Pillow Talk

Pillow Talk

© 2000 Mike Kimera  Do not reproduce without permission mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

“When you tell yourself the story of your life, is it a book or a movie?”

No fair. How am I supposed to concentrate on questions like that just after I’ve come? I want to lie back and enjoy the warm glow; maybe nap a little. Of course, with Helena, that is out of the question. She is resting her head on my belly, apparently fascinated by my now limp and sated cock, which she is playing with like a bendy toy.

“Huh?” I answer, displaying my Cambridge education to the full.

“Are you a ‘I was born on a dark and stormy night’ sort of guy?” she says, moving her head further down my belly.

“You know, linear memories bound by the three unities of time space and action.” As she names each unity her finger and thumb test the degree of elasticity of my foreskin by way of emphasis.

“Or do you visualise your life in flashbacks, freeze-frames and fantasy sequences?”  Helena lets the back of my cock rest on her cheek as she laves my post-coital stickiness with her tongue.

“Er, I don’t know” I say, completely distracted.

“How…” a pause while she sucks most of my, now rather less limp, cock into her mouth. She turns her head to face me, nimbly avoiding twisting my flesh beyond return despite the continuous suction. Looking me in the eyes, she pulls me from her mouth, as if removing a lollipop, in order to speak, “…can you not know?”

One elbow is now between my legs.  Resting her chin on her hand, she places the tip of my penis on her large closed lips and raised one eyebrow in playful interrogation.

Enough. I am awake now and I’m not going to take this lying down; I need to be kneeling. But Helena has me in the palm of her hand. Before I can act I have to find a way to make her let go.

In her progress down my belly, Helena has insinuated her body closer to mine.  Her breasts are pressed against my thigh. Her hips are flat to the bed with one thigh snuggled in to my ribs. Her legs are parted just enough to display my cum oozing out of her. I know an invitation when I see one.

“Well books are difficult.” I say. Her eyes watch my hand rest on her buttock then caress the curved edge, fingers gently moving slowly into the dark recess. She slides her tongue under the length of my cock and presses her thigh closer to me.

“You find them inherently problematic?” she asks, as if we were discussing this in a seminar group.

The palm of my hand is now on her inner thigh, the fingers placing gentle pressure on soft skin below the labia. She opens her legs further and waits.

“I never know whether to say ‘Mark’s fingers pushed insistently into the cum-slickened centre of Helena’s sex’ or  ‘My fingers and thumb clamp on to your pubis from inside and out, the fingers buried in your warm wet folds, the thumb torturing the erect nub of your sex’ Tense is so important. Point of view is critical. Don’t you agree?”

“Oh yes” Helena says, releasing my cock and rolling on to her back. “From my point of view it is vital to find the perfect tense.”

I bend both fingers inside her, exploring the ridged flesh, relishing the touch of her muscles, eager and enticing. Trying not to break my rhythm, I move around the anchor of my hand until I am kneeling between Helena’s legs.

“Movies can be so much more immediate.” I say. “You know the kind of thing: scene opens with extreme close up, side view, of woman’s slender fingers caressing her own breast. Nipple is very erect. Male mouth lowers. Tongue extends, touches nipple. Low groan (female) is heard. Man’s mouth closes over entire nipple”.

Helena allows me to play director and throws herself into her role with enthusiasm, emit a low throaty sound that stiffens me. We improvise the dialogue-free action scene for a while, my mouth and her breast questing for ways to do something new with form but always returning to the traditional suck and bite formula, cliched yet effective.

Alas a director’s work is never done. My body is telling me that it’s time to move towards the denouement, or do I mean climax?

“Yep. It would have to be a movie.” I say, sitting back on my heels, my hands sliding under Helena’s buttocks.

“I particularly like sequels” I say moving her ass up my thighs and letting her wrap her legs about my waist.

“How’s about ‘American Beauty 2: the second coming’?” Helena suggests “with me covered in rose petals”.

“Sod art” I say, pushing into her.  “Let’s do a porno: ‘Helena takes it all – again’ ”

I bring her legs from behind me to rest on my shoulder, both ankles held in one hand. The serious work is about to begin.

“OK big boy” she laughs “Run VT”.

Lobo’s Choice

Lobo’s Choice

© Mike Kimera 2000
Lobo is the kind of dog that makes you wonder about reincarnation. Sometimes, when I’m feeling low, he looks at me with those wise eyes of his and its like he’s saying “Hush now Laurie. It will pass. Everything will be OK. Trust me I’ve been there.” And you know, I believe him.

When I first met Lobo he was a little black ball of fluff abandoned at the pound. Now he’s a big dog and I mean big. All that long black fur makes him look even bigger. He weighs in at close on 60lb and all of it’s muscle. People look at me and say “Laurie, that dog’s getting bigger than you are girl”.

He’s a good dog though and over the years we’ve learned to trust one another. Lobo will pretty much let me do anything to him.

Anyway, the thing about Lobo is he knows about people. He knows good people from bad people and he’s never been wrong yet. He meets a person for the first time and he just knows.

Me, I never see the bad guy coming til it’s way too late. Got my feelings hurt more times than enough that way. Some guy flashes me a smile and talks real sweet in my ear and the next thing I know I’m in the back of his car leaving footprints on the windows and afterwards he’s just gone with the wind.

Lobo and I have been together for eight years now. That’s longer than any guy has hung around, including my shit-for-brains husband. Lobo didn’t ever like him. I’d have saved myself a barrel full of grief if I’d listened to Lobo instead of marrying a scumbag with a $1,000 smile.

Now the thing is Lobo likes Gus. There’s lots of folks as don’t share Lobo’s opinion. Gus is a difficult man for some people to feel comfortable with. He’s an old style cowboy. A dying breed. He don’t take shit from no one. He knows a fool when he sees one and that doesn’t win him a lot of friends. Folks look at him and see the hair in a ponytail and that big knife that he wears on his belt all the time and they see trouble. Me, I’d see a guy I’d like to know better, maybe much better.

The thing about Gus is that he’s older than me. I’ve never asked him his age but I guess he’s 55 or so. He has a boy in his twenties who left town a while back, just after his mother died. I’m 37, pushing 38 and some folks think he’s too old for me. His face is lined and his hair’s more grey than blond now, but the man has style, you know? He wears tooled cowboy boots that he’s had for years. Wrangler jeans worn to his shape, striped brushpopper shirts and a big red neckerchief that looks real fine next to that blond grey beard of his. He has a black cowboy hat, custom made for him in Durango, with an eagle feather in the band, and he always wears a set of polaroid amber sun-glasses; only thing he wears that would let you know we’re in the 21st century. Gus’s face may be lined now, but a smile still fits it real easy.

