Fireflies

This is not erotica but I’d like to share it anyway.

Enjoy.

(c) Mike Kimera 2010

When the wounds of the day
And the sleep-debt of the week
Tap in to my bone-deep well of sadness,
Fierce anger ignites
Bringing momentary warmth and light
At the cost of a mouthful of ashes

Afterwards, in the cooling dark
Rocking slowly back and forth
I wrap myself in a thin blanket of regret,
Mourning the delight life once brought me

Finally, in the still quiet of my exhausted mind,
Words, unbidden but welcome, flicker into being
Little fireflies of hope dancing in the dark
Dispelling gloom with evocations of past happiness
And the promise that joy will rise with the sun.

Curious

Curious (c) 2000

"It's your first time," he says, leading me under the boardwalk.

"It's that obvious?"

"It's cute," lifting my lefthand to his mouth, sucking on the ringfinger.

"Been married long?"

"Ten years," letting him push me to my knees.

"Open up" he grins, casually pulling his cock from his speedos.

So hot against my palm when I grip it.

"I'm not gay."

"Just curious huh?"

The smell, familiar but strange, assaults me as I suck him in.

"Good boy. Use your tongue. Yesssss."

I am so eager to please; so ready to swallow.

"Curiouser and curiouser” I think to myself.

Glory Hole

Glory Hole © 2004

“SUCK HERE BITCH” has been scratched into the wall above the hole.In my fantasy the cocks are long, black, and rock-hard.
The one that pokes through the hole is short, jaundiced-pink, and slightly limp.
With a sigh, I lean forward on the toilet seat and suck it into my mouth.
He smells of piss, tastes of sweat and takes ten minutes to dribble his cum into my mouth.I feel dirty and used and horny.
And now I have a new fantasy.
I stand and push my aching dick through the hole.
The bitch next door better be good.

Glory Hole © 2004  by Mike Kimera  

“SUCK HERE BITCH” has been scratched into the wall above the hole.

In my fantasy the cocks are long, black, and rock-hard. The one that pokes through the hole is short, jaundiced-pink, and slightly limp.  

With a sigh, I lean forward on the toilet seat and suck it into my mouth.

He smells of piss, tastes of sweat and takes ten minutes to dribble his cum into my mouth.

I feel dirty and used and horny.

And now I have a new fantasy.

I stand and push my aching dick through the hole.

The bitch next door better be good.

Spending

Spending © Mike Kimera 2010

The kneeling whore holds her tongue still

Letting my yellow-tinged cum

Dribble across it

Like salad-dressing

Simultaneously pleasant and repellent

Not waiting to swallow, she engulfs me

The trained eagerness of her mouth

Neither reaching her eyes

Nor rousing my lust

Frictionless motion with no destination

She lets me pull back her painted face

By roughly-grasped hair

Forcing my softening sex

Desperately deep

Will and habit warring with reality

Tongue now stiffer than the flaccid flesh it works

Her nose held against my thrusting pelvis

She waits stoically for me to recognize

What she already knows

That I am spent to the point of bankruptcy

The Lesser Sin

The Lesser Sin (c) 2001 by Mike Kimera

“Please, Sean,” she says, “use the other hole.”

For weeks now I’ve been “visiting” Mrs. Cassidy when her husband’s away. Doesn’t she go like a racehorse on speed once we get down to it? A shame it is to see a fine woman like herself never allowed a good gallop. But we’d not ridden this way before.

“Ah now, Maureen, are you sure?” says I.

“Father Michael says it’s less of a sin,” she replies, displaying a well-oiled entrance that looks a snug fit.

It’s a tight, sweaty, pleasure-filled canter that we have.

Catching my breath I whisper, “Bless you, Father.”

Cunt

Cunt(c) 2001  by Mike Kimera

“C’mere, cunt. I need a fuck.”

Beer-bloated, shit-faced bastard, dragging me by the wrist to the chair his ass flows over.

“C’mon, cunt. I ain’t got all night.”

Wagging his unwashed chubby and grabbing at my bruised tits.

Smile. Shimmy. Spread. Slip it in.

“Don’t just sit there, bitch, work your ass.”

Smile. Arms around his neck. Hips grinding.

He swigs his Bud from a longneck, finger pushing up my ass.

“Want some bottle, cunt?”

Ring clenching pain-memory.

His eyes close. Never sees the ice-pick.

Sounds like forcing dogfood from a can.

“My name is Trudy,” I say. “Cunt.”

With Thanks

With Thanks (c) 2005  by Mike Kimera

When my wife takes me deep into her mouth, eyes closed, tongue twisting cheeks hollow, I know her lover, the man who taught her this, has left her.

I knew before I saw the bruises he left on her breast that she needed more than my over-careful love,

She was perhaps too young and I too long alone when we wed.

