation was to begin. Passing several apartment/condo complexes, a few cars in front of us turned right into the driveway. The small line of vehicles stopped at a large iron gate, which opened slowly (my heart-rate jumped a few notches at this point). We pulled past the gate to the parking lot and backed into a space (joking that it would make it easier to high-tail it out of there more quickly if necessary). We were a little early, so we sat in the car freaking out for a few minutes (didn't want to show up too early and seem over-eager). When the time came to finally get out of the car, I wiped my sweaty palms on the car seat, got out, and breathed in deeply. This was it...

We walked up the lit path to the front door, and I'm pretty sure my heart skipped a few beats as we walked through it. A big sign saying "orientation" greeted us, so we followed where it pointed, down into the ballroom/dance floor area. Tables were set up for dinner and a few members were already there claiming their seats, packing their belongings away, and getting changed into their party clothes. We came ready for that, not knowing what to expect. A few of the other "newbie" couples were filling out their paperwork and looking as apprehensive as we were. Once we got our privacy agreement and membership card filled out (just in case later we decided to go ahead and do it) the gentlemen at the sign-in table told us to grab a place mat and put our names on it if we were thinking we might stay after orientation (as they expected a lot of people and seating would go quickly). That was our first step into commitment: putting our names on those placards meant we were pretty sure we were going to take the plunge. Take another deep breath.

The place itself was beautiful. The tour took us from the ballroom/dance floor area to the lobby (a communal area for getting signed in and a kitchen area for member use. Next, it was upstairs with us...past the co-ed locker room (a few people were already in several stages of undress as we passed, like a parade of innocents, with wide eyes and nervous smiles). We saw the hot tub room and the massage table, a large TV and viewing area, and a cozy, bi-level fire pit before we came to the first "play area", where the tour-guides had as sit and listen to the rules. From here, we went upstairs to the "red room", the main play area. It was a continuous room that circled from the stairs and back again, with cubbies, side rooms, and ladders to higher areas (nice vantage points for watching others). Back downstairs, we were guided into the owner's living room to hear a few words from him about how the place was started and the philosophy it upheld. After this, they guided us back down to the lobby area, where we took a quick nervous look at each other and made the decision to go for the membership (wow!!).

So, back to the car to get our "things" and, most importantly at this point, a bottle of wine. At this point, I was pretty sure we had earned a drink. We shoved our bag and coats into a locker and headed down to the tables. Dinner was pretty good...but the wine was better (and more necessary). So, for me, the night sort of became a haze at this point, so in an effort to recreate the night, I'm asking my husband to "refresh my memory"...his words here, I think, sum up the whole evening..."We got in about 3 songs, dancing to the band, before we decided our legs were getting tired and it was time to fuck."

We went upstairs to get ready to go up to the red room. I mean, after all, what had we come all the way for? Sex. A good time. And we were pretty determined to have just that. We stripped down to skin (amazing...how much more comfortable it felt undressing in front of all these people than it does undressing in a one-gender locker room at the Y...I guess it's the difference of sizing others up and comparing yourself to them and sizing each other up for possible later enjoyment, or just appreciating the scenery- more like window shopping than a competition). I felt pretty comfortable, since there was a little bit of everything there. Don't get me wrong...I was still nervous...still kind of jittery...but willing.

Up the stairs we went...and once at the top, we looked around for just the right spot to begin. We picked a lower bed and left the curtain open (there weren't very many people up there yet, so it didn't seem to be an issue). And that was that! Since I was on the bottom, my eyes occasionally met the eyes of someone passing. They'd smile, and it totally made me hot knowing that they were watching my husband fuck me.

Now, we'd already made the rule that we wouldn't be swapping anything in any way this first time. We were simply there to get used to it...to get comfortable...so our plan was simply to watch and be watched.

We went back down to the locker room, rinsed off, put our clothes back on and went back down for another glass of wine and some dancing, tried out the hot tub, and went back up to the red room for round 2.

This whole time, we were scoping out the joint, discussing what we thought of the other people, pointing out who we thought was hot and who was not...trying to define what we might be looking for when we were ready to "go there". We talked to a few people, but really stayed in our own little world most of the night. We tend to be pretty shy people who take a bit to come out of our shells, so we sort of gave ourselves permission to save that for the next time we go.

