Coming Home

This came to me today while I was on a train journey across Switzerland. It’s a romance of sorts, perhaps the sort that happens in real life-


Coming Home

(c) Mike Kimera 2010. All rights reserved.

“I’m home.”

Even after all these years of marriage, Saul still had a moments anxiety that there would be no answer, that Gina would finally have had enough, that the house would be empty, and he would be alone.

“I’m in the kitchen. Careful where you step, there’s glass everywhere.”

He released the breathe he did not realise he’d been holding, put down his suitcase and laptop bag in the hall and dropped his keys and his phone into the square leather tray that Gina had taught him to use. She had bought the tray out of frustration at his endless ability to mislay the things that were most important to him.

Saul had spent the past week adrift amongst strangers in unfamiliar places. He had reached that point where he barely felt connected to the world. He moved through it invisible, weightless, unnoticed. It pleased him to have a designated place to leave his keys and phone. He felt tethered to something strong and real. He was home. Well, almost home. Home waited for him in the kitchen.

Gina had a dustpan and a brush in her hands and was busily sweeping up fragments of what had once been a pyrex mixing bowl from the kitchen tiles. Saul stood for a moment, watching her, absorbing the easy grace with which moved and the fierce concentration she brought to her task. Not one shard of glass would escape her, he was certain.

Gina looked up at him for a second, before continuing in her hunt for rogue pieces of glass.

“Take your coat off, Saul. You look as if you’re about to leave again.”

Saul, who had not realised that he was still wearing his coat, immediately slipped it off. He was aware that he left far too often and had no wish to appear keen to do so again. Unwilling to leave Gina for long enough to return to the hall, he folded his coat over the back of a kitchen chair.

As he did so, he saw the edge of the present he had brought for Gina glint in his pocket. Already he regretted the bright wrapping that the young woman who sold him the gift had insisted on using. He did not want to make a fuss. He had bought the gift so that Gina would know that she had been in his thoughts while he was away. Now he wondered if it would look like some form of appeasement; a bribe to compensate for the weekly abandonments that he subjected her to.

Behind him he heard glass sliding into a bin. By the time he turned around, Gina was washing her hands in the sink.

Saul took a step towards her, wanting to touch her, needing to be sure that he still could.

He imagined closing the distance between them, placing his arms around her waist, supporting her weight as she leaned back into him, bending his head to kiss her neck.

Gina shut off the tap and reached for a towel. The moment had passed him by. Saul saw no means of retrieving it. As usual, he sought refuge in words.

“So why did you kill the bowl? Had it been particularly recalcitrant?”

Gina smiled and moved towards him.

“It wasn’t murder but suicide. The thing jumped out of my hands without regard to its own safety.”

Gina looked up at him, searched his face for something that she appeared to find and then stood on tip toe to kiss him on the cheek.

“How was Munich?” she asked, already moving towards the fridge.

“It was Brussels. Munich was last week.”

Lifting vegetables from a drawer in the fridge, Gina said, “I can never keep track of what country you’re in. Anyway, how was Brussels?”

“It was very Belgian.”

“The way you say it, that doesn’t sound like a good thing.”

“It isn’t.”

“I meant to make you a soup but I was interrupted by a suicidal bowl. It’s a little late for soup now, I’ll make a stir-fry instead.”

Saul knew that he was not expected to reply to any of this but it pleased him listen. Recently he’d noticed that he had become one of those men who are silent not because they are showing restraint but because they have nothing to say. Gina filled up his silences. Her words warmed him.

“So is there nothing good about Belgium?” Gina asked.

She held a very sharp knife in her hands and was confidently and speedily slicing peppers, carrots, onions and thin slivers of garlic and ginger..

“All the good bits of Belgium are imaginary: Poirot, Tin Tin, the Surrealists.”

“Will you be going back?”


Gina looked up from pouring peanut oil into the wok and said, “Are you all right?”

The concern on her face mad Saul uncomfortable. He forced a smile and said, “I’m fine, just a little tired.”

“Well you’re not as young as you were,” Gina said as she scraped the vegetables from the chopping board into the smoking oil. “All this travel isn’t good for you.”

Saul lost her to cooking for a few moments as she added soy sauce and sesame seed oil and finally a little chilli, all the while shifting the vegetables in the pan so that they cooked rapidly and evenly.

Gina was two years younger than him but it seemed to Saul that the gap between them was widening at the same rate as his waistline. She was vital and energetic and he was… not.

“Set the table, will you? This tastes best when it’s still hot enough to hurt.”

Saul set the plates on the table, thinking about when Gina had been hot enough to hurt.

Back then he couldn’t keep his hands off her. Sex seemed a natural consequence of being in the same room. She was so much smaller than him that, at first he’d been worried he would hurt her. She soon proved that he was the one who had to take care; his under-exercised gut had ached for a week after their first night together.

It had been a long time since they’d had sex and even longer since the sex had been easy and joyous. It wasn’t that he was impotent. It was more that he couldn’t go the distance. At first he had hesitated to start something he couldn’t finish. Now he no longer seemed to know how to start at all.

“Dig in,” Gina said, placing a large steaming bowl of food on the table.

She’d found the time to cut bread and add a simple green salad. Once more she’d created something out of nothing.

The food was too good to talk over. They both ate eagerly and quickly and soon there was nothing left.

“I brought you something.” Saul said, when the plates were empty.

“Would that be the shiny gold something in your coat pocket?”

“You saw that?”

“No, I’m just guessing. Of course I saw it. I can spot a present at 20 paces. Now go and get it for me.”

Saul tried not to watch Gina’s face too closely as she unwrapped the gift. He wanted her to be pleased but he didn’t want her to feel that she had to perform for him.

“So they do have something good in Belgium?” Gina said, holding the box in her hand. “Godiva chocolates.”

“I was told they were the best.”

“And I thought you chose them because you wanted to see me riding naked on a horse.”

Saul laughed, but he didn’t sound convincing.

“I bought them because…”

He didn’t know how to go on.

Gina got out of her seat, stood beside him and placed her hand on his shoulder.

“Because you love me.”


She stroked his face with the back of her hand and then kissed him on the forehead.

“You are allowed to say it, you know. You won’t wear the words out.”

Gina picked up Saul’s plate and her own and headed back towards the kitchen.

Saul sat in his chair for a moment, thinking about whether words would wear out. It seemed to him that they might.

Growing up Saul had often visited Wells Cathedral. While the beauty and the grandeur of the place was undeniable, what had captured his imagination were the stairways. Made from the same stone that, centuries later, still stood proud in the Cathedral walls, the stairs that were most used had worn away in the centre, eroded by the feet of thousands of people over hundreds of years. The erosion of the stone stairs had taught Saul that truth could sometimes only be seen in retrospect; no one person moving up the staircase would believe that they had had any effect on the stone and yet, in reality, they had left a wake of destruction behind them.

When he looked back, the pattern that Saul saw was one in which he frequently passed down the “I love you” stairway but Gina did not follow him. She acknowledged his love happily and seemed glad to receive it but seldom said the words and never said them first. For a moment he had the image of Gina at the top of a pristine staircase which he could only reach by carefully negotiating the deep rut he had worn in his own love.

“These chocolates would taste much nicer with a cup of coffee,” Gina said from the kitchen. “Why don’t you get that fancy machine of yours to brew us some?”

“Excellent idea,” Saul said, rising from his chair.

While the coffee was brewing, Gina stacked the dishwasher. Saul was forbidden from performing this task as he had repeatedly demonstrated his lack of mastery of where plates should sit in relation to one another.

“Shall I take these through to the living room?” Saul said. “That Johnny Depp movie you wanted to watch will be on soon.”

“No,” Gina said. “I believe my boudoir is the only proper venue for the consumption of fine Belgian chocolates. Johnny will have to wait for another night. You, on the other hand, do not have to wait at all.”

It had been a long time since Gina had asked him to come to her bed so early in the evening. Saul placed the chocolates and the cups of coffee on a tray and followed his wife. She was nearly at the top of the stairs by the time he had reached the bottom.

Anxiety and excitement competed for Saul’s attention. Tonight he might confirm his own sense of failure or he might win back something that he thought he had lost forever.

When she got to the top of the stairs, Gina turned and waited for him.

Saul breathed deeply and took the next step in his marriage.

In cyberspace no one can see you blush

Infidelity – when does it start? At the first fuck? At the first kiss? At the first covert glance?  I was taught that it starts with the first thought. These days that first thought is often expressed in an internet chat room.

Perhaps you’re telling yourself that what’s on the internet stays on the internet; it’s not really infidelity?

Well it does stay on the internet, forever in many cases, where clever people can find it if they are motivated enough, and it may be virtual infidelity but that doesn’t necessarily make it less real.

Take a look at this little tale and see what you think about the reality of cyber-sex.

In cyberspace no one can see you blush

© 2005 Mike Kimera. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from


It didn’t start out as infidelity. It was just a game. Just another form of masturbation. Nothing real. Certainly nothing dangerous. At least, that’s how it seemed to me then.

Now I know better.

Now I know myself better.

I was stalking a sleazy chatroom, looking for someone with an imagination as ferocious as mine. I didn’t want to “meet” anyone. I just wanted to get off as hard and as fast as possible.

I’d already had sex with my husband that night. Nice sex. Gentle sex. The kind that used to satisfy me but doesn’t anymore. He’d rolled over and fallen asleep almost immediately, leaving me to lie in the wet spot. I declined the honour and crept into the office. I went on line with his cum still drizzling down my thigh on to the black leather chair he’s so proud of.

I logged into the “barely-legal” room and called myself “wifewantsitrough”. There were the usual “Well-Hung” and “Hard4U” and “Bad-Daddy” names adopted by the desperately needy. It was that kind of site.

I’d expected to have to sit through the predictable “age, sex, location” crap, followed by “what are you wearing” and “how big are your tits” as if any of it mattered. Then someone called “Rapeplay” broke etiquette and sent me a private message. No introduction, no descriptions, no questions, just a statement that made my nipples hard:

RAPEPLAY: You want to be fucked hard in front of your husband.

I stayed silent. I wasn’t playing hard to get. I was just shocked that he’d hit on one of my favourite fantasies.

RAPEPLAY: He’s tied and gagged but not blindfolded. He can see everything that is done to you, everything you do, every orgasm you have. You want him to see how you should be used, to know who you really are.

This guy was good. Well actually, he was bad. Very, very bad. Exactly what I was in the mood for.

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: What will you make me do?

RAPEPLAY: Look him in the eyes the first time I enter your arse.


RAPEPLAY: you’re bent over him, tits hanging, body covered in sweat.


RAPEPLAY: No. I’ve taken the time to find your wedding dress. The one you hang in the back of the closet.

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: Shit. How did you know that was there?

RAPEPLAY: The same way I know that you’re typing this with sticky fingers.

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: So you want to butt fuck me in front of my husband?



RAPEPLAY: What I want is to unlock all those desires that you keep caged. The ones that claw at you from the inside. The things you tell yourself you’d never do but that you can’t stop thinking about


RAPEPLAY: Let’s find out


We’d stopped playing but I was hotter than ever. It was if he knew me. As if he could see me. It was a game of course. Just cybering. Not real infidelity. But it felt wicked. Deliciously wicked.

RAPEPLAY: When I’m all the way in you, I tell you to pull your husband’s cock out his pants.


RAPEPLAY: SLAP – I hit your arse and feel you wriggle against my cock




RAPEPLAY: I pull out of your gaping arse.

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: NO. I want you in me

RAPEPLAY: Then grab Hubby’s cock


RAPEPLAY: Is it hard


RAPEPLAY: Harder than usual?


RAPEPLAY: Do you think it’s the sight of you that makes him stiff or is it my erection that’s turning him on


RAPEPLAY: But he’s not normally this hard either

How the hell did he know this? Gary’s erections weren’t what they used to be. He points West rather than North, if you know what I mean. Rapeplay’s smugness irked me. I decided to hit back at him

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: are you gay you bastard rapist? Would you rather be up his arse than mine?

RAPEPLAY: One arse is much like another, I’ve found.

Unbidden, a picture flashed across my mind: me tied to the chair, Gary being fucked in the arse in front of me. The first orgasm hit me then. I let the tremor earth itself and realized that RAPEPLAY: had stopped typing

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: You still there?

RAPEPLAY: You just came didn’t you? Were you imagining me moving from your arse to your husbands and back with my eyes closed, trying to guess which one is female?

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: I wasn’t but I am now.

RAPEPLAY: Perverted little slut, aren’t we?


RAPEPLAY: Then let’s raise the stakes


RAPEPLAY: Put your hands on your husband’s wrists. Hold tight.


RAPEPLAY: Bend forward, arse in the air, and push your mouth down over his cock until your nose is at his belly


RAPEPLAY: Yes, but can you feel how excited he is? How his arms tense. How his hips want to push up and into you.

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: unnnnnnnnnnnngh

RAPEPLAY: Keep your head there. Do you hear my belt pulled quickly from my jeans?

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: I want to turn and see what you’re doing but I can’t move.

RAPEPLAY: But your husband can see, and his cock just twitched in your mouth


RAPEPLAY: I flip up your dress, kick your legs wider apart so more of your weight is on your arms and then…


RAPEPLAY: THWACK! The belt catches you at the soft skin where your legs meet your butt


RAPEPLAY: DON’T fucking move. Get your head back on his belly and suck that cock.



WIFEWANTSITROUGH: It hurts so bad.

RAPEPLAY: But hubby is still hard. Hubby likes it and he hates himself for liking it.

That made me shiver. I loved my husband. But all the same, just for once, I wanted him to be the one with the guilty desires

RAPEPLAY: (What’s his name?)

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: (I’d tell you, but it’s rude to speak with my mouthful)

RAPEPLAY: (Wit, no less. Tell me his name – his real name)


Why did I tell him that? Why didn’t I say George or Bill or something? And why did he want to know?

RAPEPLAY: You’ve always wanted to gag fuck your wife, haven’t you, Gary? To make her eat all that sexual arrogance she shows. Except it’s not nice. And you’re a nice man, aren’t you, Gary?

This was getting scary. It was like he’d met Gary.

RAPEPLAY: So here’s the thing, Gary. I’m going to beat your wife’s arse with this belt until you come down her throat. So unless you want her bleeding and torn, you’d better come to her aid real soon.

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: (You wicked, evil, twisted, man)

RAPEPLAY: (Thank you)

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: (Would you really do that?)


WIFEWANTSITROUGH: (Have you done it – in real life?)

RAPEPLAY: (You think this isn’t real? Check the stain on the chair you’re sitting in)


RAPEPLAY: (Touching sounds like an excellent idea. I want you to listen for a while and finger fuck while you do. When you come, I want you to say your husband’s name out loud.)

