Five-Minute Erotica Page 4

  By now I’m on fire. I told him there was a picnic table just down the road from where we were. Let’s go there, I said, and he obliged. When we got to the spot he placed a towel from the trunk of his car on the table. He pulled up my dress and began squeezing and caressing my ass. He licked it and kissed it then turned me around. He said if he hit it from the back he knew he would not be able to hold on. He lifted me onto the table, pulled his sweat pants down and put a condom on that beautiful huge cock. He pressed the head of his dick against my lips and rubbed it against them until they parted to allow his entry, then thrust his cock deep into my pussy. I gasped as he entered me. I thought I was going to lose my mind as he stroked my pussy with his large, long, firm dick. I was so wet; as he slammed his big cock in and out of my juicy pussy I could see his groin becoming more and more moist.

  We hadn’t noticed the truck coming up as we were consumed with the pleasure we were producing. When we did it was right there upon us—all we could do was stop and hold each other, with me writhing and squirming on his dick and his firm round ass exposed for all to see. After the truck went by we were at it again, thrusting and squirming all over each other until I screamed with ecstasy. I came in big sporadic waves of pleasure, nearly collapsing from the intensity. He never missed a stroke and held my ass as he continued to push his pulsing manness deeper and deeper. Then with a huge scream of his own he exploded, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he lay limp against me. We lay there against each other for a while until we got our composure.

  He had told me earlier that he was a rapper and was producing a video for his latest project. I had not paid him any attention when he told me this; I had his dick in my hand and sucking it on my mind. I had no idea until he broke out rapping this cool piece. I mean he was totally inspired and performed it as if he were on stage. Then he showed me his CD and played the joint he had just performed.

  After this I can only imagine what his next CD will be like.

  Leave a Message

  BY SAGE VIVANT

  Springtime makes me restless. I adore and despise it for this reason. As I lay in bed that morning, running my hand along the sheet where John’s body had warmed it, I squirmed with sensory echoes of the taut muscles in his chest and the firm fullness of his backside.

  Ignoring my conscience, I reached across the mattress toward the phone on the nightstand. As I dialed, a subtle breeze suggested previously unthinkable scenarios as it danced along my long, exposed legs. I heard the phone on the other end ring once, twice, three times before it clicked over to voice mail.The sound of his voice brought mischief to mind and at the sound of the beep, I lay back on the bed and spoke.

  “Hi, baby. It’s Becky. I’m just lying here, wondering how I’m going to get through the day without the feel of your skin against mine. I’m not even out of bed yet and I’m already wet.”

  I giggled, suddenly nervous. I’d never left a message like this for John before—it was his personal voice mail yet I knew that he often picked up his messages when he was with clients or out in public, so I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. But now I could only think about all manner of phallic pleasures.

  I hung up because I was uncertain about what else to say and I wasn’t sure I should go into any more detail. He’d get a kick out of the message, I thought to myself as I headed for the shower.

  The thought of John’s round butt cheeks in my hands and his beautiful manhood in my mouth or between my legs made showering a fairly futile experience. But I didn’t want to come in the shower. If I couldn’t have John in person, I’d at least share with him by phone what he was missing.When I emerged from the steamy bathroom, still damp and aroused beyond reason, I curled up on my unmade bed and picked up the phone again.

  “Hi, John. It’s me again. I just got out of the shower and I’m afraid I’m not at all clean. My pussy just keeps dripping for you. I don’t even know if I can get dressed. I mean, what could I put on that will help?” I walked over to my closet, the section where I kept my best lingerie. “Let’s see.... There’s this beautiful copper teddy. You remember it, don’t you? It’s the one with the cutouts at the cups. Do you remember when you sucked my nipples when I wore it? You said you liked it because it made my hair look richer. Auburn, I think you said. Anyway, it keeps my breasts free so if I wear that under clothing, I think the fabric will just rub against them and I’ll be more turned on than ever.

  “There’s always the merry widow with the thong. I think you like that one, too. It pushes my breasts up high, like I’m a bawdy maid from the Renaissance! The thong strokes me when I walk, especially if I’m already wet. No, that won’t do.

  “I don’t think I have anything that’s going to help, John. I wish I could design something,” I said, walking back to the bed and settling in at the head of it. “If I could design something to wear today, I’d make something with cups the size and shape of your hands.The panty would be silky but it would be lined with little miniatures of your tongue so that you could lap away at me all day. Mmmm, that would be lovely.”

  My hand was between my legs now and my fingers moved along my moist folds like I imagined his would if he were with me. “John, I’m playing with myself now. I’m sorry to leave you this message, but I’m so aroused, I don’t know what else to do. I’m terribly wet right now. Listen.” I put the phone to my pussy and let him listen to the squishing sounds I created with a few carefully placed movements of my fingers. Once I knew my orgasm was close, I moved the phone back to my mouth.

  “Oh, John. It’s your mouth pleasuring me. Oh! Yeeesssss!”