Ultimately, the whole evening was pretty amazing. We wandered around and watched the whole surreal orgy happening around us. It felt sort of like a dream...parading around the circle, looking into cubbies to see women sitting on men's faces, women giving blow jobs and hand jobs, couples joining in with other couples making chains of moaning,writing bodies. It was all a lot to take in, an overwhelming of the senses. Hearing women (mostly) and men coming all around just added to my own orgasms...in fact...I think the best was the "mirror room". By our 4th time up (yes, lube was necessary at this point in the night), we were feeling a little more confident and decided to enter one of the group rooms. There were two king sized beds in the middle and a smaller bed off to the side...so we took that one. It was definitely a turn-on to see other people having sex while we did. Here is where my husband came a second time (which doesn't happen all that often...he can certainly "go all night", though)...so that was pretty amazing. I think it was hearing the other woman moaning as she came that did it. (And it totally made me want to mirror our whole bedroom.)

Before we went up for the 5th time, I was complimented on my tattoos, my lingerie, and my body by a man in the locker room. He touched my back as he spoke to me. It wasn't a proposition, but it was the first interaction that made me consider "something more". When we went back up for round 5, we picked a bed up high. While my husband was fucking me from behind, a group passed by and looked up. One of the men in the group was the same one who had complimented me...it wasn't so much that I was interested, because I wasn't really...it was simply the continuation of what had happened earlier. He smiled up at me, and it wasn't very much later that I came again, for the final time.

The sleeping room was the only disappointment of the night. It was quiet, but they maintained low lighting so people could find their way around. I am such a light sleeper that this was a real problem...I think I maybe slept 20 minutes the whole night, so I was pretty damned tired this morning when we pulled ourselves out of bed and packed up our car. My knees ached (I think I need to start taking glucosamine!), my feet were killing me (damned platform heeled boots)...and I was pretty certain that if my coochie wasn't completely broken, it was definitely "closed for repairs" for awhile.

We picked up the kids, put them down for a nap, and took one of our own. Hubby woke me up by pulling off my pajama pants and going down on me. Round 6! I guess it isn't broken after all.

In this photo: The Lustful Literate

Experience: "Pre-Swing"

Originally posted 2-15-2008 on SwingersBoard -  Posting here as one of the pre-cursor stories to our later adventures...wanted to provide you all with a bit of background and foundation for stories and "experiences" to come....  As you can see, those of you have begun to follow me here, the blog is going to include a myriad of sex-based writing:  poetry, fiction, and personal experience.  From time to time, I also plan to throw in some product reviews and random interests.  So, enjoy these first posts from our early "swinging" days.  I look forward to sharing new adventures as they occur!


Original post written by The Lustful Literate, 2/15/08:

So, here we go! Tomorrow evening, the Mr. and I are going to an orientation at a club (a few cities over) outside of Seattle...New Horizons. We've done our research, discussed our feelings, possible "rules"/boundaries, etc....all the "what if's" of such an experience. Neither of us have ever actually "swung" yet. Just started discussing the idea about a month ago. Since then, we've joined this site and "come to terms" with the "likelihood" that we may be "interested" in "accepting" the fact that we may indeed be "into" "playing" with other peoples' "significant others".

To put it lightly, we are both "scared shitless". And even though we listened to a very informative podcast about the "club" we will be visiting by a couple from this board (swingercast), it doesn't make the "fear of the unknown" any less powerful. Nothing like setting your inhibitions on the ledge outside of a window on the 20th floor.

We started making a list of what to pack...just in case we decide to stay after the orientation. Let's just say we aren't committing to anything...just planning for a myriad of outcomes, including the possibility of staying all night. We've taken care of childcare and petcare. Bought me a sexy new dress (we'll find the shoes tomorrow, I hope), and a hot new perfume (grrrrrrowwlllll!). Picked out hubby's digs. Decided what we "would" and "would not" be willing to do on a first "venture" out (soft swapping for now - thank goodness, because of this site, I now know what that means!). And have found a nearby "adult beverage establishment" where we can drop in for a "small" sip of "courage" before we go.