My heart was beating faster. This felt like cheating. It was demeaning – to me – to Gary –to our marriage. Yet excitement was twisting in my gut like a knife blade. I slid my fingers into my cunt and waited for Rapeplay’s words

RAPEPLAY: After the fifth stroke of the belt, the pain gets to you. You want it to be over. You suck as hard as you can, working your tongue forward. Trying to make him come.

RAPEPLAY: But it’s hard to get a rhythm or to lift your head. Gary is pushing up into you now, little hip thrusts that rip at your throat.

RAPEPLAY: You wonder if he’s looking at you or me. You wonder if I’m erect and if I’m as hard as Gary.

RAPEPLAY: You’ve lost count of the strokes of the belt now. There is just pain in your arse and the force of his cock in your mouth.

RAPEPLAY: Then the belt moves its attention to between your legs. Your scream into Gary’s belly. On the third scream, you feel it, the stiffening of his whole body, the gag-muffled cry from his mouth, then his cum pulsing into you.

I was almost there but not quite. I pushed an extra finger in and played with my clit with the other hand

RAPEPLAY: You are too filled with pain and cum to move. I pull your head off Gary’s softening cock.

RAPEPLAY: I force you up into his lap, still facing him, knees apart. “Lick his face, Slut. Lick hubby with your cum covered tongue”. You are too dazed to do anything but obey.

Oh fuck, I was going to…

RAPEPLAY: then, with your tongue on his cheek, you feel my cock enter your wet cunt


I said it out loud.

Too loud. I could have woken him. But I didn’t care; his name released an orgasm that made my toes curl.

I realized Rapeplay was still typing about how he’s banging me. But his words had lost their impact now. All I wanted was to sleep.

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: Thank you. That was great.

RAPEPLAY: Did you say his name.


RAPEPLAY: How did it feel?

I hesitated a moment. How had it felt?






RAPEPLAY: Goodnight, Stephanie


It was only after I logged off that I realized that I’d never told him my name.

Questions raced through my head: Did he really know my name. Had he traced me back to my email while I was logged in? Would he find our family website with the pictures of me and Gary and the kids?

I felt a prickle of fear. But behind it was thought that surprised me: “Maybe he’ll send me mail. Maybe we’ll get to play again”.

I decided not to let myself think about that. I was cold and a little sore, and very tired. I headed for the bathroom to wash the smell of sex off me before I made my way back to my sleeping husband.

I slept surprisingly well and woke refreshed. Before Gary left to take the kids to school on his way to work, he kissed me and said quietly. “You’re looking good this morning. I guess you had a good time last night, huh?”

For one alarming moment I thought he knew about Rapeplay and me (Except, I told myself, there was nothing to know – yeah right) but his smug grin told me he was giving his own tumble credit for my morning glow.

Mischief, powered perhaps by relief at not being caught (Caught doing what? It was just cyber) took charge of me then. I pressed up against Gary, pushing my hip up against where his erection should have been and said. “I’m going to spend the day remembering it.”

I felt him stiffen, just a little. “Shame you can’t stay home,” I murmured in his ear. Then I stepped away from him and called out to the kids to get their stuff cos daddy was leaving.

Gary mouthed the word “Later” at me, grinned, and swept the kids out the door.

I took my coffee into the office and opened up my email. Even though part of me was looking for it (hoping for it), the sight of Rapeplay’s name in my inbox made my heart beat faster.

I opened the mail. There were no lurid close ups of his erection as I’d feared (hoped?) just civilised text that wound itself around my desire.

You have a great deal of potential, Stephanie. I’d like to help you develop it. On-line. And in ‘real life’.”

I wouldn’t let myself think about the “in real life” part (he wants to fuck you, really fuck you – you haven’t been touched by another man for… – Shut up, I’m not interested.) but I loved the idea of having potential.

I liked the pictures of you and hubby hiking.”

So, he’d found my Facebook page. I felt like he’d seen me naked: I was embarrassed and excited.

Gary, (how nice that you used his real name) looks like a nice man. I think you need something more than nice in your life.

I’ll be in the chatroom at midnight.”

That was it.

I should have been furious or afraid or both. I should have called Gary, or the police. Instead, I opened my legs, closed my eyes, and soaked myself in the memory of something that had never happened but which was so much more real than my day-to-day life.

Afterwards, I showered, trying to wash away the slut who’d surfaced that morning. I felt clean and refreshed. And I knew that I would be back on line at midnight.










Erotica: Sin, Shame & Secrecy

Writing fiction, particularly erotica, is a very intimate process. You mine, consciously or unconsciously, your imagination and experience. You discover what topics or situations or characters trigger and sustain your creativity.

As your fiction piles up behind you like a series of cast-off skins, themes and attitudes emerge that tell you and your readers something about how your mind works and where your heart lies.

Erotica as genre is often seen as an opportunity to escape from the real world into fantasy or to reinforce the idea that you are not alone in the cravings you have and the delights that you seek.

In my own writing, erotica seems to become more of an entanglement than an escape. Time and again I find myself writing about sin, shame, and secrecy.

If writing tells you about the writer then clearly I’m not one of these liberated souls who enjoy sex openly and honestly and dive naked into the pool, grin at their readers and say, “Come on in, the water is lovely.”

I’m more the guy you find in the kitchen at parties or reviewing the CD rack and wondering why the CDs aren’t alphabetised. The one who looks and longs but rarely acts and my writing reflects that.

The cool kids in the pool can write fine, sex-positive erotic stories about the transcendent joy experienced by those who open themselves in a healthy and honest way to their own desires. The problem is that those who share this experience are probably too busy fucking to read erotica and those of us in the kitchen, who eagerly seek erotica, are left either envious or, more likely, unconvinced.

So I try to imagine the people who read my stories finding parts of themselves in them. Some parts they will like and some will make them squirm but I still want them to experience a sense of recognition.

In my mind, my readers have a rich inner life, a craving for sex and a deep understanding of the nature of sin, shame, and secrecy.

To the kids in the pool, my readers are the sexually repressed folks who get off in secret to things they are too up tight to do in real life.

If one believes the women’s magazines, then sexual repression is a bad thing. These poor repressed people could be fulfilled and happy if only they would self-actualise, embrace all of the parts of their nature as aspects of themselves, live in the here and now from time to time, put aside their inhibitions and just do it.

This is the Nike generation version of “turn on, tune in, drop out.” It comes out as “Open up, kick back, get off.”

I’m unconvinced by the idea that just because something is nice it is also good. Some nice things are exactly the opposite of good.

When I write, I think about people who have to struggle to be good; people with strong sexual urges who demonstrate restraint rather than repression; people who, when the restraint fails, experience shame and regret mixed in with their underlying pleasure.

These people understand, at least at an intuitive level, the concept of sin.

I am an atheist by conviction but I find that an understanding of sin is an asset in writing erotica, so pardon me for a paragraph or two while I don my “Father Mike” costume and expound.

Most Christians are aware of the seven deadly sins but few seem to me to understand them. They are about excess. They are about persisting in behaviours that damage your ability to see the world in a way that enables you to choose good over evil.

Hunger is not a sin, gluttony is. Relaxation is not a sin, sloth is. Desire is not a sin, lust is.

Persistence in sin shapes the sinner, twisting them, perhaps crippling them, and making it harder and harder to be a person who does not sin.

Before we get to lust, let’s start with gluttony. All of us get hungry. Many of us get cravings for particular types of food. A very few of us passionately desire food. Not all of those who passionately desire it are gluttons. The glutton MUST eat. The glutton will sacrifice their dignity, their income, their time, in order to eat.

In modern parlance this “sinful” behaviour is pathological: in other words, it acts upon the person in the same way as a disease.

Have you ever eaten to excess, to the point where it hurts to eat more and yet your hand still reaches out for another portion and your mouth chews food your mind knows you do not need and cannot process? To understand gluttony you must think of feeling that way persistently. Think of what it would do to you. What impact you would have on others. Think about the moral and economic implications. Then think about doing it anyway. Every day. Then you start to understand the sinful/pathological nature of gluttony.

To me, a person who has a strong desire for food, who knows what it means to eat beyond the point of satiation and who decides not to do that today, is showing restraint, not repression.

The analogy with Lust is obvious.

So imagine a reader who knows, deep in their gut, that if they gave themselves up to the sexual desire inside them, the world would not be enough. So each day, driven by their knowledge of sin and their desire to retain the grace to live well, they show restraint.

But each and every day is a struggle and some days they lose.

Perhaps on such days they read erotica. Perhaps this allows them to come to the brink, look over the edge but not jump off. And perhaps, having lost the struggle just a little, they feel shame.

It would be a mistake to imagine that the shame is to do with sex. The shame is to do with lacking the strength to be who you want to be and the sure and certain knowledge of who your own weakness could allow you to become.

And with shame comes secrecy.

This kind of secrecy is not about hiding a lie but about bolstering the truth.

If I “come out” and say, “Actually, I spend most mornings wanking over porn, I mentally undress strangers, I occasionally have affairs and, if I could do it without getting caught, I would fuck the brains out of every pretty (and some not so pretty) thing in town” I might be being honest but I would not be doing good.

This kind of public statement would seem like an affirmation. It would change how others see me. It might encourage others to say, “I too want this”; which would be fine if “this” was the person I wanted to be. But if I aspire to be the kind of person who treats himself and others with respect and sometimes love, then when I read the erotica and when it gets me off and even when I recognise it says something true about me and those around me, I will not proclaim this publicly. I will keep my lapses secret in the hope that I may eventually succeed in living up to my aspirations.

So is my imaginary reader someone who denies his own nature, feels bad about himself for no reason and then cloaks his behaviour in a hypocritical secrecy? Or is he someone who understand goodness because he feels the pull or sin, experiences shame as an indicator that he has not yet lost all judgement and turns to secrecy as a lifeline that allows him another chance at goodness tomorrow?

I believe that one of the skills for a writer of erotica is to know how to raise these questions and leave the reader to invent the answers.

© Mike Kimera 2005 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from

A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.


Intimacy is fundamental to marriage. We know more about the person we are married to than about almost anyone else. Each marriage develops its own language, verbal and physical, that affirms and builds that intimacy. Each marriage leaves important things unsaid but well understood.

Guilt is the enemy of intimacy. It is a cancer that eats away at the communication and shared truth that a marriage needs to live. This story looks at a particular kind of guilt and its consequences.


(C) Mike Kimera 2008

The thing we don’t talk about shares our bed, dampening lust, drowning love, leaving only darkness and noisy silence.

With my back towards my husband, feigning sleep, I can hear it growing, fed by my memory, his imagination, and our guilt, pushing us apart with its bulk and our fear of its contaminating touch.

It lasted less than twenty minutes. This bed has known hours, perhaps days of hard, hungry, hasty, happy sex; yet, like a drop of ink in a glass of water, my minutes of held-down, forced-open, pushed-into, spilt-upon abuse have tainted everything.

The memory, mercilessly clear and muscle-deep, forces itself upon me when I sleep. I wake in fear and guilt, struggling not to let my husband see the barb still in my flesh

Guilt is the worse thing: mine for letting it happen, his for being absent, ours for all the times we fantasized and role-played that which we now will not name.

Time was, I would lie beneath my husband, hands held above my head, looking into his eyes to see the moment when all control vanished and I would feel loved.

Now we look away, furtively fearful of the knowledge we would see reflected there of who we were and what we have lost, what was taken from us.

The loss, I know, will continue. Sex was the heartbeat of our marriage, sometimes slow, sometimes fast, always strong. Now it’s flat-lined. The machinery of our routine is breathing for us but that can’t last. My husband will leave me. Perhaps he has already left me in everything except body.

Unable to bear thinking about the future and unwilling to revisit our tainted past, I summon the memory of the one who did this to me. If this were my fantasy he would have been driven to his actions by uncontrollable lust. I would be a scar he would carry on his heart for life. The reality is that I was an impulse, a drive-thru burger, consumed for convenience and forgotten.

That makes me angrier than anything else, more than the loss and the guilt and too-often remembered humiliation, I am angry at my own lack of meaning.

I turn over to face my husband. His back is tense. He’s pretending to sleep. My guess is that he is clinging to the hope that I will not, finally, speak of what happened, will not require from him an answer.

I open my mouth but no words come. I have nothing left to say.



© Mike Kimera 2008 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from



A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.


If  BBC Radio 4 was a country, I would move there. “Traces” is inspired by the kind of play Radio 4 sometimes produces it is the story of a widower and his grief.

It’s told only using the traces we leave in our wake: meeting notes, emails, voicemails, scraps of paper. I’ve never succeeded in getting this published.

Perhaps it  lacks erotic content, or it’s too experimental, or it just isn’t very good. I’d love to know what you think.


JOHN RIVERS:Have you ever noticed how sex is everywhere when you’re not getting any? It wasn’t like this when I was married. You know how it is after you’ve been married for a while. Gill and I were happy. We had sex at least once a week, sometimes twice. It was good. Like being able to take a really hot shower whenever you wanted one.

I miss it. I miss her.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get to that. I hate to cry in these sessions.

Dr, LODGE:It’s OK to cry here John.

JOHN RIVERS:Yes I know you think it’s all right, but I don’t. Wounds don’t heal when you pick at them and make them bleed.

Dr. LODGE:You were telling me about sex, John.

JONH RIVERS:Sex. Yes. Everywhere I look there are images of naked women: on TV, in magazines, newspapers, billboards, everywhere.

Then of course there are the real women. Women in the office, on trains, in cafes, at the supermarket. All of them sexually active. All of them attractive.

Dr. LODGE:All of them?

JOHN RIVERS:Well yes maybe all is an exaggeration, but I’m getting good at finding the attractive bits. I can be brought to a halt just by the way a woman lifts her hair from her neck on a hot day.

Dr. LODGE:And that bothers you?

JOHN RIVERS:Well of course it bothers me. I’m not like this. I like women. I’ve always found them easier to talk to than men. My doctor, my dentist, my lawyer, and you of course, are all women.

Dr. LODGE:Is that why you selected me John?

JOHN RIVERS:No I selected you because you have an excellent reputation as a shrink; your gender just made things easier.

These past weeks I’ve found that I keep seeing women as sexual objects. It’s distracting. It’s more than distracting, it’s disgusting.

Let me give you an example. I was on the plane home last night, tired, not looking forward to coming back to an empty house, but glad to be leaving an empty hotel room. I was sitting at the front in an aisle seat in what passes for business class.

Dr. LODGE:Did you ask for an aisle seat?

JOHN RIVERS:Yes I chose the aisle. Don’t get gnomic on me Doctor, it’s just a seat choice not a personality trait. I like aisle seats, always have.

Anyway people were still boarding. I’d never noticed before that, when you are seated, you are just at breast height. I’ve started to notice breasts. I mean I always knew all women had them. But they weren’t the first things I’d notice. I didn’t find myself wondering about the colour of the nipples or how the weight would feel in my hand. Now I do. I’m obsessed.