So you know how it is, you see someone around and you smile at each other and say hi when you meet and you know there’s some warmth there but there’s nothing to move it on. You could go on like that for years, know what I mean? I guess Gus and I were like that until a few weeks ago. In a way it was Lobo who changed things. If I thought he’d done it deliberately then I’d know he was part human.

My trailer is off the road a piece, at least a mile from my nearest neighbour. I like the quiet. It was Friday evening, one of those summer evenings that goes on til very late. It was hot and dry. I was sitting in the shade outside my trailer, just letting myself mellow out with a cold one, when I Gus showed up on that fine horse of his with Lobo across his saddle.

“Good evening, Laurie” says Gus. Lobo is looking at me kinda embarrassed and making sure I can see the white bandage on his front paw. I’m up out of my chair and rushing towards them.

Gus looks down at me and says. “Now don’t you fret. It’s nothing serious”. He swings himself out of the saddle as if it’s no height at all and then lifts Lobo down. Even while I’m worrying about Lobo, I’m noticing the strength that that takes and thinking about the wiry muscle beneath Gus’s shirt.

As soon as Lobo is on the ground he limps towards me on three legs, his tail wagging and his tongue touching the end of his nose the way it does when he’s apologising for something. I’m kneeling and hugging him and then looking at Gus and saying, “What did the dumb dog do now?”

“Well, it seems he got a bit over enthusiastic chasing prairie dogs over near the ranch and got his paw trapped in some old fencing wire. I’m sorry about that, Laurie, the wire should never have been left there like that. But he’s OK. I gave him a tetanus shot, put some powder on the wound and bound it up to keep it clean. He should be fine by morning.”

When I stand up, with Lobo leaning against my leg, I find that I’m real close to Gus and I’m looking into his face and not finding anything to say. I’m just sort of lost there. I can smell him. He smells of horse and dried sunshine. I want more of that smell.

Gus is smiling at me, waiting for me to say something. Lobo licks my hand and I come round. “Gus that was so kind of you. And bringing him all the way over here like that.”

Oh no problem, Laurie, old Brandy and I both needed a ride tonight and besides, Lobo said I should bring him straight home.”

I laughed and said “Well I’ve always got time for a man as can speak dog. That’s a sign of real ability. Now you take yourself a chair while I get some water for Lobo and couple of cold beers for you and me”.

Well one beer led to another they way they sometimes do when you just don’t want a conversation to end. We talked about people we both knew and movies we liked. Gus liked that movie “8 seconds” about the rodeo, and of course he had all of “Lonesome Dove” on video but what surprised me was that his favourite movie was “Top Gun”. Next thing I know he’s singing that song: you know – “She’s lost that loving feeling” like they do in the movie. He has a fine deep voice and he’s playing it for laughs. So we sing some more movie tunes. Then we play do-you-remember this TV theme tune?

By this time it’s dark and what with the beer and the singing and the laughing I’m dizzy and tired in a happy sort of way. I’m sitting very close to Gus now and suddenly there’s a silence and we’re just looking at each other. Then he kisses me. He’s looking at my mouth and leaning forward slowly, leaving lots of time for me to move away, then his lips are on mine.

Every nerve I have in my body feels those lips brushing against me. His hand comes up to the side of my neck and I lean into him. He doesn’t rush. Kissing for Gus isn’t a step you take on your way to some place else; he savours it. He sucks my lower lip into his mouth and runs his tongue over it and it’s the sexiest thing anyone has ever done with me. Then his whole mouth is on mine, his beard is stroking my face as he moves, and when his tongue pushes into me I moan.

He pulls back for a second, so he can see my eyes. His hand still on my neck, and says “Laurie, darling, I’ve been wanting to do that for the longest time”.

I give him a big grin. I know my nipples, which are standing up and cheering, must be visible through my shirt, but he’s a gentleman and keeps his eyes on mine. I take hold of his hand and move it from my neck to my breast. It’s a hard warm hand and I lean into it. Gus kisses me again but this time his thumb is moving firmly over my nipple and my hands are in his hair.

I break the kiss by standing up. I don’t say anything; I just keep looking at him as I take off my shirt. Now other men might be scrambling out of their jeans by now or trying to pull off mine, but Gus just watches, watches in a way like I’m unwrapping a present. So now I’m just in my shorts.

Normally I’d feel self-conscious but tonight I feel like a goddess in the moonlight. I grin wickedly, and then do that thing you see in the movies, you know where the woman leans forward at the waist and pushes down her shorts at the same time? It looks so sexy when they do it. Maybe it’s the beers or the size of my thighs but I get part way there and lose my balance. Gus leans forwards and catches me and I’m now naked in his lap with my shorts just below my knees.

I’ll never forget what he did next. I wake up in the night dreaming of it. He pulls my head back gently by the hair, making me arch my spine, then, in one movement, his mouth is on my breast, his finger is sliding into me, his thumb is on my button and he’s playing me like I’m a guitar. Man does he know chords. I come howling into the night.

When I return to earth he kisses my mouth and says, “You are one sexy lady, Lauri darlin”.

“Mmmmmm thank you,” I say. I still didn’t know how we got here so fast so I decide to let him lead. He does. He carries me, like I weigh nothing at all, which makes me feel great, over to the sun lounger. He makes me lay back while he pulls off my shorts and panties. Now I’m naked and he’s fully dressed but it feels OK.

“Laurie darlin, you look good enough to eat”, he says; then he shows me he means it.

Now most guys, if you can get them down there at all, don’t really know what they’re doing. They want you to blow them so they lick you first. They’ve seen it in all those porno movies. But they don’t touch the right places in the right way. They fumble and nip or just press too hard. Some of them are so far off target you want to draw them a map. Gus didn’t need a map. He knew the territory well and he knew how to travel it. Soon my hand is on his head and my hips are bucking. My god I’ve come for the second time and I haven’t even unzipped the man yet.

“Gus” I say, “it’s my turn. Get yourself out of those jeans”.

“Yes Maam” he says, laughing.

I can’t take my eyes off his cock. A man his age you have to wonder if it’s all that it once was you know? But Gus is standing proud and I want him. His skin there feels smooth and hot. I kneel in front of him and kiss the underside, just above his balls.

“Laurie, you do much more of that and I won’t be accountable for the outcome,” Gus says; but he doesn’t move.