Who knows? Maybe we'll go for the orientation and decide to "sleep on it". Maybe we'll decide to "jump off the high dive" and get right to the "swimming". Maybe we'll decide just to "get our feet wet".

I guess what I'm saying is, we're freaked out but open-minded. We aren't going with any expectations, except that "anything goes" (within our preset boundaries, of course).

Wish us luck...and I'll be back with an update once we return. And maybe the t-shirt.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Fiction: "Eating Out" part three

(please see previous posts for the beginning and middle of this story)

I turned to face him, biting my lip with desire.  I wanted nothing more than his face buried between my legs, licking and kissing and sucking while I watch Harmony fuck my husband with her mouth and lips.  My face must have been an open invitation, because that’s just what he began to do.  He pushed me down on to the floor, the view above me was Harmony’s backside, her head still bobbing slowly back and forth.  I could see right up the leg of her boxers, and I’m sure she could’ve felt my breath all the way up to her cunt.
My husband’s moans and grunts made my thighs quiver, and having Cole’s tongue slipping up and down the lips of my wet pussy, sucking on my clitoris was like fucking heaven.  I could see my husband’s face contorting with pleasure.  He was watching me watching him get off, and the closer he got to coming, the closer I followed.  Just before he let loose, Harmony turned and leaned over me, kissed me, kissed Cole, and kissed me again.  I could taste myself, salty and sweet, on her lips. 
It was my turn to enjoy my husband’s cock.  If he was going to come, I wanted it to be between my lips.  I looked up at him, smiled, and put my mouth around him, my hand at the base of his scrotum, squeezing lightly.  Right then, I felt fingers, whose I didn’t know, sift between my nether lips, rubbing against my clit and seeking entrance inside.  One finger slipped inside slowly, searching out my g-spot, with surprisingly quick success.  I groaned, vibrating my husband’s cock, making him moan.  He grabbed the back of my head, taking a handful of hair loosely in his fist, guiding my head back and forth, slowly.  I sucked and sucked, while the fingers in my pussy danced in and out and in and out, causing my own wetness to drip down the insides of my thighs.  I could feel my orgasm beginning, as my sucking became quick and forceful and frantic; my husband’s thighs began to quiver, and I knew he was about to come, so I backed off and slid my mouth down as far as I could, feeling his cock at the back of my throat, and back up to the very tip.  I wasn’t ready for anyone to come quite yet. 
I turned around to see Cole sitting on the floor, leaning up against the couch, with Harmony’s head between his legs, her shapely ass up in the air, knees spread for better balance.  On my knees, I reached my arms around her and placed my hands around her swaying breasts, which filled my palms and then some.   My husband got on his knees behind me.  Entering between my slippery lips, he slowly began to fuck me, his hands holding on to Harmony’s hips as I continued to massage her breasts and she sucked on Cole’s dick.  I slipped one hand between her voluptuous thighs, then one finger, then two, into her shaved cunt.  With the other hand, I kept my balance by grabbing hold of her ass.  Using my pinky finger, I stimulated her clit while I plunged my fingers deep inside of her again and again.  Everyone was moaning and writhing and sweating and breathing as one.  And all at once, like the crescendo of a complicated and passionate symphony, we came...we came and came and groaned and screamed out our intense relief at letting go so completely. 
We collapsed in a heap of breathing, sighing bodies.  Silently, we caressed and rubbed whatever skin lay beneath our hands.  Cole and my husband sandwiched Harmony and I, who faced one another.  We fell asleep like that.
In the morning...Dean, who’d passed out in a heap of pillows earlier in the evening, woke up to a pile of naked bodies.  I wonder what he thought.  Probably something to the effect of, “What the fuck?  Why didn’t anybody wake me up...I could’ve helped...I got skills...”
Hmmmmm....maybe next time.