  I really did imagine his handsome face between my grateful legs. When my vaginal walls quivered with the after-effects of my lusty exploration, I remembered that I was leaving a message and should probably sign off soon. “I’m going to hang up now, sweetie, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped thinking about you.”

  The restful glow of my orgasm was only the beginning of my hunger that day. I indulged myself, though, stretching cat-like as my body recovered from its little death. My imagination would not be ignored, however, and it raced with ideas for the evening. I gave each idea considerable thought as I lay there, naked, fondling my breasts and even occasionally sucking one to stave off the wild, incessant horniness that consumed me. I waited an hour or so before I phoned again.

  “John, it’s Becky again. As the day progresses, I’m afraid I’m still not able to do anything other than think about you and those luscious buttcheeks of yours. I’m thinking I’ll go over to that seedy little sex shop on Melford Road, you know the one with the leather in the window? I wouldn’t buy anything too serious, you understand, but the idea of some tight black leather stretched across my breasts really gets me hot.

  “You should have called me today.You should have whispered sweet nothings to me and made me come on the phone.You should have promised me that you would cover me with kisses. But you didn’t do any of that, so now I get to have my way with you.

  “I’m going to bend you over and make you wait to discover what I’ll do next. Will I slap you with my bare hands? Will I use the whip? Or maybe I’ll just grab a wooden spoon and leave red outlines of its shape on your gorgeous rear end.

  “There’s only one way for you to know what I’m going to do, John. Come home early and find out.”

  I hung up and got dressed right away. I had to get to Melford Road before that store closed.

  His Hands

  BY GRETA CHRISTINA

  This is what she thinks about, when she thinks about him. She doesn’t think about his eyes, like she likes to tell herself; or about his lips, like she’d tell her friends if they knew about him; or about his cock, like she tells him when she’s in a good mood. She thinks about his hands.

  When he wants her, it’s always his hands that go first. Brushing lightly against her face. Sneaking up on her thigh. Massaging the back of her neck, and then inching down over her collarbones to entice her breasts. His hands are smart—smarter than
he is, probably—and his hands are sweet when they want to be, and they can make her feel calm and drifty, safe and befriended.

  But it isn’t these nice sweet things she thinks about. His hands also do things that make her blush when she remembers, things that make her flinch and quickly look for something to stare at on the floor, convinced that anyone who sees her can read her mind. When she thinks about his hands, these are the things she thinks about.

  She thinks about his hands pressing her against the wall, one hand pinning her shoulders, the other sliding up her skirt, pushing between her legs, reaching for her clit like it belongs to him. No, not like it belongs to him. Like a thief. Like he knows it doesn’t belong to him and is taking it anyway.

  She thinks about his hands pressing her thighs apart, again like a thief, like a cat burglar opening a window and climbing inside. She thinks about his hand on the back of her neck, his fingers coiling in her hair and tightening; she thinks about his other hand gripping her by the wrist, guiding her own hand between his legs, making her feel his swelling crotch. She thinks about his hands on her arms, shaking, impatient, maneuvering her body into place.

  She thinks about his fingers spreading her lips open down there, prying her apart, exposing her clit and studying it fervently as if he’s reading her soul. When he opens her up like that, she feels like he is revealing her soul, like her soul has been hiding in her clit and he’s discovered it at last: her true soul, the selfish one, the dirty one, the one that wants to quit her job and abandon her friends and family and spend the rest of her life on her back, on her hands and knees, pressed against the wall, with his hand between her legs.

  She thinks he’s a bad idea. She thinks she doesn’t love him. She thinks that if she loved him, she wouldn’t feel so dirty all the time. She thinks that if she loved him, she’d think about his eyes, his lips, even his cock, at least sometimes. She thinks that if she loved him, she wouldn’t be spending every spare moment thinking about his hands.

  She thinks about his hands. And finds her own hand knocking at his door.

  Restaurant Opening

  BY MELANIE VOTAW

  He failed to notice how sexy she looked in her little black dress, as always. She had given up long ago trying to elicit attention from her husband. His only interest seemed to be his work, and it did not seem to bother him at all that they were essentially living a celibate life. Even though a private investigator had failed to find any evidence of an affair, she could never get a straight answer from him as to why he had lost his appetite for sex.

  She continued to keep in shape and dress sexy anyway. It made her feel good, and she enjoyed the attention she received from the men she passed by on the street or met at the office. Although she had never cheated on her husband, she was seriously considering it. How long could any woman live like this? She knew she would have to make some decision soon, or her passion would simply die.

  Once a week they went out to dinner, and he chattered away as if there was nothing amiss in their relationship.This particular evening, he sat next to her at the small square table. After dessert, her husband was saying something about the beautiful mosaic tabletop when she noticed the handsome young man sitting at the table directly across from them. He was with a lovely young woman but seemed to have no more interest in his dinner companion than she had in hers. He looked up and caught her staring. When he smiled, she quickly looked away.