There must have been men getting on the plane as well but I didn’t notice them, just this parade of breasts. The pair I noticed most were round and high, seeming large against the small frame that carried them, but not heavy. They were clad in white cotton T-shirt that read ‘Some girls do. Some girls don’t. This girl might’.

Once I would have been amused, now I could hear myself thinking ‘Fuck yes’. I was still reading the T-shirt when I registered the wide smile of its owner. She was early twenties, regular features, shoulder length brown hair, and dark dark eyes. She spoke again and this time I heard ‘excuse me’. I must have looked an idiot trying to figure out what she meant. I thought perhaps that it had something to do with the T-shirt. Then I realised she had been assigned the seat next to mine.

I started to rise just as she lifted her bag into the overhead locker. I could see she was wearing a sports bra. White. Smooth. Holding her firmly in cotton I knew would be warm from her skin. OK so I lost the plot. And I got an erection. So now I’m standing in the aisle, holding my paperback copy of “Hannibal” in front of me and trying not to look like a complete letch. She slid past me and sat in the window seat. I tried only to look from the side of my eye as she reached behind her to find the seatbelt. I felt like such a pervert.

You know when AMEX surveyed business class passengers on their main fears about flying, top of the list was having to talk to the person next to them. That’s one reason why I was carrying “Hannibal”, to put people off. Normally I’m good at it. Normally I’m not sitting next to a woman with a provocative T-shirt whose breasts I urgently want to suckle.

Dr. LODGE:You wanted to suckle her breasts? Why suckle?

JOHN RIVERS: Suckle? Do you think it’s an odd choice of verb? Well it’s what I wanted to do. Not bite or squeeze, just suckle.

Anyway, it turned out that Natasha wasn’t a frequent flyer and didn’t know the rules. She introduced herself, told me she was from Australia, working for a while in Lausanne and that this would be her first trip to London. She was polite and friendly and I got beyond her breasts and started to talk to her. I told her my name and my job. We talked about working abroad and then about London. The hour went quickly. Neither of us bothered with the plastic food but we both took the champagne.

When the plane landed I stayed seated for a while, I hate the way people stand hunched over waiting for the door to open, and she said. “Did my T-shirt bother you?”

I smiled and said “What T-shirt?”

“It was a present from my sister and I’m meeting her when we get off the plane. Look, it’s been good talking with you. Maybe sis and I could meet up with you and your wife sometime over the weekend?”

“My wife?”

“Gotchya. I spotted the wedding ring when you were holding Hannibal so strategically.”

My face must have changed. Her voice trailed off as she was saying, “I guess you’re left handed…”

“My wife died six months ago.”

I didn’t mean it to come out like that. It sounded angry. She apologised. We were both embarrassed. I wished her a good weekend.

Dr. LODGE:And?


I hate it when you move me on like that. And… you say, like I’m missing the point or hiding something. I know, I know, I’m projecting.

Well the And is that, that night, before I went to sleep, I masturbated, thinking about her breasts.

Dr. LODGE: How do you feel about that John?

JOHN RIVERS: How do I feel about that? Jesus H Christ I don’t know why I come here. I tell you the most intimate parts of my life and you ask polite non-directional questions. Do you get off on that? Are your knickers damp between those crossed legs of yours? Are you laughing at the pathetic little wanker who can’t cope without his wife? ARE YOU?

Dr. LODGE: Please sit down John.

JOHN RIVERS: I’m sorry, Jennifer. I didn’t mean that. I get angry so quickly. Nothing’s been the same since… Nothing.

Dr, LODGE:Our time is up for this week John. Let’s pick this up next time

JOHN RIVERS: Next time? Yes. I’m sorry Jennifer.


You have reached the voicemail of John Rivers on Friday 30th March. Please leave a message after the long tone. Beep, beep, BEEEEP.

“Hi John. Look, I’m sorry to call you at work but it was the only contact number I had for you. Oh this is Natasha by the way. You met my T-shirt on the ‘plane and talked to me afterwards?

Anyway, I’m sorry about my foul up with your wife… shit that doesn’t sound good does it. Look, mentally delete that part. OK? Well don’t delete it but make it sound better.

Anyway, I’m calling you cos I’d like the chance to talk to you again. Sis and I, her name’s Cheryl by the way, are eating out at Covent Garden tomorrow night and I’d love you to come.

No pressure, just a relaxed meal with two beautiful women who will make all the other men jealous. Joke. Well maybe. It’s only Maxwell’s so it’s informal, but I promise to wear a different T-shirt.

Even if you can’t stay to eat, come for a drink, otherwise I’ll know that I’ve really offended you. Yes that was blackmail. Hope to see you there at 9:00.”




Date: Sunday April 1st 2001 18:34 gmt

Subject: and then…

Hi Natasha,

How’s life back in Lausanne? It’s still raining here. Does this place EVER have a summer.

So. I know you’re dying to find out what happened on last night with “Hannibal” after you got that oh-so-convenient txt msg calling you away (I can’t believe they still fall for that).

I was surprised that for once he was as good looking as you said he would be. And those eyes – sorrowful and wounded. And those large hands. I was definitely getting that must-fuck itch.

Turned out to be a complete bust though. I mean I could never have seen him hooning around with the rest of us but I thought I’d at least get one good night out of him.

What a drongo he turned out to be. We were walking and he eventually got the hint when I “fell” against him and we stumbled into the doorway of the National Gallery.

His hands went everywhere but mainly on my tits. I know he’d been wanting to do that for hours. God he had large hands. He slid the right one between my legs and I just never wanted to let it go. I fumbled to unzip him. Not bad. Nice size. Definitely a stand up guy. He was sucking on my tits like he wanted to draw milk. I was getting ready for a good night. I rolled back the foreskin – God I love Brits with foreskins – and then the bastard came all over me. Stained my fucking skirt.

It was a shock and I said shit or something. I mean I was ready to give him some more time when we got somewhere comfortable. I was about to say “Now I’ll have to take this skirt off”, when he backs away, leaves me with my legs spread, tits hanging out and cum on my skirt and just fucking runs off. Not a fucking word, just buggers off out of there. He was still tucking his dick in when he made Trafalgar Square.

You owe me big time sis.

Well, at least the dry cleaning bill.

I’ll collect when I get over to see you in late June. You can show me all the hotspots in Lausanne. Well I guess that will take care of the first 15 minutes.

See ya



Taped Dream Log: John Rivers Wednesday April 4th 3:45am.

I had the dream again but worse this time. I’m sweating here. The sheets are soaked. Let me try get this while it’s fresh.

Gill was waiting for me. At home. Only it was no place we ever lived. She was wearing the necklace that I bought her in Venice, and a silk slip. Knealing on the bed. Smiling. Then I was with her. On her. Smelling her. The slip was gone and her breasts were in my mouth. Then she’s on top. Riding me. Hands on my chest.

This is the part where I normally wake up with cum on my belly. But I wanted her so badly, I made myself stay.

Then the necklace started to choke her. But we kept fucking. Her face turned blue. She clawed at her neck, but she rode me and rode me. She fell forward on to me. I couldn’t move my hands to help her. Just watching her choke. But worse, feeling myself come.

I woke struggling for air, my palms bleeding from the pressure of my fingernails, cum splashed on my belly.

I can’t do this any more. I can’t.




Date: Thursday April 5th 2001 23:55 gmt

Subject: remember me – the sister you never write to?

Hi John,

Anna has been ill again tonight so I’m up and pacing about when I should be in bed, so I thought I’d email my invisible brother.

I know you’re throwing yourself into your work. You’re probably even thinking about staying over in Switzerland at the weekends. I can understand that. I’d need time alone too. But it’s been 6 month’s now and I miss you. The kids miss you. Well Anna’s too young to miss you, but Josh asks about you sometimes.

Why not come and stay with us over the Easter? You could complain about how badly Tim manages the BarBQ and we could sit in the garden getting quietly sloshed. I’d really like that. Please write back and say you’ll come.

Luv and kisses


PS: you are absolutely forbidden to bring Josh one of those Swiss Army knives he’s always pestering you for.

PPS: I do miss you, John, and I miss Gill too.



Dr. LODGE:You look tired, John. I thought you were going to take Easter off

JOHN RIVERS I did. Friday at my sister’s.

Dr. LODGE: Only Friday?

JOHN RIVERS: It turned out to be a bad idea.

Aren’t you going to ask me why?

Ah, allowing me the silence to be heard. The police use that technique as well you know.

Well Madame Inquisitor, I left because I couldn’t bear the pity. I was cast as St. John the Widower. They were being so nice to me I wanted to slap them.

Does that answer your silent question?

Dr. LODGE How did you want them to treat you, John?

JOHN RIVERS: I don’t know. What do you mean?

Dr. LODGE What would have been the right thing for them to do?

JOHN RIVERS: The right thing for me to have done was not to have gone there in the first place.

Dr. LODGE You seem angry today, John. Would you prefer not to be here?

JOHN RIVERS: I’d prefer not to be anywhere.

Do you know what it’s like to wake and think “Oh shit, I’m still here”? To know that you’re going to spend another day waiting to join your dead wife?

Dr. LODGE Is that what you want John? To join her?

JOHN RIVERS: Of course I do

Dr. LODGE; Why?

JOHN RIVERS: Why? Why! Because she’s fucking DEAD and I’m not. And I can’t stand it.

Dr. LODGE Are you still troubled by unwanted erections, John?

JOHN RIVERS: What does that have to do with anything?

Dr. LODGE Please answer me.

JOHN RIVERS: Yes. Yes I am. If anything it’s getting worse.

Dr. LODGE What do you think that means, John?

JOHN RIVERS: It means that I get randy in my sleep.

Dr. LODGE You’re brighter than that, John. You’ve done the reading. You know that grief and depression usually suppress the libido.

JOHN RIVERS: So now you think I’m not grieving is that it? You think I’m faking it? That I don’t care that my wife died in a stupid accident while I watched? That all I want is to toss off in the mornings?

Dr. LODGE I think you want to live, John. I think you feel guilty about it. I think you know that and it makes you angry.

JOHN RIVERS:Well then you do a damned site more thinking than I do.

Dr. LODGE Are you still having the dream John? You haven’t given me a log this week.


Dr. LODGE And?

JOHN RIVERS: And she still dies. If I don’t wake up she dies.

Dr. LODGE How often do you masturbate?

JOHN RIVERS: I don’t. Don’t look at me like that. I’ve only masturbated once since my wife died.

Dr. LODGE Why don’t you masturbate?

JOHN RIVERS: Well at first I didn’t want to. My wife had died. And then it just didn’t seem right. Still doesn’t.

Dr. LODGE Did you masturbate when you were with Gill?

JOHN RIVERS Sometimes.

Dr. LODGE Did you enjoy it?

JOHN RIVERS Why else would I do it? Of course I enjoyed it.

Dr. LODGE But you don’t want to masturbate now?

JOHN RIVERS Is this a new therapy doctor? You want me to get a grip on myself? To cum to my senses? A wank a day will keep the blues away? I think that’s sick.

Dr. LODGE Where are you going, John?

JOHN RIVERS I’m leaving. I’ve had enough of this. I won’t be coming back.

Dr. LODGE One question, John: who’s fault is it that you are alive and Gill is dead?

JOHN RIVERS . Jennifer, you may be a Doctor, but you are also a bitch. Go fuck yourself.



Hi John,

I saw you leaving this morning just as I was coming down to breakfast. I didn’t know you were working out here. Who’s the client?

It make’s me feel old to admit it but it must be 5 years since we last worked together. I’m so pleased to see you!

I’m stuck here over the weekend as my Engagement Partner has scheduled a Saturday Breakfast meeting with General Management (typical macho crap).

Being a nosy bitch I fluttered my eyelashes at the folks on reception and found out that you’re staying here over the weekend too.

How’s about we get together and you show me what people do for fun here after they get bored of going “what a pretty lake, what pretty mountains”. I hear Le Blu Lizzard hits our normal sleaze factor and has good food too.

Come on Johnny, RESCUE ME.


(Room 403 – two doors down from yours – I’ll come and find you if you don’t call me and then think what your mini-bar bill will be.)




Date: Saturday April 28th 2001 19:22 gmt

Subject: Guess what!

Hi Sis,

I saw Hannibal last night in the Blue Lizard. He had this really tall woman with him and he was eating her alive with his eyes. Didn’t even notice me. ‘Course she was amazing looking. Very Celtic. You know: strong features, blazing red hair and very pale skin. I could have eaten her myself (except of course I’ve grown out of that kind of thing now – well apart from the odd irresistible snack).

Anyway, they were just finishing their meal when we arrived, and it looked like they were heading for the club downstairs. I thought about that all through my first course. Then I excused myself and went downstairs.

I couldn’t find them at first. They like to keep it dark down there. Then I spotted them in a corner.

I got close enough to see that he had his head on her breast and he was crying. Sobbing really. Like there was no one else in the room. It was sort of obscene. I’d have felt less disturbed if I’d found her giving him head or something. She was just stroking his hair and letting him cry.

She looked calm but somehow triumphant. Then she spotted me. You know that look that cats give you when you get too close to their newborn kittens? Well multiply by a zillion and that’s what I got from our Celtic warrior queen. I got out of there in a hurry. I didn’t even stay for the rest of dinner. Looks like you just missed a weirdo here Sis.

Anyway, gotta go, my boss has offered to take me out to the Beau Rivage. Should be good so it looks like I’d better be. J



(who’s definitely NOT wearing her big knickers tonight)



DEDICATION READS “To Elspeth for being there”

Angel of Release

By John Rivers

Until she came the channels of my life

Choked with weeds

Grown in a mud of bitter regret

Keeping me clouded and stagnant

When she came the damm of my grief

Burst upon her breast

Flowed across the swell of her kindness

Freeing a torrent of need and desire

When I came the tide of my lust

Turned from ebb to flow

Flooding the harbour of her womb

Filling it with hope and new life

Until we came to the delta of our love

This River was bound

By the sluices of despair and grief

But rushes now to the wide salt sea

Up In The Morning

This story is about an older  married man who still wakes each morning with an erection  and the choices he makes in dealing with it. I wrote this story shortly after my 49th birthday and I’ve tried to look frankly at sex as I get older.

There seems to be relatively little erotica that has characters over 40 in it, never mind characters in their 50s. But, as the Baby-Boomers are now in that age bracket, I’m sure this kind of fiction will emerge.

“Up in the Morning” was published in “Cream: the best of the Erotic Readers and Writers Association” Edited by Lisabet Sarai in 2006

I’m fifty years old and my erection still greets me most mornings like a faithful dog. True, it’s not the puppy it used to be, bouncing around and leaking everywhere when it gets excited; these days it stands patiently and waits for me to do something.

If time is pressing or I have somewhere to be, I can distract myself from my erection’s passive insistence and get on with my life; but on those still dark winter mornings, when I wake earlier than I need to but am reluctant to leave the welcoming warmth of the duvet, I’m much more vulnerable. Then my erection snags at my attention, stretching itself slowly as it wakes from sleep, letting the foreskin slip back just far enough to release that salt-sweet-sweat smell with which it marks my territory.