Fiction: "Eating Out" part two

(Please see previous post for the beginning of this original work by The Lustful Literate)



And so we gathered our things and stepped out into the cold night air.  Once in our car, the conversation was as normal, my husband making openly sexual comments about his wish to see Harmony and I together and me dodging the topic with “whatever” and “keep dreaming”.
A few minutes later, we were walking up the stairs to her apartment.  Her door opened before we could even knock. 
“Hi you guys.”  Smile.  Sexy, disheveled...she’d just changed and had obviously not gotten to smoothing her hair back down after pulling her dress off and her t-shirt on...which was fine; it looked better messy anyway.  And it was hard not to notice that she hadn’t put a bra on either. She had on a pair of mens boxers, faded navy blue, probably stolen, or kept, from a former boyfriend.  On the couch, Cole and Dean and a few others from the restaurant were already pouring several glasses of wine.  Cole stood up, grabbed two of the glasses and brought them over to us.  Harmony took our coats and my purse and disappeared into another room with them.  My husband and I sat down together on the love seat.
The conversation was lovely...politics, religion, sex...it ran the gamut from intense to dirty to intellectual...all the things a great conversation should be.  Dean fell asleep on the floor in a pile of pillows, and several others trickled out the front door, leaving Cole and Harmony, my husband and I alone to finish the bottle of wine.
At this point in the evening, I was pretty much drunk, but not out of my mind.  I was completely capable of continuing the conversation and continuing to open my mouth and say stupid things, which I promptly did.
“So my husband has a crush on you.”  I looked at Harmony with a smile, so she knew it wasn’t the beginning of an accusation or a cat-fight.  I felt my husband shift a bit uncomfortably beside me.  I put my hand on his thigh to settle him, and he placed his hand on mine for better access at controlling what I might say next (a tight squeeze could easily translate as “shut the hell up...you have gone too far”).
“Oh really?”  She didn’t seem to bothered.  On the contrary, she smiled a little more sexily...if that’s possible.  She was sitting on the floor, leaning on the coffee table in front of us, her bare legs propped to one side, looking every bit the curvy 50’s pin-up in shorts and a tight “T”.    Cole leaned forward a bit more.  He was interested.  But what man wouldn’t be?  The conversation was getting good.
In an effort to level the playing field, and maybe to get back at me a little, my husband let loose with, “And my wife has been enjoying more than just the food at the restaurant herself...been undressing you with her eyes for years, she has.”  I smacked him playfully on the knee and gasped in mock offense, “I can’t believe you just said that!”
Cole laughed, and my cheeks burned.  I was beginning to feel very uncomfortable.  My heart raced a bit as I wondered what course of action to take now.  How to get out of this conversation?  I was feeling a bit cornered.  Harmony to the rescue:  “Everyone wants a piece of Cole...we should just add him to the menu; it’s why half the women in this town come to the restaurant as much as they do.”
The conversation turned then, to other things I can’t remember.  I do know I mentioned something about my shoulders aching, however, because Harmony offered to rub them for me.  I bit my lip and glanced at my husband, eyebrows raised with a nervous smile.  “Okay.”  I said.  We all continued to talk, as I slipped down to the floor in front of her.  She got up onto her knees and brushed my hair over one shoulder.  Her hands slipped around my neck and down my shoulders, her thumbs pressing into the softer spot between the blades.  I let my neck fall forward and hummed a bit in pleasure.  I loved having my back rubbed, by pretty much anyone.  It was a weakness of mine.  My mind wandered from the talk as I focused soley on her palms and fingers and thumbs moving lightly and pressing firmly up and down my spine, down to my lower back.  To avoid interrupting the conversation, she whispered near my ear, “It’ll be easier to do this if you lay down on your stomach and pull off the top part of your dress.”  I considered what she said briefly and then decided I’d had enough wine to accept this as simply something I’d forget by the next morning.  So I unbuttoned the front of my dress and pulled my arms out of the sleeves.  The guys both gazed in our direction with interest.