Had I responded to the eager grip of her tight flesh with passion, not gratitude, I might have lit the fire her ungentle lover kindled.

Trinity

Trinity © 2005 Mike Kimera.

She holds my aching cock, rests her shoulders against my chest, and sighs as her husband enters her.

For two years as her lover and his friend I have been plummeting toward this union.

He is blindfolded, protected from the sight of me.

She is in charge.

I… am stunned but happy.

She squeezes me and murmurs, “Now.”

Entering her, I can feel him. We form an unholy trinity, joined and separated in the one flesh.

The gravity of her passion pulls at us both until we splash against her shores.

I don’t know if I am blessed or damned.

Sucking Harry

Sucking Harry © 2007  Mike Kimera.

Rose knelt and took Harry deep into her mouth in a single graceful move.

Nervously, I took my place behind her, pressing my chest into her back and cupping her breasts.

When Rose released Harry and lowered her head to work on his heavy sack, it took all my courage so close my virgin mouth on Harry’s cock.

Surprised by the heat and smell and the size, I gagged but still pushed forward.

The force of my own erection against my wife’s arse shocked me.

“I told you you’d like it,” Rose said, grasping my hardness “Now make him come.”

The Wall

The wall (c) 2001 by Mike Kimera

I felt I would melt that night, the heat was so cruel, but I went, by moonlight, to meet you at our wall.

You were there before me, tall and straight, impatience restrained, desire clear.

The rain was sudden and unstoppable, like your kisses.

The wild in you surfaced in that dark, a ripping, biting, penetrating frenzy that drank from my spirit and pinned me to the smooth hardness of the wet stone.

Lightening lit, lust filled, coated in welcome rain, I writhed under you until all storms were passed and only the wall and the moon and I remained.

Remebrance of Things Present

Remembrance of things present (c) 2001  by Mike Kimera
For five winters she had waited in her cold bed for his return.

Now, on the sunlit quay, she saw that he looked older, harder.

New lines at eyes and mouth. Grey strands watermarking his dark wavy hair.

His once beautiful hands scarred and dirty.

She knew she too had aged, her body thicker and less firm, the shine of her youth lost in waiting.

He could do better. He deserved better.

Stopping before her, not touching, he drank her in.

Her body ached with need. His callused hand against her face flooded her with lust.

“Remember me?” he said.

Replay

Replay (c) 2000 by Mike Kimera
The cybertap plugs into my skull and Julia is back.
“Johnny!”
Julia’s voice smiles warmth and sex, then I am drowning in her scent, enfolded in her arms.
Her love, always so physical, wraps me in a cocoon of affection. Kissing me, her open eyes full of promise, Julia presses possessively against my hard craving.
“So you are glad to see me” she laughs, then freezes in place.
“NO” I sob as the recording ends.
Loss, as cold as her blood-drained flesh, drenches me. Death is cruelest to the living.
Needing but not wanting her phantom warmth, I press REPLAY.

Blessed Memory

Blessed Memory (c) 2000  by Mike Kimera
A year since Jenny died and still I smell her in my sleep.
Waking, hard and hopeful, I’m pierced anew by the remembrance of my loss.
My erection and my disappointment accompany me to the shower. The hot water on my face hides the tears she would have disapproved of.
“Don’t mourn,” she’d said. “Live. Love. Think of me when you are happy.”
Eyes closed, I summon the memory of her gleaming wet skin anwater-darkened hair.
I pretend that her hand, not mine, strokes my straining flesh.
When release at last comes, it is, I think, with her blessing

Punter

Punter (c) 2002  by Mike Kimera
Money in one hand, wedding band on the other, he stands frozen by the reality of his need.

“Anal is extra,” I say taking the cash.

He shakes his head, his eyes fixed on my erection.

“Oral it is then.”

I slide the condom over him and watch him shudder.

“You can touch me if you like.”

His hand twitches but doesn’t grasp my cock. He can barely grasp that he’s here.

Wickedly, I wank as I suck. He comes with my finger up his virgin ass.

He returns to wifey relieved and ashamed. We both know he’ll be back.

Lucky Man

Lucky Man (c) 2001  by Mike Kimera
The sound of her climax scarred my heart. An involuntary, animal sound that she could not hold in.
Eyes closed, yet still I saw her: split and ploughed, ankles held high by hands not mine, depths sounded with a speed and length and thickness I could but envy.
Never for me had she made that noise.
“It’ll be exciting,” I’d said, “I’d enjoy seeing you pleasured.”
When she demurred, I’d pressed. “Please? For me?” I’d persisted.
She gave way. He was arranged.
Leaving, he said to me, “You’re a lucky man.”
“I’m not,” I thought, “but I used to be.”