Perhaps if I didn’t sleep naked, the erection would be easier to ignore, but it is the only thing between me and the duvet cover, which nestles against it like an old friend. Turning on to my belly only lets my erection show off the firmness of its resolve.

If this happens when I’m travelling alone, I give myself up to it at that point. I lie on my back, eyes closed, legs stretched, feet crossed at the ankles – I have no idea why – and let it off the leash.

Of course, by now I’ve had a lot of practice and I know exactly how to please myself. I have a particular hold I like to use, developed unconsciously over the years and now effectively involuntary. It is, as most things to do with my sex life are, complicated, slow acting and very, very effective. My thumb sits behind the head where it can roll the foreskin with ease. The index finger stays free, ready to stroke the sensitive skin of the head. The long second finger curls firmly below the glans, just at the point of lubrication. The third finger folds back against my palm so the back of it pushes the shaft out against the second finger and thumb. The smallest finger runs lightly, or sometimes firmly, over my balls.

Initially the erection swells just with the joy of being touched and knowing what comes next. Very little motion or stimulation is necessary. Then its short attention span asserts itself and it demands a mental porn show to prick it on to greater things.

These are never elaborate or even pretty. These are fantasies I would never admit to. The ones that I hope no one who knows me would ever attribute to me. In thrall to my erection, there is nothing I won’t imagine doing or having done to me, no boundaries, no decency, no love, just the need for one more twitch of the nerve endings, one (or more) holes to push into, women (mostly women, sometimes men, sometimes both) to use and abuse, until finally, back arching, legs stiff, hand moving rapidly and firmly, my erection sprays its hot sticky triumph over my belly, dribbling the remnants over my fist, like melting ice-cream, to pool in a sticky mess in the hairs on my balls.

During the actual release it is as if I am not there; there is just a blissfully blank moment of non-consciousness. Then, after a few seconds of pleasantly warm exhaustion, I am alone again and aware that I stink of sweat and semen, that the sheets are damp, that my hair is matted to my head and that I urgently want to be clean.

This, I think, is what sin feels like: the opposite of grace, it drains the spirit and stains the soul. It occurs to me that poor old Onan, patron saint of masturbation, sinned not because “he spilt his seed upon the ground”, but because he did it again and again and again, like an alcoholic soaking himself in booze although he knows he will wake in some gutter, covered in his own vomit.

Like most sinners, I indulge most when I am away from hearth and home, but even in my marriage bed, on mornings like this morning, in those vulnerably truthful moments between sleep and life, my erection sometimes snares me.

I test the extent of my temptation by rolling onto my side, pulling my erection up to the side and then releasing it. The thud it makes against the mattress tells me that it will not be ignored today. I turn and look at my wife, sleeping soundly beside me. I take in the reality of my love for her, the central place she has and will always have in my life, and I get out of bed.

My wife is not a morning person. She’d be accommodating I’m sure, but in a “Not for me thanks, but please help yourself” kind of way that I find bleakly discouraging and besides, when we have sex I want it to be about more than scratching an itch, so, needing to take care of things and not wanting to wake her, I head for the bathroom.

My erection wags as I walk, pleased with itself and pumped up by the idea that it’s leading me somewhere. I follow behind, with the same muted sense of embarrassment as a man walking a dog that insists on trying to hump every passing leg.

Showers are often advertised with pictures of soap-slick beauties achieving bliss under the spray. In reality, I think it is men, not women, who are most likely to masturbate in the shower. It’s private, you don’t have to explain why you’re taking so long and the mess is washed away immediately.

When I was young my erection would point upwards fiercely, as if trying to touch my, then much flatter, belly. Now it manages something just about at right angles and still feels proud of itself. Even when I don’t touch it, I can feel the pressure of its presence nudging me. Giving in to it, I brace my legs slightly apart, turn the shower to full force so that the warm water bounces off my chest and reach for the liquid soap that is so much a part of this ritual.

I pretend that my eyes are closed to keep the water out; the reality is that I want to concentrate on the phantoms I bring with me to the shower. Today my subconscious furnishes two women: both redheads, the one in her twenties is slim and pale with taut breasts, hip bones like water-smoothed stone and that small tight gap between the tops of her closed thighs that makes my erection whimper with need. The second woman is a forty-something version of the first, with fuller breasts, a rounder belly and a large fuckable arse.

I picture them kneeling of course, each one pressing up against one of my legs, faces up-turned, eyes eager. They ignore each other as they compete to explore me but they cannot help, in this confined space, but rub up against each other. The enforced nature of this intimate contact adds to my arousal. In my mind’s-eye the younger one soaps my belly and works my balls with her long slim fingers, while the older one, perhaps more adventurous or perhaps merely more needy, parts my buttocks and pushes soap into that dark ripe crevice. In reality my hands are busy working up a foam front and back while my cock is screaming for attention that I enjoy delaying.

Swirling around me the two change places with an ease only fantasy could support. The older woman opens her mouth and swallows me until her jaw strains and her eyes bulge. She grips my buttocks firmly and forces me further down her throat all the time looking up at me so that I can see what this effort is costing her. The younger one has retained her hold on my balls and is pulling them backwards, using them to help her balance so she can push her tongue impossibly far up my arse.

Anyone looking into the shower now would see an older man, on the balls of his feet, one hand strangling his cock, the other pushing one long finger up his arse. My erection refuses to acknowledge this reality and drives me onwards.

I’m close now and need a final image to push me over. I imagine the older one with her back to me, hands above her head, stretching to reach the showerhead, legs spread improbably wide. My arms are wrapped around her chest and my fists are closed on the soft meat of her breasts, pressing her back against me. Beneath us, the younger one kneels, also with her back to me. Her arms reach up between the thighs of the older woman and then lock on with a trapeze artist’s grip as her hands grab the woman’s heavy buttocks and part them. Gleefully and brutally I feed my cock up the woman’s arse, relishing the grunts she struggles to suppress. The ballet is complete when the kneeling girl leans back; still clutching the legs of the woman I’m sodomising and stretches her long neck at an impossible angle to clamp her lips around my balls.

This Circe-de-Porn triptych is so effective that I manage to ignore the pain in my calf muscles long enough to squirt off-white cum onto the pure white tiles in front of me in three short but tremendously gratifying blasts.

The moment the heels of my feet touch the base of the shower, I start to come back to myself. Mechanically I lift the shower head from the cradle and rinse the tiles clean. Then I switch off the water, step out of the shower, wrap a towel around my shoulders and recover my breath leaning against the sink.

Why do I do this? I ask. My erection is no longer there to answer me and in its absence nothing I have just done makes sense any more.

I try to distract myself by towelling dry my hair, a task that doesn’t take as long as it used to, but my mind goes back to the roughly sketched women that I just pressed into service. Who they are, what they did, what I did to them, all these things break taboos or cross barriers that, in my real life I would regard as a violation and yet, what is more real in my life than those seconds of tension just before my balls unload?

The answer of course is that the man in the shower really is me but he is not really all of me. Ever since puberty I’ve lived with being someone who is sometimes driven to places he’d rather not admit visiting, much less enjoying. I’ve dealt with it by containing it; keeping it between me and my right hand. But it refuses to stay in its box. It seeps out through the cracks and leaves me covered with the snail trails of its slow escape.

Perhaps I misunderstood Onan’s sin. Perhaps it was not the repeated self-indulgence that was the sin but the increasing isolation of a diminishing self that this indulgence creates. I wonder if Onan had a wife and if he did, whether he thought of her when he spilt his seed or whether he too sought extremes that distanced his act from his reality.

Well, I know where the best of my reality lies: under a duvet that’s a damn site warmer than this rapidly cooling bathroom.

I pause long enough to spray myself with the scent my wife likes the most and then head back to the bedroom.

When I slide in behind her, Claire is just surfacing from sleep. I lean into her neck and kiss her, letting myself absorb the richness of her early morning smell. She stretches like a cat as my hand slides up her warm skin and presses herself back into me when I cup her breast.

“Mmm,” she says. “That’s nice.”

She turns over slowly so that her face is against my chest. I wrap my arm around her.

“You smell nice too,” she says, running her hand across my chest and down my belly.

Her lips reach my mouth at the same time that her hand cups my penis. I have a stab of concern that I will fail her; that I will stay limp in her hand, useless and insulting. I just couldn’t face that. I concentrate hard on the Claire’s lips on mine and to my immense relief, my recently used and sometimes unresponsive flesh stiffens slowly against Claire’s palm, like a fern unfurling in the sunlight.

“Well, Good Morning” Claire says in a voice that tells me that it’s going to be a very good morning indeed.

“Go slow,” she says as she straddles me, “you’re not the only one who’s stiff in the mornings.”

We both laugh. Then she kisses me. I open my mouth to speak but she puts her finger across my lips as if to say ‘later’. She moves slowly down on to my now-respectable erection. When I’m all the way inside her, she closes her eyes and smiles.

Looking up at her, I wonder how many of the mornings when I have made my way towards the shower, could have been spent like this?

I put regret aside and offer myself hope instead. For once it seems that I have led my erection rather than letting my erection lead me. This, I think, is what living with it should be about.

© Mike Kimera 2006 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from

A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.

The Last Taboo

Those who attempt to define that nature of erotica often describe it as fundamentally transgressive.

Yet  it sometimes seems that there are no taboos left so what exactly do you have to do to be be transgressive these days?

Fat Frank knows the answer. He has a secret. Read “The Last Taboo” and he’ll share it with you.


The Last Taboo

© Mike Kimera 2008

Most men lie about sex. I don’t know why. We talk about it often and loudly in all those places where men gather without women. We talk about who we’d like to fuck and how and sometimes where. We brag about our performance on one-night-stands or with whores or with the wives of friends. But, to my ears, these conversations lack authenticity. They have about them a whistling-to-show-I’m-not-afraid-of-the-dark quality that is more than a little pathetic.

I am usually silent when these conversations take place. No one in my circle of male acquaintances, hereafter referred to as, ‘The Lads’, questions this. I was never a handsome man and I am no longer a young one. I think the assumption, in the language of male-(don’t worry, we’re all hetero here, honest)-bonding, is that “Fat Frank isn’t getting any.” What else could explain my silence?

In reality, I remain silent because I think The Lads would not react well if they knew the truth. Fat Frank, (a nickname chosen for its alliterative charm, its factual accuracy, and the ease with which it can be rhymed with wank) deviates from one of the accepted norms of married life. I break the last taboo: I like to fuck my wife.

I mean I really like to fuck my wife. I think about it before we do it. I give myself up to it completely when I’m in her. I hug the memory of each fuck to me, reluctant to let it go.

Liz and I have been married for eight years and been together for twelve, so we must have fucked thousands of times. I know the conventional wisdom is that repetition blunts the experience but Liz is like a whetstone for my knife-sharp desire, each time I rub against her the edge gets keener and cuts deeper.

Perhaps if Liz was the kind of woman that The Lads ogle and comment on (but never EVER actually speak to) I could share the reality of my passion with them. They would slap me on the back or punch me in the arm and shout “You lucky bastard.” Jimmy would say, “Who’d have thought Fat Frank would have it in him?” Robbo would grin and say, “Who’d have thought Fat Frank would have it in her you mean.” I would be expected to drop my head in false modesty and then explain of how Liz goes all night like a racehorse on speed. Jimmy would say, “If you ever need a hand with her, Frank, you only have to ask.” Everyone, including me, would laugh. I’d be offered a beer and my status in the group would rise.

But Liz is not the kind of woman The Lads notice. She’s not a fantasy figure. She’s a normal, healthy, slightly over-weight woman in her mid-thirties.

Liz, it seems, is extraordinary only in my eyes. Her eyes are green with little flecks of gold that shine in the sunlight. Her hair, which she keeps short, curls against the back of her neck as if caressing it. Her smile is crooked and filled with wickedness. Her skin is soft and pale and flushes when she is aroused. But the most extraordinary thing about Liz, the arse-clenching, cock-stiffening, heart-aching thing about her is that she loves me.

I’m not talking about something vague here, some Hallmark sentimental notion of love, a fantasy emotion propped up by romantic gestures and mutual self-delusion. I’m talking about a warts-and-all, robust, uncompromising and unconditional love that crashes over you like a big wave, taking your breathe away but leaving you excited to be alive.

Liz has known me for a long time. We went to the same school. We saw each other grow up. Liz knew the bookish, solitary boy I was and the hormone-charged, cripplingly shy youth I became, and yet she still fell in love with me. The power of being thoroughly known and thoroughly loved is almost impossible to get into words.

According to Liz, words are my weakness. She thinks I use way too many of them and get lost in the patterns that they make. It’s true that sometimes I can be too introspective for my own good. I get hooked on ideas and concepts and lose touch with the day-to-day world where reality happens. Left to my own devices I could float away from the world and become an eccentric old fart who laughs at obscure references no one-else understands. Liz saves me from that.

It’s not that Liz doesn’t like ideas. She loves to hear me talk about them. She just doesn’t let herself become seduced by them. One time I was going through a phase were I was obsessed with the early Greek philosophers. Liz bought me a copy of Plato’s “Apology” written in defence of Socrates. Inside the cover she wrote, “An over-explored life is not worth living.”

Liz and I don’t speak much when we fuck. We laugh and groan and grunt and sigh, but mostly we let our bodies do the talking. From the beginning, Liz has been the one who initiates these kinds of conversation. There’s a certain look she gets that I know means that she wants sex and she wants it soon. I never act on the look alone. Over the years, we’ve developed a little ritual: when the need is strong, Liz will stand close to me, sometimes in front, sometimes behind, put her mouth next to my ear and whisper, “Fuck me.” Those two words are like a trigger, they always make me hard.

Most of our fucking is outside of the bedroom. Liz thinks that beds are for sleeping on and that floors (and sofas, and tables and stairs) are for fucking on. She has whispered, “Fuck me,” in every room in the house. Although we’ve never talked about it, we both understand that I will fuck Liz whenever and wherever she whispers those two little words. We’ve fucked on Ferry Boats, in cars, in phone booths, on the steps of public buildings. I love the risk that this introduces and I love the sense of wickedness that comes from a secret shared.

Liz is the only woman I’ve ever had sex with. Now there’s a statement that would make The Lads shuffle their feet and pretend that I hadn’t spoken. As a conversation stopper, it’s on a par with “Have you opened your heart to Jesus?” The fidelity implied by this statement is not a badge of honour. I have made no sacrifices. Liz gives me everything that I need and I give thanks for my good fortune everyday.

I’m sure that Liz and I are not the only couple with this kind of relationship but I’m equally sure that we are a minority. Many marriages run out of passion or find they no longer need it.

The real reason it is taboo for me to talk to The Lads (none of whom are lads any longer and all of whom are or have been married) about the reality of my sex life, is that they don’t want to be confronted with the possibility that, if they had found the right person, they too would look forward to fucking their wives.