I work the flat of my tongue up his shaft then take the head quickly in my mouth. God he feels good.

Standing up I signal for him to lie on the lounger. Now I’m not as limber as I was but this I know how to do. I squat over him and feed him inside of me. I love this part: the heat, the slow slide in, the sense of being filled, the look of surprise when my muscles kick in. I bend over him like a jockey and we start to gallop. I am so wet I have to concentrate to keep him inside me. I’m talking now, little phrases of encouragement, urging him on like a horse in a race. It turns out to be a long race. I’m covered in sweat and my legs are trembling, then Gus lets out this kinda growl, I sink to the base of his cock and stay there while he comes inside me. I love that feeling.

Afterwards, with a blanket around us and Lobo at our feet, I say, “Are we going to be OK, Gus?”

Gus kisses the top of my head and hugs me. “Laurie darlin, you worry too much. We’re gonna be just fine”.

Turning “Once Upon A Time” into “Every Time Until One Of Us Dies”

and they lived happily ever after.”

Those words at the end of a story always sounded like a blessing to me as a child. I would repeat them out loud, like a spell or a chant.

But I wasn’t interested in how the “ever after” worked. I never gave it a thought. Winning the right to the ever after was much more important than how you lived it.

Happily ever after was a blessing, not a prophecy. It was meant to mark the fact that love, true love, heart-stopping, once-in-a-life-time, struck-by-lightning love, had triumphed despite all that fate and circumstance could throw at it. It is this transcendent moment of blissful fruition that is meant to last for ever after in our hearts.

In my view, a Romance novel that doesn’t deliver that transcendent moment short changes the reader in the same way that a country house murder mystery would if the no one found out who the killer was.

If I read a novel that declares itself to be a Romance with a capital R, I expect to be taken on a very specific journey. I want the novel to be a cathartic experience. It should have at least two people that I care about and who deserve something more and better than a life of shallow compromise, or corrosive loneliness, or bitter regret. It should subject them to the misunderstandings, injustices, social constraints, fears, small acts of malice and major misfortunes that regularly rob us of our happiness, and it should allow the two central characters to recognise and act upon the fact that their happiness depends upon their potentail to offer each other love, make each other complete, become together something greater and more wonderful than they could ever be apart.

I know that real life isn’t like this. Romance isn’t about real life, it’s about the everyday magic that love can work, it’s about the world as we would like it to be, it’s about our dreams coming true.

The purpose of Romance is to transcend real life – that is why it needs to have that “Happy Ever After” ending.

I enjoy reading romances but I am not temperamentally suited to writing them.

In my day to day life, I am deeply distrustful of glamour and charisma, both of which seem to me to be a form of deception.

I am sceptical of the honesty or self-knowledge of men who claim to love at first sight; I cannot imagine what such love is built on other than a hormonal surge or conditioned response that is bound to fade with time. How can they love a woman they do not know? What is such a love worth?

I doubt the sincerity of the big romantic gestures. They seem to me to be chat-up lines with extended choreography, self-aggrandizing clichés that spring not from love or from a deep knowledge of the woman’s needs but from the man’s desire to be attractive to a woman he wants to fuck.

As you can imagine, this makes it hard for me to write the male romantic lead.

While Romance may be beyond me, I do frequently find myself writing about love. Love is something we do not choose and cannot control. Love can be a source of happiness or despair, of selflessness or jealousy, love can change who we are.

Ironicly, it seems to me that a relationship built on the props of Romance is unlikely to survive the move from “once upon a time” to “every time until one of us dies” while real love at least has a chance of growing strong enough to create a happy ever after.

Perhaps because I write about love, it turns out that I have written a story that describes a Happy Ever After. I’ve attached it below. You can decide for yourselves whether any romance is involved.

“The Last Taboo”

(c) 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.


This is an updated version of  story that came to me after a long drive through Wyoming. My wife and I  fell in love with the place and the people. It’s a humorous little fantasy.

I hope you enjoy it.


(C) Mike Kimera 2010 All rights reserved.


Wyoming. Nothing much ever happens in Wyoming. What kind of state doesn’t even have a baseball team?

I was headed for California and a new job in construction. Wyoming was just a State I wanted to get through as quickly as possible.

Maybe that’s why I was doing  90mph. Have you seen the long straight roads they have there? You can drive for an hour off the highway and not see another car.

My mind was filled with thoughts of what I’d do when I got to California. I hadn’t had a fuck in three days and my cock got hard as I pictured the bikini-clad girls roller-blading into my life.

I didn’t see the copcar ‘til its blues went on. Shit! I couldn’t afford a fine.

I pulled over and waited for Cowboycop to mosey on over and tell me how fast I’d been going and how much it was gonna cost me.

The sun was in my eyes when I looked in the mirror. Man this cop was small for a cowboy.

It was the hat and the uniform that mislead me. I was looking at a coplet. A really hot coplet.

As she came up to the window I realised she was about 5’ and weighed no more than 85lbs. Thick dark hair held up in a french braid. Slight build, small breasts and god what a tight tempting ass in those trooper pants.

She bent towards the car window and I saw a set of bright pink Cupid-shaped lips beneath the reflective sunglasses staring blankly back at me.

She was not smiling.

Suddenly I wished I’d shaved. I expected “License and registration.”  I got “Get out of the car please sir.”

I hesitated. She stepped back, right hand resting in a relaxed but threatening way on her gun.

“Now sir”. She said…


Wyoming. Why did I ever move here? After I passed the exams I could have been a peace-officer in some nice little town with a beach.

But I had to follow pretty-boy Luke.

God he made me wet when I first saw him.

I was at the Rodeo in Moab. I’m a sucker for watching Old Glory riding out on a white horse, flanked on either side by the flags of the King of Beers and the Real Thing. This was the America my parents had moved from Mexico to find before I was born.

Luke was a young god on a wild horse. Tall, slim, hard muscles and an easy smile. Bright blue eyes that shone from a dark tanned face. And a butt to die for.

He fell off his horse in front on me. I was in cowboy boots, short shorts, crop top and straw cowboy hat. As he stood up dusting himself off his eyes moved methodically up my body and his grin widened.

The fucking started right there really ‘tho it took us another hour to get back to his motel.

That first fuck was wild. He picked me up, put me on his cock and literally rode me round the room. I was shouting “Yea Hah” so hard the neighbours complained. I came with a rush and he was still hard. He stayed that way for an hour. I was in heaven. I knew he was training me like a bronco;  riding me ‘til I got tired but I figured the ride was worth it.