“I’m just trying to get a better grip on her back, guys!  Quit looking at us like that!”  Harmony laughed off their glances as I laid on my stomach on the soft Persian rug.  I put my arms to my sides and tried to relax, as I felt her straddle me and sit on the back of my thighs.  She continued her massage of my lower back, pulling my dress further and further down with the circular motion of her thumbs.  She unhooked my bra and pushed the straps out of the way.
My attention left and entered the conversation between Cole and my husband, certain words catching me here and there.  It didn’t take long for them to lose focus altogether on their own discussion and hone in solely on the activity in front of them. 
“Now that is a beautiful thing...two sexy ladies, enjoying each other’s bodies,” remarked my husband.  Cole replied to him, “Yeah it is...kind of makes you want to join in.”  “Maybe we should,” ventured my husband.  And to my surprise, Harmony responded, “Maybe you should.”  Lying face down, back to all of them, I could hide the surprised look on my face, but not the fact that I’d stopped breathing beneath her warm, soft hands.  Her hands squeezed my hips, and I breathed in again.  No one said anything for a few minutes.  And then I felt another pair of hands on my shoulder and a body leaning over my head.  They were not my husband’s hands, and I felt my breath quicken with the knowledge that my “beautiful boy” was touching me.  I closed my eyes and determined that I would not let myself be freaked out by this.  It felt too good to be wrong.  I felt Harmony’s weight leave my thighs and her hands slipped down the sides of my legs, stopping at my knees and traveling back up the insides of my legs, my dress being pushed up over my ass.  Cole pulled my shoulders up and to the side to encourage me to roll over, which I did...to face Harmony, who was right there, shimmying her way, on her knees, in between mine.  I sat up and pulled myself onto my knees, sitting on my feet.  Cole, behind me, continued to rub my shoulders, and I pulled Harmony’s t-shirt up and over her head.  Our lips met, sweet and soft; her tongue, warm, flicked over mine, and I sucked lightly on her bottom lip, the one with the swollen pout I always admired.  I looked up to see my husband standing over her.  I reached over her head to undo his belt and unbutton his fly, while she continued to lick and kiss my neck, so sensuously, slow, and subtle.  I pulled my husband’s jeans down far enough to access his already hard cock.  I pulled it out and slid my hands up and around it, cradling his balls.  I whispered in Harmony’s ear.
“Suck him off.  I want to watch you go down on him.”
She looked right into my eyes and licked her lips, then turned around and grabbed hold of my husband’s erect penis, slipping it into her mouth.  She ran her tongue up the underside and around the tip.  I leaned back against Cole’s chest.  He must have taken off his shirt while I was busy with Harmony.  He began teasing my nipples with his fingers and squeezing my breasts softly.  I kept my eyes on Harmony, her head bobbing softly and slowly, my husband’s cock pushing out the sides of her cheeks, glistening with her spit.  Occasionally, she’d glance back toward me.  Cole and I sat behind her.  I began to run my foot up and down the inside of her thigh, pushing my toes between her shorts and her skin.  She moaned a little.  And my husband moaned a little, which turned me on.  Cole pulled back my hair and began kissing the back of my neck and I put my right hand behind me, searching out the zipper of his pants.  Finding it, I unwrapped his package and slipped my hand around it, squeezing gently with a back and forth motion.  He let his breath out in my ear.  I felt the heat of it all the way down to my wet pussy.  

