This is not erotica but I’d like to share it anyway.
(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 (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 © 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.
Spending © Mike Kimera 2010
The kneeling whore holds her tongue still
Letting my yellow-tinged cum
Dribble across it
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
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 (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(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 (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 © 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 © 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 (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.
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 (c) 2000 by Mike Kimera
The cybertap plugs into my skull and Julia is back.
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 (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 (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 (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.”