When I couldn’t move any more, I lay my head on his hard stomach and sucked his cock like a baby on the tit. He came in my mouth, great spurts of cum pumping into me, his hand resting on my head as if he was patting a favourite dog.

“Thanks baby” he said and fell asleep.

In the morning I woke up to find him already eating me. He lifted his head, flashed his blue-eyed smile and said “Morning baby, I’m Luke– wanna tell me your name?”

The morning disappeared in grunts and groans and slipping and sliding and licking and biting. This time he came deep in my ass and I was the one who fell asleep.

When I woke there was a note: “Hey Maria, we make a great team. Wanna give it a try for a while? Meet me in Cody next Friday”

I read the address. “Cody? Isn’t that in Wyoming?” I thought,

So here I am, twelve months later, a highway cop in Wyoming.  I’m also a Rodeo widow.

“You wouldn’t like it on the road ,baby. Besides,  you have a job here.” he says with his famous smile.

“And besides, you have a girl in every town” I thought.

But then he always comes back to me. Yea hah.

Sitting in the cruiser, waiting for nothing much, I’m thinking how long it’s been since we really fucked. Luke’s been away for two weeks now and my magic wand is starting to pall. Yesterday I found an unwashed shirt of his in the back of the wardrobe and took it to bed with me just to have that man smell in my nose.

“Holy shit what’s his hurry?”

A beat up Ford has just shot past at way over the limit. And me in plain sight.

“You’re going down boy – you’ve just insulted a sexually frustrated cop with nothing better to do than chew on your ass.”

Christ, now I was talking to myself.

I set off after him, flipped on the blues and he pulled over. He was watching me in his rearview. Could be dangerous. My heart always beats harder at this point.

I give him my stony faced look. Wonder what he’ll make of the non-regulation lipstick?

Then I get a surprise. He’s a looker. Kinda Hugh Jackman thing going on: designer stubble with blue-collar cool. Bet he’s good with his hands.

What am I thinking?

Actually I know exactly what I’m thinking, I just don’t want him to know it.

I over compensate. Instead of “license and registration” I say “Get out of the car please sir.”

He’s looking at me strangely. I step back, right hand resting on my gun and say  “Now sir”…


I’ve always had a thing about women in uniform and this woman was pressing all my buttons. I loved that she was so small and looked so tough. And those pink lips had to mean something. I was already imagining the streaks of lipstick she’d leave on my cock as she sucked it.

This was not good for my peace of mind. My cock which had been hard at the thought of rollerblading california girls was positively rigid with excitement at the sight of this coplet.

How was I going to get out of the car without her noticing?

Maybe she was gay and wouldn’t care. Maybe she was a militant feminist and would shoot my balls off for disrespecting her by getting hard in her presence.

I got out of the car. She watched me closely, probably waiting for me to make some kind of move. I couldn’t tell where her eyes were looking through her sunglasses but it seemed to me that she looked at my crotch with more than a casual glance, but her facial expression didn’t even flicker.

I’m 6’3’’ in my barefeet and as I stood up I towered over the coplet, but she was still being tough.

“Assume the position, big boy,” she said.

I turned around and put my hands flat on the car roof and spread my legs. She kicked them slightly further apart and knocked me off balance a little while she frisked me. She stretched as she reached up to my shoulders.

I could feel her like a wall of heat behind me. Briefly I felt her breasts against my back. My cock was so swollen it hurt. Did I feel her nipples or were they the buttons on her shirt?

Now she was patting down my jeans. Her right hand touched my cock. It seemed to slide along the shaft from tip to base but so quickly it was gone before I had time to react. Was she touching me up? I thought about her lipstick, and her lips. I knew there was now a little stain of pre-cum on my jeans.

“Turn around slowly and keep you hands behind hour head” she said.


As he stepped out of the car it was lust at first sight.

Sometimes I just lose it. The civilised, law-enforcing, part of me switches off and the hindbrain takes over. This man had a hotline to my ovaries. My whole body was screaming Fuck him Fuck him now. Take his eed. We need it.

The first time this had happened to me I was nineteen and on my way home for Thanksgiving. I picked up the wrong bag at the bus station. I went to return the bag and found that the guy who owned it had taken mine and gone to his hotel. Boy was I pissed. I would miss my bus and my Mom’s painstakingly authentic American Thanskgiving dinner. I stormed up to the guy’s hotel room and pounded on the door.

He’d just showered. I think it was the way his thick black hair curled on his neck that did it. He was early twenties, tall, dark, six-pack belly of the truly self obsessed. Once our eyes met the rest was inevitable. Three days without leaving the hotel room. Room-service Thanksgiving dinner. I had lots to give thanks for.

I told my folks I got snowed in and couldn’t move. In a way it was true.

Then suddenly I woke up and thought, “who is this guy?” and I was released. The lust demon had crawled back into her cave and I had my life back. I left without a backward glance.

Now it was happening again.

I tried to stay professional but even as I started to frisk him I knew that his gun wasn’t the weapon I was looking for.

His shoulders were broad and his back was hard and lean. He smelled of clean sweat. I love that smell.

In reaching up for his shoulders I leant forward a little more than I needed to. My breasts brushed against his back. Actually my nipples grazed his back. They were stiff and trying to point me in the right direction.

My hands moved down to his hips. I touched his cock. I never touch their cocks. My hand was following instructions of its own and quickly but thoroughly traced the long hard length of it.

I realised I was holding my breath and biting my tongue.

Shit what was this guy going to think?

What was I thinking?

I was thinking how good that cock would feel moving inside me. I was imagining his hard hands on my breasts squeezing and pulling. I was going out of my mind.

There was no other choice; I had to get fucked.

I liked the idea. I hoped he did.

I needed to control this. Make sure I stayed on top.

FLASH IMAGE: me rocking back and forth on his meat, burying my fingernails in his chest hair.

Shit girl, get a grip.

‘”Turn around slowly and keep you hands behind your head,” I said.

He turned slowly, his eyes on mine. He looked embarrassed. Then I saw why. He was creaming his jeans.

This was going to be easier than I’d thought.


“Move towards the cruiser please, sir,” she said.

Her voice was cold and controlled but I‘d seen her head tilt to take in the stain on my jeans. I wondered if she knew that her tongue had moved quickly across her lips, like she was licking off the froth from her first ice cool beer on a hot day?

Something was going down here and I was beginning to hope it might be me.

I decided to try my famous Irish charm.