Fiction: "Eating Out" part one

This is a story I wrote a few years back...when my husband and I frequented a restaurant where the staff was about as yummy as the food.  We went there often, wined, dined, and were treated more than well.  Our discussions about our favorite waitress and waiter often spawned pillow talk and certainly led to some intense imaginings.  This was the literary result of those thoughts, over a long period of time.

Now, unfortunately, those perfect servers have gone into the world, away from our small town.  But they are still good material for fantasy.



(Original work of The Lustful Literate)

Eating Out

It was an ordinary night, dinner out at their favorite Italian restaurant.  They liked the place for lots of reasons, an excellent wine list, rich food, decadent desserts; the delicious wait staff was an added bonus.  She’d been frequenting the wine bar there since before they’d even met, eying the Botticelli boy behind the counter...the slicked back brunette ponytail, the chiseled jawline, the clean lines of his white shirt and black slacks.  Hazel green eyes, trained to flirt just the right amount with the customers, made me lick my lips, thighs tightening.  It was always where I went, for a voluptuous glass of zinfandel and an eyeful of sexual inspiration.
After my husband and I met, we continued going there, for the food, for the ambiance, for the beautiful waitress with the beautiful name and curvaceous behind.  I’m sure he couldn’t decided which was better, watching her walk toward us or watching her walk away.  The view was equally exquisite both ways.
While I’ve always found women in general beautiful...I’ve never considered myself bi-sexual.  Maybe curious, but not really “willing” to do much beyond fantasize or talk about my husband’s fantasies involving me and another woman.  But years of talking was leading us closer to a reality I wasn’t positive I was ready for.
On this ordinary night, we walked in through the front door.  At the bar, as usual, thank god, was my Italian eye-candy.  Dark brown hair, athletic physique, not too thin, but youthfully lithe, possibly 25 or so.  I picture him hairless, smooth, like a carefully hand-crafted sculpture, worthy of his own fountain in Venice.  Next to him, pouring a glass of wine, her hands gently cradling the neck of the bottle, was our “dream girl”.  Auburn, shoulder-length waves, intense green doll-like round eyes, framed in long, black, made-up lashes.  Alabaster white skin.  Both of them lit up to see us (we were regulars and always guaranteed a fat tip).  
“Hi, guys; how are you?”  Her slow voice, sweet as dripping honey,  welcomed us.
“Good, how about you?”  I replied.  “Just came in for a bite to eat; we’re starving for some great Italian food.”
“Well, right this way; let’s find you a place to sit down.”  Her full hips swayed back and forth, making the bottom of her dress sway around her shapely calves.  “How about a booth in the corner?”
“That’ll be fine.”  I went up the steps and followed her to the back of the restaurant, knowing that my husband’s eyes were jumping from ass to ass in front of him, two brunettes in black dresses, a fantasy unfolding his in mind.
“Do you know what you’d like to drink?”  Her lips spread across her teeth, forming a welcoming smile, her eyes sparkling and inviting.  It’s what made her good at her job, her easy way with people, her charm, her classic approach. 
“What do you suggest tonight?”  We counted on the wait staff’s opinions of the new wines...they helped us try new things and knew our tastes well enough to usually lead us straight the perfect pick.  “Tonight we have a gorgeous Cabernet from Yakima Valley...deep and full-bodied...would you like to try it?”
“Sounds great.”  She walked away, hips and dress dancing toward the bar at the front.
“I see you eying her behind.”  My husband was never very discreet about his desires.  Not that I minded.  I’m a secure woman who knows my man is happy and content just where he is. 
“Yeah, I’m imagining that sitting on your face.”  I rolled my eyes good-naturedly.  It was always the same, his girl-on-girl fantasies.  Far from making me uncomfortable, they usually just made me laugh.  I’d kissed my best friend in college once just to see how it felt...soft, slippery, not at all my thing.  Then later, I’d had my first honest crush on a fellow female grad student, fully knowing it’d never go anywhere, safely imagining things (and occasionally writing about them) in my mind.  This was the first time since then I’d come anywhere near thinking a woman was “enough of everything” to turn me on. 
My husband knew I found her attractive, which probably turned him on even more.  So there we sat, indulging our greatest pleasures:  eating rich, fattening food, drinking a bottle of sexy cab, and enjoying the service in so many ways.
We’d come late in the evening and stayed late, as was our custom, so by the time we were finishing our dessert and the last of the wine, we found we were the only customers left in the restaurant.  The “beautiful boy” came to take our plates and inquire to any final requests.  I was feeling warm and relaxed at this point, full and a bit hazy from the wine.
“Can I get you anything else?”  He smiled and looked directly at me.  I have no idea what made me feel it necessary to add, “You in a take-home container.”  I laughed, and blushed, wishing I could take it back...what on Earth pushed that juvenile pick-up line out of my mouth...no more wine for me.  I looked straight at my husband, silently pleading with him to get me the hell out of there before I said something else to embarrass myself and make it impossible for us to ever return to our favorite dining establishment.  But he simply raised his eyebrows at me and smiled to himself...red wine did naughty things to me, for which he was grateful.  Cole, my young waiter,  simply smiled a somewhat devious smile and said, “You flatter me.”
He took our plates and left us to finish our wine.  As the wait staff finished cleaning up, I enjoyed my night cap of port and my husband sipped another glass of wine.  Our waitress, Harmony, returned with our check and an invitation, “A few of us are heading over to my place to hang out...I just wondered if maybe you’d like to join us?”  It really wasn’t that odd.  We’d been hanging out at this restaurant for years, and since we live in a small town, we ran into the wait staff regularly at other events and had mutual friends.  So, we decided it was a good idea to accept.  My husband, smiling like a fiend, asked her where she lived.  As she wrote down her address and drew a simple map for us to follow, her hair fell across her face and her dress draped loosely across her breasts, baring her ample cleavage.  Seeing my husband’s gaze, I kicked off one shoe and placed my bare foot between his thighs, pushing my toes gently into his dick, which was not quite hard, but certainly not flacid.  He breathed in a bit, and he quickly glanced over at me but gave away nothing as he continued his short discussion with her.
“We’ll just follow you, there,” he said.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Poetry: "Clubbing"