So, I will continue to be silent when they brag and boast and encourage one another. It is the polite thing to do. And it gives me time to think about Liz and what we will get up to the next time that she whispers in my ear.

© Mike Kimera 2008 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from

A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.

Soft Option

Impotence is not much discussed, especially in erotica,  These days Viagra and it’s like are seen has having dispensed with the problem. Sadly, that is only partly true. Impotence creates a gap between desire and action. Our self-esteem, even our happiness, can fall so far into that gap that we end up living in shadows.

I would like to think that impotence cannot eradicated love.

I know that love is what adds real pain to the experience of impotence.

I’ve had more mail on this story than almost any other and it mostly says “Thank you for letting us know we are not alone”.

He knew the reason for it. At least he thought he knew it. He had only to look at himself in the mirror to gain insight. He was overweight, over forty, and overworked. That was how he felt sometimes… over.

When the penis isn’t erect, not even slightly, it’s difficult for a man to know that it’s there. He has to touch it to confirm it hasn’t fallen off.

Paul looked down over the dome of his flabby stomach to his flaccid cock. Flaccid. Sounds like deflated. A pricked prick. A good description of himself perhaps?

No. He was wallowing in self-pity now and starting to enjoy it. Stop. Remember what started you thinking about impotence in the first place. Impotence was only a problem because of desire and the spur to his desire lay next to him.

Anna was still sleeping, holding one of her pillows in an intimate embrace that he almost envied. She looked peaceful. He’d been watching her for some minutes now.

Paul had always liked to watch Anna sleep. In the early days she had thought it cute. Later she said it was weird and had asked him to stop. He usually slept six hours or less; she needed at least eight hours before she was ready to face the day so he had plenty of opportunity to watch without her knowing.

An old Rod Stewart song played in his head “The morning sun when it’s in your face really shows your age. But that don’t bother me none in my idea of anything”. They had danced together at discos to that song when they were young and their skin had not yet been inexpertly folded by time and experience. Only now did he really understand what Rod had meant. Anna hated the lines on her face and although she was doomed to lose the war of attrition against them, nevertheless she fought each battle fiercely. Paul felt the lines gave her face character, showed her as someone with many reasons to frown but who was not afraid to laugh.

Anna wore a silk slip to bed. The shimmer of the dark green fabric reminded Paul of the flecks of green, mica-like, fragments, in Anna’s dark brown eyes. He let his hand follow the curve of her silk covered flank, waiting for his body to exhibit the level of arousal his mind already felt.

There had been a time when waiting was not only unnecessary but unthinkable. Once, when they were both eighteen, Anna had sat next to him on the sofa. It was mid-afternoon; her mother was serving them tea. Anna’s skirt was fashionably short and as she sat, Paul felt the heat of her bare flesh touching his jeans-covered leg. His erection had been instantaneous and formidable. Anna, oblivious to her effect on him had chatted to her mother and offered him cake. He had sat, making polite conversation, waiting for this lust-laden tide to ebb.

It had been another year before he entered her for the first time. Neither of them was confident. Each would have liked the other to take charge. But they managed and, after a bit of practice, succeeded in pleasing one another most of the time. They had always tended towards the occasional extended sessions of sex rather than a nightly routine. Sometimes they would spend hours and hours in sexual play. Anna’s friends told her she was lucky to have a man of such stamina, yet both Paul and Anna felt a dissatisfaction they did not discuss. Anna listened to her friend’s joke “Why does the woman always have to sleep in the wet patch after sex? – Because he’s already rolled over and fallen asleep before you have a chance to move of course”, aware that there were no wet patches in her bed. Paul never came inside her. He stayed hard for a long time but she never felt the rush of his sperm, the signal she felt she needed to trigger her own orgasm. There was pleasure and intimacy but also an omission concealed in conspiratorial silence.

Paul was relieved when Anna took a lover. Neither of them mentioned it until it was over. He was a mutual friend, a free spirit, determinedly single, who cherished her in his way and brought his wide experience to bear on meeting her needs.

One night, a month after the affair started, Anna was lying with her head on Paul’s chest and her leg wrapped over his hip when she said, “I won’t be seeing him any more”.

Paul had stroked her hair and listened to the quickening of his own pulse. “Why not?” he’d asked.

“It makes me lonely” she had said.

The silence that followed had eventually lapsed into the release of sleep.

The sunlight had moved down the bed and was now warming Anna’s thighs. Paul put his finger and thumb around his cock, rolled back the foreskin and stroked the exposed head against Anna’s buttock. Stubbornly soft, the penis was at least able to register pleasure at that skin to skin contact. Paul drew the outline of a heart on Anna’s smooth flesh. She adjusted her position to move in towards him and, although her eyes remained closed, he knew she was now awake and aware of him. He felt discouraged. His limp flesh seemed an affront to her warm curves.

Paul lay on his back, let go of his penis, and closed his eyes. Anna rolled over to face him. Without looking at her he said, “I’m sorry. I can’t. I want to, but I can’t”.

“Shhh” Anna said “if you can’t then don’t. Relax. I love you.” mouth closing over his left nipple “every part of you” engulfing his right nipple “from your hairy chest” cheek brushing the coarse, now grey streaked, hair, “to your suckable balls”.  Paul groaned as she pulled him into her mouth. She had always loved doing this. He had never understood why she liked it but he accepted it as one of the possible proofs of the existence of a loving God.

Lifting her head with a soft plopping noise, Anna said, “Hmmm. I see some motion”

Paul knew his cock was now semi-hard. Semi-useful. Semi-soft. Semi-male. The moment he focused on this threat of tumescence it vanished. Neither he nor Anna commented on his shrinking flesh, but they were careful not to meet each other’s eyes.

Just before the silence became so long that it would have crushed both of them, Anna spoke.

“I want to play a game.” she said.

Inwardly Paul groaned. A game? What next, plastic toys and rubber clothing? Sad sexless porn videos futilely stoking a flagging libido? He could not, would not, let these thoughts show on his face. Anna deserved better; she was being brave. So, in an awful approximation of Sean Connery’s accent, he slurred “A game, Miss Moneypenny? As you can see I’m shaken but not stirred”.

As soon as he spoke he wished he could have called the words back; too much vulnerability there. He searched Anna’s eyes, unconsciously holding his breathe, looking for tears or reproach and was relieved to find laughter; gentle laughter.

“Pay attention, Mr Bond” Anna said “Any infringement of the rules of the game will be punished severely”.

“Thank you, Miss Moneypenny. I look forward to it”

“Shh. Pay attention. Here are the rules of the game: you must place your hands under your buttocks, palms facing upwards; you may not enter me; you may not speak; you may not move your hands; you may not close your eyes. The game will cease if any rule is broken”

Not a spontaneously generated set of rules, Paul realised. Anna had been thinking about this.

Obediently he placed his hands under his ass, distracted by the double sensation of palm on skin and skin on palm.  Anna repositioned herself astride his thighs, facing him.

“And the object of the g…” he started to ask but Anna leaned forward and closed his lips between her finger and thumb.

“No talking,” she said, “The game is starting.”

She knelt back on her heels, looked him in the eyes, smiled with one side of her mouth (the left side always smiles first, he thought), crossed her arms in front of her and took hold of the hem of her slip.

Afterwards he would watch the mind-movie of her slip rising up her body and over her head many times. The feline stretch of muscle and limb. The sun on belly and breast. The shoulder length brown hair falling free of the green silk passing through it. The wide, wanton, smile on her face as she looked down at him.

In theory her body held no surprises for him. He knew the history of every scar and had traced every curve. In practice she took his breath away. Beauty, Virginia Wolf had said, moves through women like a wave of energy, illuminating them and moving on. Above him Anna seemed filled with a numinous light that made it impossible to look away from her.

Anna’s hands danced a ballet as, fingertips never leaving the surface of her skin, they traced two lazy S shapes, starting at the flare of her hips, meeting above her navel, journeying around the outer curves of her breasts, to meet and touch below her sternum. Slowly her palms took possession of her breasts, cupping them and pushing them upwards slightly.

As the left hand laid claim to the breast it held, closing around it, weighing it, squeezing it; the right hand snaked downwards until Anna’s fingertips rested in the light covering of pubic hair.

Paul could almost hear the slow beat of the silent music Anna’s body was responding to. Her shoulders remained still and her back straight but her thighs, hips and belly rolled sinuously as the music moved through her. Her left hand worked her breast in counterpoint to the circles her right hand was tracing. Anna looked as if she was making love to the sunlight.

More than anything, Paul wanted to touch her, to feel her heat, but he could not move his hands without breaking the spell (and the rules of the game – what was the object of the game?). The tempo of the music seemed to increase as Anna swayed above him, eyes closed, lost in the motion, surrendering to the caress of her fingers and the pulse of her lust. After a few seconds she became still.

Anna had never spoken much during sex, her vocalizations had always been preverbal expressions of emotion, so her words caught Paul by surprise. Looking him in the eyes she said, “I’m open. I’m wet. Very wet.”

Caught up in an adult show-and-tell, Anna parted her labia gently and lifted her glistening fingertip to the sunlight. “I am hungry.” she said, “You will feed me. You will be my meat.”

This is not like her, Paul thought, yet it seems real, not pretend. How many times has she felt this and remained silent? What did she mean by meat?

To his surprise Paul felt his prick begin to stir. It was not yet hard but it was making him aware of its presence. Back when he had taken his potency for granted this had happened to Paul often during the course of the day. His prick would nudge his consciousness like a friendly dog brushing its nose against his leg; just to let him know it was there. Nothing urgent, just a torpid tumescence, pleasant against the thigh.

“Mmmmmm” Anna said “meat”. With a precision he had seen her use when decorating cakes, Anna’s fingers gently aligned his prick so that it rested on its back against his belly like a sunbather on a beach.  Smiling not at him but at the relaxed and happy sunbather, Anna moved forward and lowered herself until her labia held his prick in a warm wet embrace. Paul moaned. The sensation was strange but… delicious.

Anna placed her hands over Paul’s nipples, pushing her fingers through his chest hair. Then she began to… he didn’t know what to call it… rock? slide? ride? stroke? What ever it was called, it felt amazing. With most of her weight on her arms, Anna slowly moved herself along Paul’s prick, squeezing it like a tube of toothpaste.

On the forward stroke her breasts pushed out and up between her braced arms. On the backward stroke her head dropped below her shoulders as she raised her hips until her pussylips just grazed him on their progress along his shaft.

Slowly rhythmically Anna fucked Paul’s soft meat. Forward stroke – “uuunnnnngh” – exhale though the mouth, head thrown back. Backward stroke – “nnnnnnnnmmmmm” – inhale through the nose, stomach flat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Slow. Inexorable. Relentless

Paul hadn’t known her arms were so strong. Drops of sweat fell from her forehead on to his chest with each backward stroke.  Her body was slick in the sunlight.

On the final backward stroke Anna repositioned herself so that her pubic bone, carrying all her weight, rested on the base of his prick, grinding in to him. She swayed there, arms trembling, head back, nipples trumpeting pleasure. He didn’t know if she came or not. But she glowed; glowed so brightly that the image of her was burnt into his brain.

Then, like a cloud suddenly obscuring the sun, she fell forward on to him, letting him take all of her weight. Her heat was all over him. He was drowning in her smell.

She raised her head so her chin was on his breastbone and looked at him with tired satisfaction. “Game over” she said.

Paul carefully slipped his hands out from under him and wrapped her in his arms. She was close to sleep. He was close to happiness. Maybe everything wasn’t over yet.

© Mike Kimera 2000 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from

A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.


My C drive is littered with fragments of prose that have never managed to develop into stories. Perhaps a tidier person would clear them all away and leave only works that really are in progress and stories that have actually been finished, but I have magpie instincts when it comes to writing, I hide away bright shiny words, even though they seem to be of no immediate use.

When “Postcards” was originally conceived, I found myself with a number of  D/s scenes that floated without plot or characterization. Many of them were written in the second person, a point of view new writers tend to embrace and more experienced writers shy away from when they realize how hard it is to sustain. “Postcards” was written as means of  weaving some of those bright shiny words about D/s through the lattice of a story, like silk ribbon through a wicker basket.

Of course, it didn’t quite turn out that way. The wicker basket asserted its independence and demanded that I generate some strong characters and give them a reason for sharing D/s scenes. So now, “Postcards” tells the story of married couple keeping their passion alive during periods of enforced separation.

“Postcards” appeared in “Aqua Erotica 2“, a waterproof book that enables you to read erotica in the bath.

Annette had promised herself she would not open the latest postcard until the evening, but she had woken to an arousal she couldn’t ignore, so here she was, at the computer, searching for stimulation; something to light up her mind’s eye while her fingers worked their magic on her demanding flesh. If things had been different she might have searched the web for fuck-tales to lubricate her lust, or lurked in chatrooms where strangers would spew their fantasies over her. Instead she double-clicked on the folder that held the “postcards” from her husband.

Annette knew by heart the first postcard her husband had sent her, the one that had caught her by surprise, the one that had changed things between them. She smiled as she remembered how pleased she had been to receive an e-mail from him after only one night away. She had opened it expecting his usual humorous observations on people and places. What she found made her catch her breath. It read:

“In my mind last night, my cum was on your breasts not my hands.

You were kneeling. Your arms were tied behind you so that your palms met, as if in prayer, between your shoulder blades.

Your breasts jutted outwards until I caught them in my hands and squeezed them together making a channel for my cock.

The vibrator in your cunt was making you sweat as I oiled your breasts.

The clamp on your clit made you gasp when I placed it there.

Standing, leaning forwards, pushing you back on your heels, I fucked the soft meat of your tits.

My cum splashed your neck and chin and dripped slowly onto your breasts.

Afterwards, I watched you struggle to climax while my drying sperm puckered your skin.”

He had never written to her like this before. Nor had he ever restrained her. From the immediate tightening of her cunt and the hardening of her nipples, she had realised it was something she had wanted him to do but which she had never spoken to him about.

Sex had always been the heartbeat of Annette’s marriage. The strong sex drive that had been hers since puberty was amplified by Olivier’s presence until her lust for him became central to her life. She hungered for him, needed to feed from him daily. He was the cocaine her libido was addicted to, yet their marriage was anything but harmonious. He was very French: passionate, verbal, fond of argument. She came from a long line of combative Irish New Yorkers. They fought, they sulked, they embarrassed friends with the vitriol they would pour on each other’s egos. But always they came back; their bodies forced into fiercely passionate struggles that ended with both of them exhausted and nothing resolved. Each day the tension would start anew, pulling at them, inflaming them, holding them together.

In the first three years of their marriage they had never once spent a night apart. Then the company started to ask Olivier to travel. He would be away for a week at a time, usually in a different time-zone.