“Is there a problem officer?”I asked, flashing her my best I-may-not-be-harmless-but-I’ll-definitely-be-fun smile.

Her pink lips twitched a little and I knew she wanted to smile, but she bit it back and said “The problem here is that I gave you an order and you haven’t followed it yet. Now move towards the cruiser.”

I moved towards the cruiser, hands still on my head, absolutely certain that she was watching my butt.

I bet you’re smiling now, I thought.

She opened the rear door of the cruiser. She’d left the engine running and the cool conditioned air  felt inviting.

“Get in” she said.

I turned to get in the car butt first. As my ass touched the seat the coplet suddenly sprang forward and pushed me backwards.

She landed on top of me, knees either side of my hips, hands on my chest. She’d lost her hat and her hair was almost loose. Her face was lit up and her dark eyes were flashing. Then her tongue was in my mouth – for a fraction of a second – and she was kneeling up again, grinning and saying “Don’t just lie there big guy – FUCK ME”.


I have a very understanding subconscious. It understands that every now and then I have to cut loose. When the occasion comes along it tends to start without me. When I told him to head for the cruiser I still hadn’t really decided what I was going to do. Go with the flow. Surf the wave. Ride his cock.

But I didn’t want to rape the guy. “FEMALE COP FORCES MAN AT GUNPOINT” was not a headline I wanted to read.

Then he gave me his “Is there a problem officer?” speech with his thousand megawatt smile and I knew he’d always been able to charm his way out of trouble or into a bed. I also knew he wasn’t in the least bit intimidated by a 5’ lady cop with pink lipstick and a fuck-off-and-die stare. He was enjoying himself.

As I watched his tight butt make its way to the cruiser my conscious mind confirmed the decision my subconscious had already made. I just had to have him.

I literally jumped him.

God that felt good. The look of surprise on his face. His jaw hung open and I couldn’t resist putting my tongue between his open lips.

Do you know how hard it is to take off a uniform inside a police car while sitting on a guy’s chest? I didn’t even try. I moved to his jeans and unleashed the hard cock I’d felt earlier.

Now much as I love the feel of a cock inside me I’ve never really been able to get excited at how they look. Seems to me they were designed on a Friday afternoon and no-one ever quite finished the job. But this cock had as much charm as its owner. It leapt to attention in a flattering way and thudded against his belly. I just had to nibble it, right where the base joins the balls.

That made him writhe. Almost pushed me off. I was grinning now. I ran the flat of my tongue up the length of his cock and then wrapped my lips around the head. MMMMMM.

I looked up at him. His face was all smile.

“I surrender officer. Take me into custody” he said.

I did my famous deep throat trick. As expected it took his breath away.

When I was at college all the girls had competed in the Deep Throat Challenge. We’d do it in bars. It drove the guys wild. It involved those drinks they serve in a long thin glass – flutes I think they’re called. We would order drinks and then lean over the table, take as much of the glass as we could into our mouths, and, without using our hands, lift the glass and empty it. Great practice for suppressing the gag response. If it goes wrong you end up with a creamy cocktail running down your chin. If it goes right every man in the room gets an erection. I always got it right. Now the practice was paying off.

Several inches of his cock were in my mouth. When I started to hum he lost it completely.


I was still tasting her tongue on my mouth when she unzipped me and helped herself to my cock. I hadn’t been this hard since I was seventeen.

She bit me! For one paranoid second I thought I was in an adult version of goosebumps and she’d suddenly turn into a ravening beast that would tear off my cock with her teeth. Then her tongue moved along me like a cat lapping up cream. She was grinning like she’d just won the lottery.

I’d just tossed off someline about her taking me into custody – to show I was cool with the whole thing – when my cock disappeared down her throat. She was swift and sure, like a predator swallowing her prey whole. Entering her mouth was like sliding into a warm bath.

Shit she was going to make me come in no time at all. When she started to hum I thought I would shoot right there and then, making myself the winner of the Wyoming Mr Premature Ejaculation contest.

“Whoa there” I said. “Come up for air”.

She let my cock slide from her mouth with a slowness that would have been pure porn movie cliché if it hadn’t been for the twinkle in her eyes that seemed to say “Ok. Your move”.

How the hell was I going to get her uniform off in here?

The answer was simple:  I wasn’t.

My turn for surprises.

The door was still open. I put my boots on the ground and slid forward without any warning. I caught her as I sat up. In a movement that was more luck than skill I ended up standing outside the cruiser with her legs around my waist, her arms around my kneck and my jeans around my ankles.

She looked impressed. She kissed me. Really kissed me. Both hands on my head. Lips crushed against mine. Tongue searching my mouth.

My cock was bouncing against her uniformed ass.



Jesus this guy was strong. He uncoiled himself from the car and took me with him.

The feel of all that muscle moving was enough to make me wet. The touch of his cock on my ass left me drenched. I was ravenous for him.

I kissed him, needing to taste him. I held onto him like I was riding a horse.

His hands were under my butt now. I leant backwards and started to take off my shirt, my legs still wrapped about him. To his credit he kept his eyes on mine, rather than staring at my breasts.

I grinned, climbed up him a little more and pushed his head down into my breasts.

Then I scrambled off him. I needed his cock in me right now. I pushed down my pants and panties together but couldn’t get them off over the boots. Then I assumed the position against the hood of the cruiser. legs spread as wide as I could manage and naked ass in the air.

I looked over my shoulder. The poor boy looked dazed. Birthday and Christmas all at once. But his cock knew what to do. It targeted my ass with military precision. Suddenly he was behind me, hands on my hips, cock at my sex. I couldn’t wait. I pushed back and felt him start his long slow slide into me.


I thought I’d have control once we got outside but being with this woman was like trying to surf the big one, even when you didn’t fall off you were being pushed along.

She may as well have had me on a leash.

When she looked at me over her shoulder, bare ass raised high in the bright sunlight, there was no choice involved in what happened next.

I’m normally a gentle lover. I like to stroke and lick and coax, but now all I wanted was to grab and bite and bang.

Her hips fit into the palms of my hands like carved handles of bone. My cock slid into her wet cunt like it was slicing through ripe fruit. I sank so far into her it felt like falling.

When I slapped up against her ass she grunted… and laughed.

I held her hips firmly and slammed into her with all my strength, she only stayed upright because I held her.

She tossed her head, shaking free her thick dark hair and her face looked as if she was growling. I once saw a lioness being fucked by a lion in the zoo. The lion was bigger than her and was on top but somehow you knew the lioness was in charge and the lion better make it good. The lioness had growled in just the same way as my little coplet.