(Another original work of The Lustful Literate)

Clubbing

Her face,
the picture of youthful innocence
lies.
She wants to fuck you
n the dirtiest ways,
her little cherry-print dress
pushed up over her ass.
She wants you to stick your fingers everywhere,
to lick her like ice cream melting in the sun,
Quick with full tongue,
As it threatens to drip down your hand
and your forearm,
which she plans to.

In the alley a few streets away from the bouncing club,
she leads you into the shadowy safety of the dark,
pulls you into her hard,
puts her hand directly between your legs and
lifts up what is already growing stiff.
Impervious to social dictum,
she slide her skirt above her hips exposing
a sex so hungry it almost speaks the words
“fuck me”
itself.

Where her thighs meet, heat pulses,
and her breath falls heavy from swollen lips,
“Fuck me…fuck me here…”
Turning her back to you,
she pushes her ass out to you in offering,
a cat in heat.
“Now…”
An authoritative primal whisper
your body won’t disobey.
Letting your pants fall to your knees,
planting your hands around her warm hips,
you plunge into her wet heat.
Like a sponge, she sucks you in,
her internal dynamics clasping at your cock
like Chinese handcuffs,
locking you inside of her,
demanding that you stay
until she is done.

As your movements quicken,
she grabs your hands,
moves them to her breasts,
“Grab them hard…”
she says through clenched teeth,
bending over further to push into you with more force,
her hands on the dirty brick building for support.

The sound of her ass clapping against your pelvis
takes on the quality of a rabid concert audience.
Gaining speed, bones bruising skin.
And with one quiet, ironically soft sound,
she is spent,
slowly sliding herself away from your slick shaft,
dripping your offerings across the asphalt.

She smoothes the folds of her dress,
grabs the back of your neck with strong fingers,
kisses you hard on the mouth,
slipping her tongue between your teeth,
then walks,
with an exaggeratedly slow sway,
toward the street.

By the yellow streetlight glow,
you can see a shimmering line of cum
running down the inside of her left leg,
all the way down
to her platformed heel.

Poetry: "The Closet"

And for a bit of a laugh...I wrote this poem some years ago at the behest of my husband.  I hadn't written much erotic material in quite awhile, so he encouraged me to come up with something.  This was the result.  For some reason, I must've been in a limerick-y state of mind.  Enjoy!

The Closet (original work of The Lustful Literate)

Janie was a wild girl. 
She loved to go to parties.
Janie loved a dress that twirled
high showing off her panties.
She liked to have sex in public places,
like alleys and bathrooms and such.
Her legs spread wide, her eyes couldn’t hide
that she loved a stranger’s touch.

Kate was an innocent little thing.
White cotton briefs and wireless bras.
Kate kept her knees together and covered,
wore chapstick instead of lip gloss.
She’d never been kissed or suckled or licked
by a boy or a man, or a girl for that matter.
So she wasn’t ready at all for Janie’s pick
of her when they played spin the bottle.

Deep in the darkness behind all the clothes
in the closet in Janie’s bedroom,
the guests got an earful of Janie’s desire
for Kate, whom they all did assume
would run out the door, eyes wide in shock,
but how could they ever predict
that Kate would come out, holding her cock?
That girl was a boy, sure as shit!

Janie was a wild girl
who loved to go to parties,
Kate was a boy in denial.
But now that Kate has come out of the closet
Janie wears a devilish smile.