The first time it happened, the week had seemed to stretch forever. When he returned she fell upon him in a frenzy of need. That weekend was a blur of sweat and sex, but the fucking was too frantic to be satisfying. An anxiety had entered Annette’s mind, marring her enjoyment. Olivier was an attractive man who needed the company of women and the release of sex. How many weeks could he live in hotel rooms without seeking solace in the arms of a stranger?

Before he left in the early hours of Monday morning, Olivier had woken Annette by placing his hand between her legs and kissing her still closed eyes one at a time. She opened her legs but kept her eyes closed.

Pushing his fingers gently into her he had whispered, “You are my desire. Remember that.”

Then he was gone, as fleeting and insubstantial as a dream.

The next night the first postcard had arrived. Annette knew that this was Olivier’s way of staying focused on her. She imagined him in his hotel room; naked at his laptop, conjuring erotic images to stoke her desires and to prove his love.

Olivier returned late on Friday. Neither of them mentioned the postcard, but the sex that night had an extra edge. Olivier was strong and forceful, holding her hands above her head as he fucked her, each stroke driving her back into the mattress.  She had worn a silk scarf around her neck that evening, not her usual style of dress, and had taken care to leave it by the bed.

When he took her for the second time, Oliver used the scarf to bind her hands behind her back as she rode up and down on his cock, struggling to keep her balance. She did not resist, knowing she had invited this, wanted this. At the end Olivier grasped her breasts tightly, pulling her down on to him, forcing himself up into her. Her orgasm was intense. She collapsed forward on to him and fell asleep with her hands still tied.

Annette still had the scarf. She liked to keep it near her when Olivier was away. Sitting in front of her computer, the scarf wrapped around her wrist, she let her fingers slide over the smooth warmth of her inner thigh. On impulse she avoided the newest postcard and went instead to the second one she had received.

Olivier had been home for two weeks and then had suddenly been called away. The day after he left, the second postcard arrived. It read:

“I’m in Madrid thinking of you.

A rope is between your legs. Unless you stay on tiptoe it rides up into your cunt.

Your nipples are clamped. An elastic cord stretches from the clamps to bolts in the floor. If you stand on tiptoe your breasts are pulled and stretched.

Your head is pulled all the way back. Your hair is gathered together and tied to a butt plug, lodged in your arse, forcing you to arch your back.

A lit candle is in your mouth.

You are waiting.

For me.

And my whip.”

This image was harder for her to accept. Pain had never appealed to her, so the whip made her anxious. She had had anal sex, but never with Olivier and although she owned a little blue vibrator to help her through the night, she had never pushed anything into her asshole. She tried to imagine Olivier tying her like that, wondering how she would seem to him, how it would feel to be so helpless.

The next day she had made her first visit to a sex shop. Nervously she had selected a butt plug and some lubricant. She went directly home, stripped, and pushed her new toy into place. She felt incredibly full. She knew it was already evening in Madrid. She phoned Olivier’s hotel.

“Olivier D’Or,” his voiced sounded rich and strong.

“The butt plug is filling me,” she said, needing to let him know immediately, not wanting a preamble.

Silence. Then the sound of a zipper being opened.

“I’m pretending it’s your fat cock forcing its way inside me.”

She could hear him stroking himself but he said not a word.

“It hurts. It hurts so good. I want you to take me. And take me again. To stretch me. I want to feel your seed shoot inside me. Fuck me, you bastard. Fuck me hard. Use me.”

Leaning back on the bed, the phone trapped against her neck, she reached for the little blue vibrator.

“I’m pushing my vibrator into the base of the butt plug. God it feels good.”

Olivier was breathing hard now. She pictured him wanking in his hotel room listening to her playing the whore.

The vibrator made her shiver from the base of the spine up. She forgot about painting verbal pictures for Olivier and focused on her own needs, working her clit with her free hand.

She heard the familiar sound of Olivier coming as she thrashed on the bed, then she let her own orgasm possess her.

When she was still, she put the receiver to her ear again and said, “If you were here now, I would lick you clean and suck you until I could have you again. I need you. Come home soon.” Then she put the receiver back in the cradle and ended the call.

Olivier didn’t contact her for three days, long enough for Annette to think about the phone call time and again. Sometimes she would be convinced that she had gone too far and Olivier thought she had slipped into a sexual dementia. At other times she’d work herself up into anger: he should be grateful to her, she’d decide; men paid good money to get that kind of call.

Once Olivier was in front of her again though, her strongest emotion had been lust. Even after a long-haul flight, he moved as if he owned the world. People parted before him like a shoal of minnows in the path of a shark. Her cunt ached at the sight. She had decided to meet him at O’Hare. She had intended to slap him for not calling her. Now all she wanted to do was fuck.

Olivier’s face changed completely when he saw her. That, stay-the-fuck-out-of-my-way look that his face habitually wore when he travelled was transformed for a second into joy before he recovered himself and tried to look severe.

When he reached her, he gathered her in his arms and lifted her off the floor. When their kiss ended, she said, “Why didn’t you call?”

Olivier smiled and whispered in her ear, “I wanted to keep fresh the memory of your fucked arse.”

His left hand had found its way to Annette’s buttocks as he talked. He used it to push her up against his erection as he said, “I haven’t let myself come in three days.”

Annette felt his strong fingers pushing against her asshole through the fabric of her summer dress and struggled in that too public place, but Olivier held her in position.

“Tonight I will stretch your arsehole with my cock until I hear you scream and beg for more,” he promised.

Now, as she sat in front of her computer, her fingers moving lightly over her labia, Annette remembered that night, the first night that he had sodomised her, and smiled. It was as if that was when her marriage had really begun, when he had finally made her his.

She could smell her own sex now. Her nipples were starting to ache. It was time to open Olivier’s latest postcard. With two fingers pushing into her cunt she read:

“In the mirror in front of you, you can see how distended your breasts look, pulled straight out by the clothes-pegs on your nipples, which are fastened to the base of the mirror by elastic ties at full stretch.

The bright blue ball gag keeps your mouth open so wide that your jaw aches. Saliva runs from each side of your mouth.

Your hands, wrists, and elbows are tied closely together and stretched above your head so that, were your ankles not tied to the chair, you would barely be able to stay on the seat.

The “seat” is a birthing stool, designed to keep your legs apart.

Aimed at your clit is a high pressure hose. At random intervals and for random lengths of time, it punches water at your clit. Sometimes hot. Sometimes ice cold.

I have told you I will be back in an hour.

There are still five minutes to go.

So far you have come twice. “

Annette groaned and bit her lip. How did he do this? How did he know the secret images that would consume her with lust? She read on:

“I enter the room early and switch off the water. I am carrying a whip made out of small lengths of hosepipe. The handle is shaped like a cock. You know it fits, just, in your arse.

I kiss you on the forehead and whisper ‘lets see your breasts change colour.’

The hoses are only eighteen inches long but there are four of them. At the end of each hose is a plastic bead. You know that the beads leave angry red depressions in your skin.

Holes have been punched into the beads so that they whistle as they move through the air towards your flesh. The beads bite where they touch and a line of fire traces back from those bites across the tender surface of your breasts.

At first you cannot believe the pain. You scream into the gag, desperate for me to stop. Then the rhythm takes you. You become the pulsing points of pain. You stiffen when you hear the beads move through the air and shudder when they hit. You thrash and moan and stare in disbelief at the marks that have transformed your breasts.

You look relieved when I go to unclamp your crushed nipples and then scream into you gag once more when the blood rushes back in to your abused flesh.

While you are still screaming I force the whip handle up into your cunt, then I stand behind you, wrapping my cock in the soft strength of you hair, pushing myself through it, brushing against your cheek, until my cum splashes over your face and up into your hair.”

Annette was panting now. The images were so raw and so violent that they frightened her. Despite that, she felt her cunt contract around her fingers and coat them with her spend.

In the warm afterglow of her orgasm, Annette knew that Olivier would never hurt her so badly in reality but she hoped that he would return home on Friday with a bright blue ballgag ready for her to try.

© Mike Kimera 2006 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from

A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.


When I wrote this story, I expected feedback on the relationship between the two characters. Instead, what I mostly got was feedback on how unusual it was to have a detailed description of what penetration feels like from the male point of view. I also got one complaint about poor food hygiene 🙂

For those of you who don’t speak British English, the American word for pot-holer is spelunker. Oddly, the American English word has the older root (Middle-English for Cavern) while the British English word really only applies to Limestone formations with rivers running through them. Who says erotica isn’t educational?

I wake in darkness, cock hard, mouth dry, wondering what is wrong. Your side of the bed is cold and empty. The insomnia demon has you in her grip again. I will probably find you hunched over your computer fucking strangers in chatrooms. Maybe I should pretend to be a stranger. Maybe then you would deal with the uncomfortable erection I have woken up with.

The air is cold on my nakedness after the duvet trapped warmth of the bed, but my penis still points the way like a weather vane. Cockadoodlescrew.

No sound of keys tapping. No tell-tale light under the office door. No stifled moans as your fingers play tunes on your cunt. Then I hear the thumping noise. Something heavy and soft slapping against a hard surface. This is what has woken me.

You are in the kitchen. Only the over counter lights are on. Dressed in a robe, T-Shirt and woolly socks you are making bread. At 3:00am. This is so like you it makes me smile.

Absorbed in your task, you haven’t yet noticed that I’m here. You are lost in the texture of the dough your fingers are kneading on the marble slab. You are using all your strength to massage the damp, slightly sticky, breadflesh in front of you. As you turn it over and slap it on the slab, you make a little grunting noise and I know that, if I could see your face, the tip of your tongue would be visible at the corner of your mouth. Your hands will be warm. You’ve told me many times that cold hands make poor bread. You are sweating slightly as you work. A flour covered hand reaches to push your hair back from your face. The fluid sensuality of the movement makes my arse clench. I want you. Here. In the kitchen. I want my cock in your cunt.

In two strides I am behind you, my left hand over your mouth, my right arm all the way around your waist, my cock pushing into the small of your back. You stiffen and try to speak.

“Shhhhh. Knead your bread and let me need you”.

I kiss the side of your neck and you lean back into me. That always makes me feel large and strong. Being behind you turns me on. The strength of your small back on my chest and belly, the tempting pliancy of your arse, the smell of your hair in my face, makes me want to hold you by the shoulders and rip you apart. I want four hands and at least two cocks to pay you the attention you deserve. You tilt your head forward and I kiss the back of your neck. This is a ballet we have danced before.

Your fingers return to coaxing the dough. The movement of your muscles against my chest tortures me. I put one foot between your legs and push your ankles further apart, so you lean forward from the waist to keep your balance, your fingers sinking into the dough.

My left hand moves down to your breast, feeling it through the cotton of your Tshirt. So round, like half a grapefruit. At the beginning of the twentieth century in Paris, it was held that the perfect breast would fill a champagne glass. I am picturing the glass against your breast even as my finger and thumb tease your nipple.

Your fingers are still. All your weight is against the kitchen counter. You push your arse back against me.

“Fuck me, you bastard” you say without looking around.

I pull your robe to the right, exposing your cunt and arse. Your lips are wet. You smell like a warm salt sea. My cock seems to sniff at you like a dog and then it dives into your folds of flesh.

Every time I am surprised at how it feels. First the tight hot grasp of muscle around my cock; then pushing through into space; then banging up against the ridged ceiling of this cave. My cock is a pot-holer squirming and sliding blindly through these fluid slick formations. That moment of moving from constriction to freedom always makes me gasp. If my eyes are closed I can almost see my cockhead waving in the dark contours of your cunt.

You groan as my hips slap against your arse. Later we will see the bruises you get from banging up against the counter. You look so fragile but I know that, no matter how hard I thrust, you always want more. My hands are on your hips now. Your back is arched. You are a she-wolf howling at the moon.

Your cunt squeezes my cock and I know that you want me to rotate my hips. I move in a slow figure of 8, keeping my cock fully inside you; imagining a torch probing the depths of your cave. I bend my knees slightly so I can push upwards from underneath. I slip out just far enough that all of my cock is grasped tightly then I push through again into space.

You are making small noises now. You eyes will be closed. Your mind is leaving me while your body pulls me tighter. Soon I will be lost to the now of the dance; playing notes not reading them. But I need more purchase. My right hand moves past your hips to push against your mound. My left hand pushes on your tailbone. I adjust you to an angle where you are up on the balls of your feet, allowing me to fuck hard and straight.

You know what is coming and I think I hear you breath “yes”, but the reptile hindbrain is taking over. Words are just noises. Warm cunts are for fucking and fucking and fucking and fucking.

Everything now is push and grind and sweat. I know I’m shouting but I’m not sure what. Then the cum starts, somewhere in my belly. A pneumatic pressure that distends time. My consciousness follows the rush of sperm from my balls through the narrow channel of my cock until it breaks like surf inside you. Then again. And again. Then I am spent. There is a moment of almost non-being. The reptile crawls back to its nest at the base of my skull. I am myself again.

I relax the fingers that are now somehow buried in your arse flesh (another place where we will later find bruises). My chest hairs are matted with sweat. My cock slides ungracefully from your cunt. I notice that you have been resting the side of your face in the dough. You have one hand between your legs. Did you come? You hate me to ask. Like leaving the toilet seat up, it’s something you have trained me not to do. But I wonder.

I step back. That image of you, fucked and bentover, makes me almost guilty. My cock is asleep. Now I have room to wonder how I can treat you this way. Until next time.

You straighten and turn to face me for the first time. You eyes are on mine but your hand is on my soft sticky cock.

“Poor thing,” you say, “You’ll get cold. Go back to bed. I have bread to make. I’ll be up soon”. You pat my balls as if sending me off to school. Will I ever know what you are thinking?

“I love you,” I say.

You let go of my balls and place the flat of your hand on my chest. “I know” you say, then, without washing your hands, you return to kneading the dough.

Leaving the light of the kitchen behind I return to the now cold bed, intending to feel hurt and puzzled, but the pillow and the duvet are your allies and whisper to me that all is well. As I drift into sleep I think I hear you singing as you knead the bread.

© Mike Kimera 2000 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from

A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.

Photographic Memories

This is one of my favourite stories. It looks at what holds a couple together and what they can offer one another. There is very little sex in this story but I believe that it is filled with passion.

The camera never lies. It is we who… elaborate.

One sentence and he has their attention. By the end of the lecture he will have their devotion–as he has mine. Poor Philip, so many devotees and so little idea of what to do with us.

He makes a fine figure at the front of the lecture hall, dressed in black, only the shocking white of his hair and the bright blue of his eyes daring to add colour to his sobriety.

When he faces his audience, each of us feels that we alone are at the centre of his gaze. We are pleased to be there.

His voice is rich and sensual. The serpent spoke to Eve with such a voice, I think.

Behind Philip, uncommented on and therefore powerful, a series of photographs flash on the screen. One shows a woman in tears beating her fists against a man’s chest. What a brute that man must be. Then the same image is shown set in a broader scene that reveals the funeral which has prompted the woman’s grief. The next shows two lovers in a passionate embrace, but the zoom reveals them as actors on a stage. Image after image draws us in and then casts us off.