Shit I was banging in and out of her and I didn’t even know her name.

She braced herself against the cruiser as I banged into her, her head was back, arms tense, breasts shiny with sweat in the sunshine. Her sext was sucking my cock into it with each stroke. Grabbing at it. Defying it to leave. She started to make a low groan that began in the back of her throat and seemed to vibrate through her whole body.

I wanted to come deep inside her but I wanted her to come first.

The moan was becoming a word:  “Fuck”, “FUCK” “FUUUCK.”

With each stroke the word got louder and I knew I was going to come.


I was nothing but need now. I needed to feel him pounding me. Gentle wouldn’t do it.

His cock just amplified my desire. The more I got the more I wanted.

The sun was lapping my body with tongues of warmth. I knew anyone could drive past and see us. I knew I shouldn’t be doing this. But mostly I knew that I wanted harder and deeper.

I closed my eyes so that all my senses were concentrated on feeling him in me. To me he was just strong hands and hard cock, but that was enough.

I knew he was trying to control himself. Trying to get me to come first. To hell with that.  I love the moment when they come. It always pushes me over the edge. I wanted to feel him come inside me.

I was completely in the rhythm now. Caught up in magic friction.

I started to make the noise. I think of it as keening, but lovers have told me its more like a growl. It’s the victory howl of the lust demon. The  demon had me now and she started to shout“Fuck”, “FUCK” “FUUUCK.””. Then I felt it. The first hot wet pulse of cum inside me. Then the next. He was standing pressed completely into me, letting his sperm flow at the deepest point.

The feeling of warmth and elation and dissolving spread out from the tip of his cock and swept through me like a wave breaking against a sea wall. For a moment I was nothing but the dissipating energy of that wave. My mind shattered against the sea wall and slid down in pieces. My knees gave way and I slid to the floor, his cock slipping out of me like a cast off skin.


I came so hard it was painful. My cock was a storm drain for sperm. It rushed through me and out of me with force and purpose. Relief. Release. The words don’t even come close. I surrendered myself to coming. There was nothing else.

Then the cop started to fit. At first a tremble, then violent shudders that went on for what seemed forever. Suddenly she went limp and fell on her knees to the ground.

I hoped she wasn’t epileptic. What if she’d had a stroke and died?

Paranoid I bent towards her. I lifted her head by the chin. Her eyes were unfocused at first. As she started to see me there was a fleeting look of puzzlement and then her face was transformed by the biggest, widest smile.

“Thank you” she said.” I needed that.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, automatically as I reached down to help her up.

Normally, I’d have been taking in all the fine naked flesh that was on view but I couldn’t take my eyes off her smile.  She’d lost her sunglasses somewhere along the line and now I found myself looking into the deepest, darkest eyes I’d ever seen. A man could drown in eyes like that and die happy.

I wanted to say something or do something but my mind was blank. My erection-driven energy had deserted me and I was left standing with my dick hanging out, gawking like a fool at a women I didn’t want to leave.

“You need to put that away now.” the coplet said, pointing at my dick.

Her tone was serious but her smile was still there.

She watched as I tucked myself back in my jeans. Then pulled she grabbed her big cop-belt, holster and all, and pulled her uniform pants back on, keeping eye contact with me all the while.

While she tightened her belt, I took a risk. “Let me help you with that,” I said and reached forward to do up the front of her uniform shirt.


The afterglow stayed with me long enough for me to thank tall-and-handsome (I really do have to start getting the guy’s name before I fuck them), then reality started to kick in. The lust demon had fled the scene, leaving me to pick up the check, again.

I needed to assert my authority. This could get messy. Hell, it was already messy. I smelt of sex and sweat and I really, really needed a shower.  I put on my stern voice and told him to put his dick away.

Only thing was, I couldn’t stop smiling.

I was standing smiling at a guy who was tucking himself back in his pants, while mine were still around my ankles.  Shit, but sex turns me into a fool.

I pulled up my pants, wriggling into them and wishing I could wash first, and wondering what the hell I should do with tall and handsome now when I realised he was looking at me.  He wasn’t checking me out, grabbing a last look at the my nakedness, he was looking in me in the eye and he looked… bedazzled. Yep that was the word for it. Bedazzled. I like that.

I was playing for time, making a meal of refastening my gun-belt, when he offered to help me and reached out to close the press studs on my shirt.

He didn’t feel me up. He just helped me dress and he looked me in the eyes while he did it.

When he finished, he stood there with his hands at his side and waited like a puppy-dog.

A real cute puppy-dog.

“I need to see some I.D.” I  said.

He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet and offered it to me.

“Just the I.D.” I said, slipping back into the routines of the job, “Keep the wallet.”

Even his driving license photo was cute. Patrick Mahon, from NYC.

“You’re a long way from home, Patrick,” I said, (hey, I still had the guys cum inside me, the least I could do was use his first name) where were you headed in such a hurry?”


Where was I headed? California had suddenly lost its appeal. Where I wanted to be was in a big bed with the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

“Well,” I said, “I was going to California but I’ve changed my plans.”

She smiled and said, “Really, and where are you headed now?”

“Well, that depends.”

She put her hands on her hips, raised an eyebrow and said. “On what?”

My heart beat faster than it should have given what we’d already done together, but I really wanted this to work out.

“On where you live.”


So now he wanted to set up house with me, huh?

Well the man had guts, you had to grant him that. He also had a tight butt, a serviceable cock and a cut grin

But there was no way that he was coming to my house.

I turned away from Patrick, slid into the cruiser and checked his license plate and I.D. Both came up clean.

I looked at the dash and remembered that the video camera had recorded me pulling over the car and how long it had stayed stationary. Thank god I’d waited ’til we got back to the cruiser before I’d jumped him or the tape would be on the X-rated version of “Cops” and I’d be out of a job.

I checked Patrick out in the mirror. He was leaning against the cruiser, hands in his pockets, sill grin on his face, waiting for me.

I was free of the lust demon now. I could do anything I wanted. I could send Patrick on his way to California. I could go home and wait for Luke to return. Or…


When she got out of the cruiser she’d found her hat and her sunglasses. She looked like a cop again,  apart from her hair being loose.

A very hot cop, with gorgeous hair.

A very hot cop who was writing me a ticket.

A ticket.


I’d really thought she’d liked me. I mean, I knew we hadn’t said much but you don’t smile at like that at someone you don’t like. Do you?