Poetry: "The Image Poet"

The Image Poet
(original work of The Lustful Literate)

Large bills
whisper-light in my right jeans pocket;
I hardly notice
it’s enough to buy groceries
for a month—
the weight: that insignificant.

Bells on the door
chime when I enter.
I ask if he’s here
because I’m ready—
I think…

I notice his eyes first,
blue,
when he surfaces from the back rooms,
and then his substantial height;
somehow it means more to me at this moment.

He leads me down the hallway
to a room,
tells me to have seat
while he prepares,
slides latex over skin
and looks so business-like about it
as my friend situates herself on a stool in the corner
to watch.

Tentatively nervous,
I pull my faculty t-shirt over my head,
unhook my bra,
wondering if he is still busying himself
or if he watches at times like this.
My breasts are exposed briefly
until I can grab my shirt and recover my modesty,
straddling the black leather chair in the middle of the room,
situated like a display table.
Knowing he’ll need greater access,
I unzip my jeans
and pull them low over my hips.

He touches me first with his left hand,
forgoes warning
and sets forth with the honeyed prick
dripping down my skin,
wiping away the blood as he
moves in deeper:
further down,
it begins to hurt more,
less of a throb,
more a piercing stab;
I remind myself that I’ve purchased this pain,
and that I will thank him later
for talents and services rendered.

I hook my bare feet together under the chair
and pull to isometrically subside
the stinging.
His mercy allows a few pauses.
Stretched and ready to continue,
I close my eyes, dig my teeth into my now swollen bottom lip,
tasting the sweat dripping slowing from my temples,
and become more aware of the thickness of my tongue.

When he is through,
he gently wipes me down,
the coolness of alcohol,
the anti-septic sweetness of a clean job:
I turn my back to the mirror
hung on the wall for such a purpose
and there:  the marks he has left upon me…
his pen—the needle,
my skin—the bleached parchment,


his poem—a permanent veil of flowers on my flesh.

Monday, October 25, 2010

Archeology

Everyone has hidden desires.  Everyone imagines more than they will admit.  Everyone.  But, sometimes, caving to the risk of being discovered is the ultimate freedom.  It's like letting go of a lie.  Becoming the truth.  Even if it means an inevitable loss of cover.

I'm not quite that brave, yet.  I choose to remain anonymous.  But, I'm opening my mouth.  Wide.

This blog is intended to give voice to my alter ego.  The side that does, says, writes, and feels what might otherwise be unacceptable in the day-to-day life I lead.  Erotic fiction and poetry, book and movie reviews, links, lists, personal essay, etc.

On the eve of this Pagan new year...I make the resolution to dig into the deepest ravines of my closed psyche; because even I don't know what I will find.

I'm a "normal" woman...a wife, a mother, a daughter, and friend.  I have a rigid career that expects I be better than the people with whom I work, and the pressure of being a role model in a small town like mine can be stifling, especially when you play "on the other side of the tracks".

I like sex.  With myself.  With my husband.  With others.

I like reading and writing about sex.

I like watching it.

Not unlike most of you.  Not unlike a lot of people who wouldn't admit it or whom might find talking about it distasteful or indecent.

I say, "Bring it."

So let's call this an archeological site.  Together we will be exploring some of the most sought after items in history - answers to the question - what do women really want? - what do they desire?  - why?  But since I am only one woman...I can only claim to know, really, what I want...what I desire.  So I guess this is more an exploration of myself, in a very public forum.  My secret life exposed.

I remember years ago reading a collection by Anais Nin, Delta of Venus.  It was written for a wealthy male patron for $1.00 per page.  His request was that she delve into what was at the core of the female mind.  He wanted a woman's most secret desires and thoughts splayed before him on the page.  He lusted for it, and continued to push her further to divulge even more detail and more examination...more...more.  In the quest to fulfill his pleading search, she created a new language of sexuality, a way of speaking about sex that was purely feminine:  raw, rich, seductive, and innocent.  It transformed the genre or literary erotica; I'd go as far as to say that it put it on the map.

So let's call you my wealthy patron, and let's start digging.

In this photo: The Lustful Literate