In the coming weeks, you will learn how to see, so that you can lead the elaboration of others.

He is inviting them to be special, like him. Offering them the ever-vacant post of sorcerer’s apprentice. Some are leaning forward to drink him in. Others are eagerly writing down his apparently spontaneous words. Most of the class are women. All, except me, are under thirty. The few men in the room must already feel excluded or out-shone.

The images stop. The screen goes blank. We look expectantly at Philip, who stands centre stage in all our minds.

The art of photography is to use a lie to tell a truth.

He smiles. The smile says, I know. A disturbing idea too glibly put. But forgive me. We both know that humour and truth can be co-habitants for a mind quick enough to tell them apart. Smile. Show me you understand.

Almost everyone is smiling now. We are sharing the intimate wisdom of Philip Clarke, an artist who recognises us as being cut from the same cloth as himself.

I glance around the auditorium, trying to guess which women Philip will allow to worship him this term. Perhaps the one with the pre-Raphaelite hair will be his Beatrice? Or the tiny Japanese girl? Or the tall slim one whose handsome face and upright bearing speak so clearly of strength? Or the wholesome blonde, who looks so much as I did when he first took me to his bed?

Philip continues to reel them in with his words and pictures, but I have slipped his hook for the moment. I stop listening and just watch him. We have been together for fifteen years now, Philip and I. In all that time what has he taught me to see, other than himself? What elaboration has he led except to weave me into his life so that I no longer exist separately from him? How often has he lied to me to be truthful to our marriage?

Unbidden, a pop song that Philip would wrinkle his nose at, slides into my mind and refuses to leave: “If you wanna know if he loves you so, it’s in his kiss.”

That was how he caught me the first time, with his kiss.
I was twenty-two, beautiful, invincible, and about to be swallowed whole. His hair was black then and his clothes were colourful. When he stopped me on campus, wearing his ever-present camera like a talisman, and asked me to pose for him, I laughed. An older man (thirty seemed so old then) asking to take my photograph? Next he’d be inviting me home to look at his etchings.

I struck a lascivious pose and said, “Will you make me your Playmate of the month?”

“No,” he said, without a hint of humour, “I will make your beauty immortal.”

From another man the words would have sounded pretentious; Philip made them sound truthful.

I dropped my silly pose and said, “OK, how do you want me?”

At last he smiled. It felt wonderful to see him smile.

“Follow me,” he said, and I did.

Being photographed was hard work. Philip wanted only my face and he wanted it just so; with the light like this and the expression like that. He took photograph after photograph. The only sound was the camera shutter applauding his efforts.

The final pictures were taken from very close up. The lens seemed to be sniffing at me like a dog. When he lowered the camera and looked at me, I thought another adjustment of the lighting would follow and I stayed immobile. Then I realised that he was filming me with his eyes, engraving me on his memory. It was impossible to look away from him. He brought his face closer and closer and then he kissed me.

I had been kissed before, many times: flirtatious kisses, passionate kisses, eager kisses; but no one had ever kissed me like this. This kiss was a contract, a promise. It was a connection that couldn’t be broken; an indelible brand that changed who I was.

The sex that followed was an extension of his kiss. Philip stripped me and pinned me to the floor, entering me without asking, holding my arms out in a cruciform, letting me writhe and struggle but making his cock the pivot of my world.

My previous lovers had made gentle, attentive love to me. Philip fucked me.

When it was over I was crying. Crying because it was over. Crying because I knew he would leave me. Crying because no one would ever fuck me like that again.

Philip kissed away my tears and said, “Come with me to India.”

I walked away from Cambridge and my PhD to follow Philip. I was obsessed with him. I could see nothing but him. For ten years I traveled with him around the world, seeing what he saw, being his model, trying to be his muse. I was addicted to him, not just to the visceral thrill of the sex, but to his hunger for life and for me, his exhilaration at his own powers, and most of all, his optimism. We were lotus-eaters, drinking in the world like nectar.

Our dreamtime came to an end two years ago in October 1999. When Philip left me in the pre-dawn dark of that Autumn day, I was dewed with sweat, sated from his attentions, and all was well. The next time I saw him everything was broken.

Philip was on the Great Western train that crashed at Ladbrook Grove, killing 132 people. They found him wandering amongst the dead and dying, taking photograph after photograph. He was unhurt except for cuts and bruises. When they returned him to me later that day, I kissed him and held him, declaring him to be my Lazarus. He tolerated my embrace and then excused himself to go and develop his film.

I lost him over the next few weeks. He would shout in his sleep and then deny having had the nightmares I wanted to free him from. At first he wouldn’t touch me, then, when we did fuck, the sex was laced with anger or blighted with semi-impotence. He started to sleep alone. For the first time since we’d met, my bed was empty.

Philip never talked about the crash. He locked the photographs of carnage away and stopped carrying his camera.

When he decided to take the post of artist in residence at the university, I hoped it meant he was recovering. In a way he was: he gave wonderful lectures and displayed his works with pride. He also started fucking his students. He knew I knew, but we never talked about it.

I wanted to ask him what he was getting from those young women that he didn’t get from me. I don’t think it was just that they were young and eager. Maybe it was the way they saw him. The same way that this new crop of students are seeing him today.

Truth needs distance, not context, Philip says. People in photographs taken five years ago can look more alien than people whose images were captured a hundred years ago. Context distracts, distance provides focus.

I try to extract Philip from his context–husband, lover, friend–and see him, just him. He is an older man, still charismatic, maybe a little vain, a little too carefully presented. I watch him pace and gesture and I realise that there is no real interaction between him and his audience, no creative push. This is a rote performance, rehearsed spontaneity. This is no longer a man who drinks in the world, but one who shuts it out. His eyes look not outwards but inwards. And they look sad.

I wonder if perhaps Philip fucks his students not because they worship him, but because they don’t really see him at all.

The camera is a machine for trapping time. Flypaper for moments of truth.

This part of Philip’s lecture is new. And there is something in his voice now. An echo of the man who said, “Follow me,” and kept me constantly in his wake.

Each photograph, Philip says, is a time capsule. A message in a bottle.

He is looking directly at me now and doing it so obviously that heads are turning towards me to see the object of his attention.

The message you send is up to you. It could be sex…

A picture of me, the first picture he ever took, appears behind him. Some students make the connection and look back at me.

It could be death…

A rapid sequence of pictures from the crash, all shown with merciful brevity.

Or it could be hope.

The last picture is of me. It has been taken very recently. I am asleep, alone in our big bed, hugging a pillow. I look every year of my age.

Everyone is looking at us now, their eyes going from Philip to me and back again. Philip is looking straight at me, apparently oblivious to the rest of the audience that he is addressing.

But remember one thing, it is not the message you send that counts, it is the message that is received. Photographs are like memories, they mean nothing unless they are shared.

The room bursts into applause. I try hard not to cry and don’t quite succeed. Philip stands still, waiting.

I walk down the steps of the auditorium to meet him. When I am close enough for only him to hear I hold out my hand and say, “Follow me.”

And he does.

© Mike Kimera 2001 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from

A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.

Happy Hour

Somehow the word “Happy” in the title of any of my stories always seems to be followed by a story that is filled with regret. This story is packed with a lot of emotion, expressed in a very British way.

The story is not autobiographical (the female point of view probably gave that away) but I’ve based it on the English middle-class people that I met while working for a while in the City of London.

It appears in the “With This Ring” section because both of the characters are married – just not to each other.

There are some places where no one speaks. For us, this room has always been such a place. This is where we fuck. We groan and growl, sometimes even scream, but we don’t speak.

The room is the perfect setting for us: discrete, elegant, functional, impersonal.

Normally I don’t pay much attention to the room, I’m not here for the ambience, but today I am early and a little unsettled so it pricks at my awareness, like a long-present smell, finally identified.

This room smells of money and sex but not of affection.

The room is taller than it is long; its high walls are painted white, contrasting with the duck-egg blue of the ceiling. The original coving is still in place, separating walls from ceiling with a boundary of decadently ripe plaster grapes, arranged in phallic clusters.

Last time, as I lay on my back, legs spread to accommodate Gerald’s pounding need, I looked at these grapes, all shape and no flavour, and felt that they were a warning or perhaps a reproach.

The floor is polished wood, its severity mitigated only by an antique Berber rug.  I wonder how many other women have sweated and moaned their way to slick release upon the tightly woven beauty of this rug? In the beginning I thought it a magic carpet, carrying me to new heights; I rode it while Gerald rode me. Now I realise that both Gerald and I have been abducted by some poltergeist of lust. We are now so high we can find no way to reach the ground.

The room has a single huge Georgian sash window looking out over a quiet Kensington street. The fireplace is cast-iron, Victorian probably, with an ornate marble surround. I have never seen moonlight through this window or felt heat from coals in that grate.

Gerald and I come here only for our Thursday night “happy hour”. An after work fuckbreak before we return to our families. We are both, of course, happily married. Gerald has two children, with a third on the way. I went to school with his wife, Sophie. I’m the godmother of their second child. Gerald loves Sophie. I know he will never leave her, I also know she will never excite him the way that I do. Never.

The room is dominated by 6ft bed from the Iron Bed Company. The linen is plain and white. The pillows are duckdown. The handcuffs attach neatly to the metal trelliswork of the headboard.

I married Tim because he was the nicest man I’d ever met and because he loves me. He still loves me. But he doesn’t make my loins twitch. At school, Sophie and I used to talk about the man we would marry. We both wanted someone who would “make our loins twitch”. By the time I married Tim I’d dismissed this as a girlish notion. I was 24 and while my loins had glowed nicely from time to time, they had never twitched. When I met Gerald for the first time, two days before his wedding, I felt that kick in the cunt, that cord of lust that lacerated my guts and I knew that twitch had always been too mild a word.

The room is lit by dimmable uplighters and a dozen church candles from Wax Lyrical. We need the lights because we always close the shutters before we fuck.

Gerald and I lasted for three years without fucking each other. We started four months ago. Perhaps it was Sophie’s pregnancy that tipped the balance, or the fact that we both work in the City now, or just that we ran out of reasons to say no. We met in a wine bar in Bishopsgate one night after work. Just to catch up. Just to touch base. Just because we couldn’t NOT meet. Gerald looked nervous and excited. I wondered if he might, at last, touch me. I knew that I would be helpless under his touch. I would do anything, anywhere, to feel his skin against mine.

“Do you ever think of me when you fuck Tim?” Gerald asked.

We’d never discussed sex. Not with words. Just with every movement and every glance and every touch avoided.

I felt my face flame but I looked at him and said, “I close my eyes so that I can imagine it’s you inside me.”

“I have a place,” Gerald said. “In Kensington.  Sophie doesn’t know it exists. We could go there. If we wanted to.”

The first time we didn’t make it to the bed, or the rug. He used his silk tie to bind my hands, pushed me up against the front door with my back to him, placed my bound hands over the coat hook, and fucked me. It wasn’t gentle. It never is.

The rest of the week we are both civilised people leading normal, even happy, lives. When we come here, on Thursday nights, we combust. I have done things, we have done things, I had never even dreamed of. Each week we seem to become more frantic. I think, perhaps, that is another reason why we don’t speak; we don’t want to give words to our fear or voice to the insanity that drives us.

This thing we have, whatever it is, is not friendship or love. It doesn’t make us stronger or better. It consumes us. We are burning in each others arms.

I hope that when the fire goes out we will not be hollow.

It is just before 6pm. I can hear Gerald’s key in the lock. He is always punctual. I am kneeling on the rug, waiting for him, when the door opens.

© Mike Kimera 2000 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from

A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.

Deserving Ruth

“Deserving Ruth” is a story I’m proud of.

It has a lot of sex scenes in it for a short story and gets into territory that would normally be the heart of porn but it isn’t really about sex. It’s about guilt and betrayal and the possibility of redemption.

This is the story I point to when someone asks me the difference between porn and erotica. If this was porn, the first thing you would remember would be whichever scene aroused you the most. What makes this erotica is that. when the arousal has ebbed, what youou will remember is the people

This story appeared in Maxim Jakobowski’s “Best New Erotica 3“.

“My wife says you like to come in her mouth, David.”

We are only one drink in to the evening and this isn’t the conversational opener I’d expected. I nurse my bottle of Bud and say nothing.

Lars puts his arm around my shoulders, leans his head down towards mine and says, “Mei Mei does have a talented tongue, but I always wonder about a man who is able to resist her tight little cunt. There’s something about the grip of a wet cunt on your cock that a mouth just can’t match, don’t you think?”

I am very aware of the heat of Lars’ body next to mine. He is dressed in Levis and tight fitting black t-shirt and he looks like six foot four of pure muscle. For a moment it occurs to me that he could snap my neck without breaking sweat, but he is smiling and from the tone of his voice we could be talking about cars or sports.

I glance over at Mei Mei. She looks small next to my wife, Ruth. They both have the same long black hair and have conspired to wear matching outfits, black silk shirt-dresses that stop inches above the knee and tie with a simple belt at the waist. Their makeshift uniforms emphasise how different they are. Ruth has a strong Slavic look; her breasts and hips seem almost swollen and over-ripe compared to Mei Mei’s compact Malaysian frame. The two of them are talking animatedly, leaning forward, their faces almost touching. Ruth’s hand rests on Mei Mei’s knee, her fingers pointing along the line of her thigh. Sexual intent seems to flash between them.

“Ruth has nice breasts, David,” Lars says, “You must enjoy pressing her tits together and pushing your cock between them.”

I feel the beginnings of an erection and I wish Lars would take his arm off my shoulders. I have never fucked Ruth’s tits, she has never let me, but I have often wondered what it would be like.

I continue looking at the women to give myself time to decide how to get Lars to move his arm without causing offence. After all, this is his house and I was brought up not to insult my host.

Ruth’s hand is now out of sight, underneath Mei Mei’s dress. Mei Mei leans forward and pushes her tongue into Ruth’s mouth. There is something staged about the kiss. The tongues are too visible. I know that, out of the side of their eyes, they are looking at Lars and me, putting on a show for us.

Ruth is in charge of course. Ruth is always in charge. She was the one who brought Mei Mei into our bed. She told me that they met at one of those Manchester Sauna clubs that doubles as a swingers swap centre. Mei Mei was new and all the men had been trying to get her attention. Ruth pushed them aside, pulled Mei Mei’s head back by the hair and then kissed her. Mei Mei kissed back and opened her legs slightly. Ruth said that Mei Mei was so wet she could have slid her whole fist into her cunt. As it was, pushing two fingers in was enough to cause general applause from the watching men.

Normally Ruth doesn’t involve me in her promiscuous adventures, but she always tells me about them. She wants me to know the lengths that she goes to to find satisfaction.