“I advise you to obey the speed limit while you’re in Wyoming, Mr. Mahon. Your next offense will cost you more than a fine. Is that clear?”

“Yea, ma’am” came out of my mouth without me having to think about it.

My shoulders slumped and me and my dented ego started to move towards my car.

“Stay where you are, Mr. Mahon, I’m not done with you yet.”


I didn’t make my mind up until after I saw how dejected he looked when I gave him the ticket. I felt like I’d  just kicked a puppy.

He stayed put like I told him to, but his head was down and he wasn’t looking at me. I switched on my radio and said, “Sandy, this is Maria. I’m coming off the clock. I’m gonna take some personal time.”

Patrick’s head came up.

“Something has come up.  I have to take care of it this afternoon.”

Patrick grinned at me. I threw my hat in the back of the cruiser and shook out my hair.

Sandy was still squawking at me.

“Yeah. I know ‘m off duty tomorrow, but this won’t wait.”

If  Patrick had had a tail, I swear it would have wagged.

“Thanks, Sandy. Have a good one yourself.”

I walked back to Patrick and stood very close to him.

“You got me sticky and sweaty.”

“I guess I did.”

“So now I need you to clean me up. You good with that?”

“Can I get you sticky and sweaty again afterwards.”

I pushed up against him on tip toe so I could reach his lips.

This time the kiss was slow and soft.

I stepped back and said.

“Get in your car and follow me.”

“Yes ma’am”.

I watched his butt all the way back to his car. I liked the way this was shaping up.  I adjusted my belt as I sat in the cruiser and my hand brushed against the cuffs at the back. I grinned to myself at the images that summoned in my head.   I pulled out in front of the beaten up Ford and headed for home.

Invoking The Goddess

© 2008 Mike Kimera  All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk



Magda tried to control her nervousness as she stood on the edge of the clearing waiting for the procession to begin. To calm herself she took a final sip at her cup of mead, relishing the warmth of the drink and the spicy tang of the herbs it contained.

At last, when the moon rose, full and round, above the trees, bathing the clearing in silver, Naeve, the high priestess, took hold of Magda’s hand and stepped forward with her into the circle of standing stones.

The night was cool and the moss beneath Magda’s bare feet should have chilled her but she was burning with so much energy that it surprised her that her own skin did not glow with heat.

Neave led Magda in a straight line towards the stubby slab of granite that stood proud of the moss in the centre of the circle. Magda had been taught that the Goddess had pushed this nipple of rock up out of the earth to give the tribe access to her power. Now she, Magda, was to stand on the sacred stone and become the vessel of the Goddess.

As Naeve helped her climb up onto the granite, Magda looked around the circle and saw the remaining women walking slowly around the edge so that each woman could take up her position in front of one of the nine standing stones. When the last woman took her place it seemed to Magda that all noise stopped, as though not even sound could now enter the circle.

Still holding Magda’s hand, Naeve spoke into the silence.

“Tonight,” Naeve said, “autumn turns to winter. Tonight we accept the dominion of death. Tonight we invoke the power of the Goddess to grant us the promise of renewal. Tonight we celebrate the Festival of Samhain.”

It seemed to Magda that the stone beneath her feet became warm at these words. She took this as sign from the Goddess that she would be granted to the strength to succeed.

“It is time, Magda,” Naeve said.

Turning to face the High Priestess, Magda pushed her robe off her shoulders and let if fall until she was standing naked in the moonlight.

Naeve looked at her and smiled. “You are ripe,” she said, cupping Magda’s breast, then sliding her hand over the soft plane of her belly to the thicket of rust-red curls that grew between Magda’s legs. “You will be blessed.”

Madga blushed under the older woman’s touch and smiled shyly. She could not bring herself to meet the gaze of the nine women who encircled her, yet her mind danced with joy at Naeve’s words. If she, the vessel of the Goddess at the feast of Samhain, bore fruit, the cycle of death and renewal would be ensured and the whole village would rejoice.

Naeve guided Magda to stand with her arms out, her legs parted and her face raised towards the moon. Naeve stood behind her and braided the wild comet-tail of red tresses that marked Magda as beloved of the Goddess. When this was done the first of the nine women walked forward and offered a thimble of mead and a circlet of holly. Magda drank the mead in one swallow and placed the circlet on her head. The surge of power was immediate and unmistakeable. Her spine straightened and she felt the first flicker of arousal. Magda understood that her dedication to the Goddess had begun.


Syr, the dryad could feel her strength waning as the world turned towards winter’s cold embrace. Without nourishment she would not survive. Sometimes that thought was attractive. The older she became, the stronger the attraction grew. She had often seen the oldest of her kind, when they found that all that had once bound them to the slow vibrant pulse of mother earth had decayed and rotted away, refuse to seek nourishment, preferring to slip unprotesting into the darkness.

The thought of those life-consuming shadows made her tremble and the boughs of the ancient oak in which she lived groaned as if wracked by a strong wind. Called back to her duty, the dryad put aside thoughts of death. Samhain was arrived. Already the villagers had gathered the hazelnuts and mistletoe that they would grind into the sacred mead. The dryad had worked her magic on the fruits of her tree. All who drank the mead would feel lust’s heat and offer it to the Goddess and her sacred oak. Then the dryad would feed and wrap herself in love’s warm mantel all winter long.


Aillen stared into the heart of the bonfire that dominated the centre of the village but the heat was so intense that he had to turn his face away from the light. It seemed to him that that was the natural order of things; a man can only do so much in the light, some things require shadow.

Tonight’s work was necessary. It was an honour to be given such a task and yet it would be a strange man who took pride in it.

Yesterday, Naeve had taken him to her bed, to strengthen him, to make him a better instrument of the Goddess, although Naeve of course said that she claimed him because he needed her love. She had ridden him slowly and skilfully, in shadows cast by the hearth. She had pulled from him such need and such pent up sorrow that he thought he would burst from the pressure of it. Then, at the point when he could no longer bear it, she had granted him release. His pain had flooded out of him, leaving behind, if not forgiveness then, at least peace.

Naeve had settled herself along the length of him, increasing his sense of ease by adding the comfort of her affection. With her head on his chest and her voice low and soft she had told him the things he needed to hear:

“There is no light without shadow. There is no life without death. There is no love…”

“without loss” he’d said, completing the trinity for her.

He held her, remembering the still-born children that were all he had ever been able to gift her. Neither of them had spoken. Sometimes truth can be answered only with silence.

Now Samhain was here and it was his job to bring death, hers to bring life.