  Terribly bored and in need of adventure, she suddenly got a brainstorm.The man was sitting in just the right place to see her legs under the table. And unless she turned her head, the woman with him would not be able to see.

  She excused herself to the ladies’ room, where she tucked her panties into her bag. When she sat back down, she feigned a renewed interest in her husband’s topics of conversation, while keeping her peripheral vision locked on the young man.Whenever the waiters left the area, she moved her legs back and forth, opening and closing, opening and closing. Just when she thought he would never look, and just when she had almost talked herself out of this madness, he saw! His eyes widened, his breath obviously quickened, and he abruptly looked guiltily back at his companion.

  Continuing to say “um hmm” to her husband at appropriate moments, she kept an eye out for the moment when the man could find a chance to look back at her.When the young woman excused herself to the ladies’ room, the man turned in his chair nonchalantly to look straight under their table. She spread her legs wider and held them open. Then, she brought her hand down to her lap and ran her finger up and down her labia.When she inserted her finger into her vagina, his mouth opened in response, and he squirmed in his seat.

  Her husband continued his conversation mostly with himself, oblivious to what was happening under the table. She kept looking back in the direction of the ladies’ room, ready to stop as soon as the young woman was on her way back.

  When she pulled her finger out, it was covered in white cream. This experience was making her wetter than she had been in a long time! She lifted her finger and quickly put it in her mouth, licking it clean.The young man’s eyes stayed fixed on her.

  A waiter started their way with the check, and she reluctantly closed her legs. When the waiter was gone, the man looked at her longingly, his eyes begging her to continue. She opened her legs again and returned her finger to her lap, spreading her juices all over her clitoris and labia. Her passion was building, and she longed to bring herself to orgasm. But, her husband placed the cash in the check folder, and she knew it was almost time to leave. She let the man watch her clean her juicy finger with the cloth napkin on her table, after which she brought the napkin to her lap, running it along her pussy from bottom to top.

  Squeezing the napkin in her right hand as her husband headed toward the door, she stopped briefly by the young man, dropping the napkin on his table without looking at him.

  She turned the corner, passing the young man’s companion on the way back to his table, as she and her husband stepped out of the restaurant.

  Gold

  BY KELLY DACRIOCH

  There are times when your feet are set upon a shining path. When the stars float around your head and everything you touch turns to gold. Warm, malleable, sweet.

  The night of Laura’s birthday party was one of those times. It was late September, so different from the dark dreariness of a San Francisco August, and the wind off the bay chilled my skin. I was polarized, magnetized, following the pull of pure luck. In a way, it was too bad. Too much of a good thing all at once. Impossible to follow up on. The next time I saw Debra I was tired, actually had a terrible cold, but I kept our date anyway. After our first night—this night—I thought I could do no wrong.

  I was wrong. Really wrong. Our first actual date was also our last.

  But that night, Laura’s birthday party—oh, my.

  It was crowded, as all Laura’s parties were, sixty people or more crushed into her Webster Street flat: expatriate East Coaster friends, the Marin Goth crowd, the science fiction bookstore crowd, the Upper and Lower Haight Street contingents, and Laura’s lovers past, present, and future. I would be in the “past” category, which seemed to include about half the party.

  I was answering an unanswerable riddle when I saw Debra come in the front door. Debra is tall and needs no ornament. In her gray down jacket and nondescript blue jeans, she towered above the press of dyed-black pineapple heads and bleached do’s around her.

  “What’s the difference between an orange?” my friend Chris had asked me. A question to befuddle drunks, to elicit sputters and confused Ah, fuck yous. I looked across the room at Debra’s reddish brown hair, curly and cut close, and the answer rose unbidden.

  “One is red,” I said slowly, “and the other is yellow. Excuse me.”

  I made my way through the crowded living room. Debra made her way towards me. We said hello, we chatted as the milling of the crowd jostled us together until the space between us was so small, if I had leaned forwards, I could have licke
d her slightly pointed, slightly upturned nose. She was precise, direct, interesting and charismatic. I was witty, charming, and sincere. I wish I could remember what the hell we said to each other.

  We wandered through the party together. To the fridge for bottles of beer, leaning against the wall in the long Victorian hall that split the flat, crammed together on the couch with four drunk punks who eventually formed a successful swing band, then back through the kitchen, past the fridge and past Laura who leaned against the sink and said “Hey, sugar,” with a knowing smile. We went out the back door and on to the stairwell, in the airshaft between Laura’s building and the next.

  We leaned against the railing, which overlooked the trash cans and the side door to the garage. Above us in a rectangle cutout of sky, a few of the brightest stars showed through the glowing San Francisco mist.

  My arm was around her waist. I felt her weight shift, her shoulder pressed under mine, and I kissed her broad, soft cheek. She turned her face towards me, her brows arched, and I kissed the space between them. Then a little lower, the bridge of her nose, then the tip. She tilted her face away from mine.