Ruth has a set routine. Whenever she gets really horny she goes to the club and fucks. Then she comes back and tells me all about it. She makes me sit in the living room with the palms of my hands on the arm of the chair. If I move my hands she will walk out of the room and not tell me anything more. If I stay still, she will talk me through every detail, all the while coaxing my cock to get harder and harder. Then she’ll let me be her last fuck of the day.

I was in the chair, being told about the Malaysian girl who had nipples like rivets and hair like silk and I was getting nicely stiff when Ruth said, “You’ll love her mouth on your cock. She’ll swallow you whole.”

This was a departure from the routine. I was still trying to decide what to make of it when Ruth said, “You can come in now.”

Mei Mei came out of our bedroom. She was naked. She didn’t look at me, only at Ruth. Her look was full of longing.

“I told her she could only lick my cunt once her mouth was filled with your cum,” Ruth said, as if she was describing some every day instruction.

I said nothing. speech was beyond me. Mei Mei knelt and looked up at Ruth.

“Keep your mouth open and your tongue out,” Ruth said.

Ruth began to work my cock with her fingers. Her grip was strong enough to hurt. She was interested in results, not finesse. She took care to rub my glands against the tip of Mei Mei’s tongue from time to time. When she felt that I was ready to come she pushed Mei Mei’s head forward so that I was in her mouth when the cum pulsed out of me.

“Don’t swallow that,” Ruth said.

Mei Mei opened wide, letting my limp cock slip out, and showed Ruth the cum she held in her mouth.

Ruth sat on my lap with her back to me, her legs spread on either side of my knees.

“Show me how deep you can push that cum inside me,” Ruth said.

As Mei Mei worked with her tongue, Ruth gave me a running commentary on her performance. She told me that Mei Mei was a much better cunt licker than me and said that she must have had a lot of practice.

The narration became more and more breathless as Mei Mei buried her head between Ruth’s legs. When Ruth came her whole body tensed against mine. I was hard again by now, my cock rolling around under Ruth and close to Mei Mei’s mouth. I wanted to be inside one of them.

Ruth climbed off me. She pulled Mei Mei to her feet and hugged her.

“I’m taking Mei Mei to bed to reward her for her hard work,” Ruth said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

This was outrageous behaviour, even by Ruth’s standards. I should have complained. I should have demanded to join them. I should have pushed Ruth to the floor and fucked her into submission. I just sat there looking stupid, my unwanted erection signalling my uselessness.

As they reached the bedroom door I heard myself say, “Please.”

It sounded sad and pathetic even to me.

“Shall we let him watch, Mei Mei?” Ruth asked.

“I would like to see him inside you,” Mei Mei said.

It was the first time I had heard her speak. Her voice was soft and gentle. It made me want to smile.

“Come along, David,” Ruth said, “if you are still hard after I’ve rewarded Mei Mei I will let you be my last fuck of the day.”

I went to her like a recently scolded puppy being offered a bone.

Ruth placed Mei Mei’s hand around my cock.

“Hold on to that for me, Mei Mei. Don’t let him come.”

Mei Mei smiled encouragingly and then she closed her fingers around me as if she was grasping a luggage handle. We made an absurd chain of need as Ruth led Mei Mei into the room by the hand and I was pulled along behind them.

Ruth arranged us both on the bed, side by side. Mei Mei kept her finger and thumb around the base of my cock. Her arm was a line of heat across my belly.

“Watch and learn how to please a woman, David,” Ruth said.

Ruth leant over Mei Mei, her knee between Mei Mei’s legs, and tilted her long black hair until it stroked Mei Mei’s breasts and belly. It was the only part of her touching Mei Mei. Slowly Ruth increased the speed at which her hair moved across Mei Mei’s flesh until she was tossing her head from side to side and almost whipping Mei Mei with her mane.

I hadn’t realised how hard Mei Mei had been gripping me until Ruth finally held her head still and Mei Mei sighed and relaxed her hand a little. Mei Mei’s nipples were hard and her eyes were closed.

Looking at me, Ruth lowered her face towards Mei Mei and kissed her on the forehead. She stroked Mei Mei’s face with the tips of her fingers, brushing her lips with her thumb. Mei Mei suckled it slowly, gratefully.

Ruth withdrew her thumb and used it to trace a wet trail between Mei Mei’s breasts and down over her belly. Mei Mei closed the rest of her fingers around my cock and seemed to hold her breath. Ruth let the moment of silent stillness grow until it was almost unbearable and then she finally took Mei Mei. Her tongue pushed its way into Mei Mei’s mouth at the same time that two of her fingers entered her cunt. Mei Mei’s back arched.

Ruth rested most of her weight on the hand that gripped Mei Mei’s sex. I could see the how she used her thumb to circle Mei Mei’s clit as she worked two and then three fingers in and out, spreading Mei Mei wide and seeming to try and scoop the juices out of her.

I wanted to move but I didn’t dare. I could smell Mei Mei’s sex, see the sweat forming on her brow. Precum started to seep from my cock. I did my best to hold back.

Ruth was in rut mode now. She had trapped Mei Mei’s thigh between her own and was working herself against it, all the time staring at Mei Mei and muttering, “Come for momma baby, come for momma”.

Then, like a bird of prey, she descended upon Mei Mei’s right nipple and savaged it between her teeth. Mei Mei’s grip on my cock was so tight it was painful. She was groaning and raising one shoulder off the bed like a wrestler resisting being pinned. Ruth’s palm was slapping against Mei Mei’s mound almost fast enough to be applause.

Mei Mei let out a long soft sigh, her body went limp and she lay there as still as the dead. Ruth stopped and looked at her, more with curiosity than fear. “Well well, a come coma. I haven’t seen one of those up close before,” she said.

Mei Mei’s eyes fluttered open. She let go of my cock for the first time since all this began and gently held Ruth’s face.

“Thank you,” she said, kissing Ruth on the lips. “Thank you.”

Even Ruth showed some emotion at Mei Mei’s gratitude; she smiled at her and ruffled her hair.

When Ruth made to get off the bed, Mei Mei said, “Wait! Please. I want to see him inside of you. Please. I want to do something special.”

Ruth looked as if she’d forgotten I was there.

“Ok,” Ruth said, “it looks like you’ve kept him harder than usual and I’d like to find out what special means, let’s do it – or should I say him?”

Mei Mei kissed me quickly on the cheek and said, “Don’t worry, you’ll like this.” Then she scrambled down the bed until she was facing my cock, her body pressed into my side.

“I’m going to help him fuck you,” she said, sounding delighted with herself.

She pressed the index and second fingers of her left hand along the underside of my cock, so that the tips of the fingers were pushing up into the soft crown of the head and my balls were cupped in her palm.

“Please, lower yourself on to us.” Mei Mei said.

“That’s going to be a tight squeeze. I mean, I know he’s only average size but will you both fit?”

“Please,” Mei Mei said.

Very slowly, Ruth lowered herself onto me. Mei Mei’s fingers were small but the extra width they generated made Ruth a very tight fit.

“Oh fuck,” Ruth said, “that’s what a cock should feel like.”

Mei Mei grinned, gave Ruth a quick kiss on the clit and said, “You’ll like the next part.”

Mei Mei used her fingers to roll the head of my cock against Ruth’s G-spot. The sensation was intense and I wanted to come at once. I also wanted this to go on forever.

Ruth was biting her lip and pulling at her nipples, eyes closed in concentration. She looked magnificent.

I couldn’t hold out any longer. Sperm started a rush from my balls and up my cock, a huge wave of energy battering through me.

Mei Mei took my release as the cue for her coupe de grace. She sucked Ruth’s clit into her mouth and started to worry it like a dog with a rabbit. I’d never felt Ruth contract so much or so often. She was so far gone that she bit her lip. A narrow ribbon of scarlet traced its way over the edge of her chin.

Mei Mei withdrew her hand and Ruth’s cunt suddenly felt cavernous around my shrinking cock. She positioned herself behind Ruth, her arms under Ruth’s armpits, her hands on Ruth’s breasts and kissed her wounded lip. She eased Ruth off me and laid her on the bed, stroking her head until Ruth slipped into sleep.

“I have to go now,” Mei Mei said.

She reached for her clothes, which lay on the chair next to the bed. By the time she had slipped into her skirt and t-shirt, I was standing next to the bed; still a little dazed by the way I’d spent the afternoon.

Mei Mei stretched up and kissed me on the cheek. “Thanks, David. Tell Ruth I’ll call her. You were both wonderful.” She waved as she went out the door. Standing naked, spent and confused I waved back, trying for a smile.

Ruth slept for twenty minutes. I covered her with a duvet. I knew I should have been angry with her, she’d treated me very badly, but I also knew that I deserved it.

We’d really loved one another once. Then, two years ago, I spoiled things. I had an affair, less than an affair, a one-night stand with an old friend I’d met by chance. I didn’t think to use a condom. I never imagined that I might pass on a disease to Ruth that would rob her of the child she had always wanted and rob me of my wife’s affection.

In Ruth’s eyes I had rejected her as lover and destroyed her as a mother with the one act of betrayal. Her promiscuity started as a means of punishing me. Now I’m not sure what drives her to it. We’ve made an accommodation of sorts, people always do, but there is an undercurrent of regret and anger and guilt that could sweep us away at any time.

“I don’t know what you’re looking so glum about.” Ruth said, when she woke. “You just got your rocks off twice in one night. That must be some kind of record for you. I’m going to get a shower. Then I’m going to sleep.”

I knew what that meant. I made my way to the guest bedroom. Laying there, replaying the sex in my head, I wondered what it was that Ruth really wanted and whether or not she’d found it.

Mei Mei didn’t come back to the house again, but I knew that Ruth had stayed at her house at least three times over the next two weeks. Ruth didn’t share the details with me. She seemed a bit distracted. Her smile was brittle and she was drinking more than usual. I avoided asking questions. I’d long ago lost the right to hold Ruth to account.

Then this morning, the pattern changed. Ruth couldn’t quite hide the tension in her voice when she said, “We’re going to Mei Mei’s house tonight. It will be a lot of fun.”

Even staying quiet doesn’t always keep me out of trouble. Ruth stepped close to me and said, “I’m sick of your wimpy silences David. You should be glad I’m including you. I hope that, for once, I can depend on you to behave properly. Do you understand?”

I nodded my head and she pushed me up against the wall and kissed me. It was a wild kiss, almost a bite.  When it was over she said, “Don’t let me down, David. Not again.”

So now I’m standing way too close to a large Swedish guy and watching my wife undo the buttons on Mei Mei’s dress. I should be having a good time but I feel like an impostor in their company. I’m the sort of guy who reads CD titles in the kitchen at parties. I’ve never felt comfortable hanging out with the cool kids.

Lars lifts his arm off my shoulders, but things get worse when he taps my bum and says, “Let’s get out of these clothes and show the girls why a woman needs a man like a fish needs water.”

The “girls” stop fondling each other and watch Lars as he pulls off his t-shirt. His chest is completely smooth, he has a six-pack stomach and oh my god he has nipple rings. That’s enough to make my balls retract. I hate the idea of being pierced.

I’m still unbuttoning my shirt when Lars climbs out of his jeans. I don’t want to look at his cock but I can’t help it. He’s not erect yet but it’s already clear that he’s longer and thicker than I am. And the bloody man shaves his pubes. Even on his balls.

I stop getting undressed. I’m not at all sure I want to be here.

Lars pulls the foreskin back on his cock. His fist is wrapped around it below the head but there’s plenty of meat still visible.

“OK, who’d like first lick?”

Something in the way he says that makes me certain that I’m included in the invitation. He grins at me. I look away. I’m relieved when he walks towards Ruth and Mei Mei, his cock bouncing ludicrously in front of him.

“Into position girls. You know what I want.”

The women have slipped out of their dresses. Mei Mei kneels on the sofa. In a move that looks practised, Ruth sits astride Mei Mei’s thighs, facing her and then lays back with her head over the edge of the sofa. Mei Mei lifts Ruth’s legs so that Ruth can hook her knees over Mei Mei’s shoulders. With a smile, Mei Mei lowers her head and starts to lap gently at Ruth’s sex.

“Don’t they make a pretty picture, David?” Lars says. “Push your tits together Ruth, and let’s show David the new tricks you’ve learned.”

I’ve already realised that they’ve fucked before. This is where Ruth has been spending her time.

Ruth’s eyes are on me as Lars straddles her. He pushes his obscenely large cock between her breasts and she presses them tightly together for him. Then, slowly and deliberately she lifts her head, extends her tongue and starts to lick his arsehole.

I can’t read the expression in her eyes. It’s not pleasure, or fear. It looks more like resignation.

“You know, David, it’s impolite to fuck a man’s wife without asking his permission.” As he speaks, Lars is pushing backwards and forwards between Ruth’s breasts. Ruth is doing her best to find his anus or his balls with her tongue.

“So I decided to show Ruth how a real man fucks. Seems like she hasn’t been fucked properly in a long time. In fact, when we met, I don’t think she’d ever had it up the arse at all.”

I move closer to them, not sure what to do next. I’m trying to figure out what Ruth wants. I’ve been trying to figure out what Ruth wants ever since I betrayed her.

“Did you know that Ruth is good at deep throating? Well I guess in your case it wouldn’t really be that deep would it?”

Lars steps back a little. Ruth lies with her throat in a straight line, her eyes on me, her mouth wide open. Lars grunts as he slides his cock into her throat. He does it four or five times. Ruth really can take all of him. She doesn’t gag but her eyes seem moist. I don’t know if this is an involuntary reaction or an emotional one.

Mei Mei has stopped licking Ruth now. She is looking at me. She seems sad.

“Get ready for it baby,” Lars says. He is out of Ruth’s throat now, fiercely stroking himself in front of her face. Ready to spray all over her, like a dog marking territory.

I am still holding my half empty bottle of Bud. It doesn’t break when it hits Lars, but it is very effective at knocking him out.

Mei Mei scrambles to Lars’ aid, pushing Ruth out of her way.

I reach down and help Ruth to her feet. I wrap her dress around her. She is shaking.

“You hit him.”

“Yes, I suppose I did”.

She is under my arm. We are heading for the door.

“You might have killed him.”


We stop. She looks at me, searching for something in my face that she seems to find.

“Thank you,” she says, and wraps her arms around me.

As I bundle her into the car I let myself hope that I may finally have become someone that Ruth wants.

© Mike Kimera 2002 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from

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“Those who study revenge keep their own wounds green.” Francis Bacon

This was written as a companion piece to “Happy Anniversary”. It seems to me that women always know, on some level, when a man betrays them. I wondered what the wife of “Happy Anniversary”‘s main character might allow herself to do after learning to live with long term betrayal. This story was the result.
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Happy Anniversary

“All a man can betray is his conscience.” Joseph Conrad

This is one of those stories I keep coming back to as a warning to myself. This is the man I never want to become. It is not in the least autobiographical but I am left wondering if it is possible to conceive of such a man without having at least some small similarity to him. I’d love to know what you think of this one.
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