The drumming had started. The beat gave voice to the pulsing heart of the Goddess. Men rose and started their slow, stomping dance around the fire, pounding out the wheel of birth, death and renewal. They tossed their shoulder-length hair vigorously and rhythmically from side to side as they danced, celebrating the ebb and flow of the love of the Goddess through the world.

Aillen bent and picked up the stag’s antlers that he had been working on. He checked that the thorns were firmly attached and then, with one last look into the light of the fire, he turned and ducked into the stable that held Fionn.

Fionn, wild, sometimes wicked, Fionn had been selected to be Cernunnos, the horned god, at the Samhain feast. The selection had been made a Beltane. At first nothing much more was required of Fionn than that he be himself. True he pulled more women down in the fields than before, but it was summer and it seemed appropriate.

As the seasons turned, Aillen had taken charge of Fionn, determining what he ate and drank, who he fought, and how often he bedded. Now the change in him was almost complete. Fionn was ripe for his role in tonight’s feast.

At the sound of Aillen’s approach, Fionn struggled insanely against his bonds and called out a wordless challenge packed with male rage.

Close up, Aillen could see the rapid pulse of Fionn’s heart in the swollen veins on his forehead. He was like a horse driven to run and run until its heart fails. There would be no stopping, no turning away. Cernunnos had arrived and Fionn was headed for the shadows.

Moving quickly, Aillen used the thorns to bind the stag’s horns to Cernunnos’ head. Blood ran down the god’s face but he seemed to feel joy rather than pain, for his mouth spread into a wide grin and he tossed his head wildly from side to side.

Aillen did not let himself turn away. He wanted to remember the details of what had been done here. “There is no love without loss,” he said, quietly. Then he turned towards the beat of the drum, to find the men who would help him tie their god to a tree.


Magda was more alive than she had ever been. She could taste life. Not just her own but those of the women around her. Life tasted… like you could never have enough of it, ever.

She looked down at herself and understood that her ability to sense life, no to call life to her, was a consequence of the sacred symbols painted on her body. There was one symbol for each of the women in the circle. And each woman had brought her more mead. So much mead that Magda felt her blood itself must now be amber.

Like all the women of the tribe, Magda had known since puberty the meaning of the symbols painted onto her. Now she could feel their truth burning into her, bringing the Goddess to her.

Her dedication to the Goddess was almost complete. Naeve had used her fingers to smooth blue dye in concentric circles around Magda’s nipples and navel. With each circle Magda felt the warmth of the Goddess flow through her.

Now, with a fine brush made from badger’s hair, Naeve was painting the runes of fertility on the insides of Magda’s thighs; making her open legs into a poem in praise of fecundity.

Taking another sip of mead, Magda allowed her mind to turn to Fionn. She had known Fionn all her life but she felt as if she had never really seen him until his selection at Beltane. All summer she had watched him, knowing that she could not yet have him. Now she summoned up the memory of his broad shoulders and narrow waist; of the way the muscles in his back rippled when he lifted things; of the perfect ripe roundness of his arse and the searing blue of his eyes. She was glad that he had been favoured by the Goddess in the stave fights and the apple bobbing at Beltane.

Now he would be the vessel for Cernunnos, horned consort to the Goddess. She wondered what it would be like to taste his flesh, to feel his large hands holding her, to be impaled upon him before the eyes of the village. A shudder, both dread and joyous, flowed though her.

Naeve stopped painting. The last symbol was set in place on Magda’s soft skin. Naeve passed her finger lightly between Magda’s swollen labia and brought it away glazed with dew.

“Your dedication is complete,” she said, bowing her head, “Welcome, Goddess.”


Fire  so close to her was always alarmed the dryad, even when it was expected. The dryad held back her fear of the flames and focused on the fierce energy coming from the short-lived folks who circled the fire and inflamed the night. Their passion would be her survival.

She reached out into the fast moving thoughts of the men and drew them to her. In their centre was a strange beast, with the antlers of a stag and body of a human. His mind screamed aggression. He was consumed by the rut. That was how she knew him: Cernunnos

She made it seem right to the nine men holding the ropes that bound him that hers was the tree to which Cernunnos should be bound. She rejoiced in the heat of his back against the trunk of her oak and the passion that he spent in trying to break free from the ropes that held his strong arms to the boughs above his head. This one was young and full of sap. The dryad prepared herself to feed.


Magda’s eyes shimmered with darkness, so wide were her pupils. Night was as bright as day to her. She could see the spirits of the dead and the living as bright colours throbbing with desire.

The brightest colours of all came from the large oak tree. Cernunnos looked magnificent. His head was thrown back. His arms stretched up towards the branches above him. His antlers thrashed noisily against the trunk of the tree.

As she approached him Magda felt the symbols on her thighs grow tingle and her desire quicken. She knew that Naeve was saying the words that began the ceremony but their meaning was lost to her. Her eyes were locked on the chaotic energy before her. Cernunnos was magnificent but he was out of control. The ropes that tied him to the tree bound his body but not his rage. Unleashed he would rend and tear until nothing was left except his will and its consequences. Magda understood that the Goddess would take this maelstrom of energy and shape it into something that lived and breathed and had a will of its own.

Naeve knelt before Cernunnos, stroking his manhood until it curved cruelly towards his flat belly. The men started to chant as Naeve drew the first symbol of power on the engorged phallus.

Magda turned proudly to face her people. When she reached between her legs and started the slow circular movement that would invoke the Goddess for the first time that night, the woman added a breathy descant to the growling chant of the men. The song and the drums lifted her and drove to work upon herself. Suddenly warmth flooded her and the whole forest seemed to her to be filled with light. She was both inside and above her body now. The Goddess was had entered her vessel.

At a signal from Naeve, two of the priestesses guided the Goddess towards her consort. Magda saw that this was not Fionn before her but Cernunnos: his eyes were wide and veined with red, his chest heaved with effort and the tip of his swollen penis was almost purple. Truly he was now the horned god.

The women lifted Magda’s small body easily. Spreading her wide, they lowered her gently onto to the hard curved arrogance of Cernunnos’ aggression until she consumed it, engulfed it, made it hers.

A wave of orgasm hit Magda as she reached the base of his hardness. She relished how completely he filled her, as if they were two parts of a sculpture, now made whole. The priestesses placed her hands around his neck.  Close up she the thorns used to braid the antlers to Fionn’s head[m3] . She felt some pity until she saw the lust in the eyes that burned beneath that bloodied brow.

Magda pressed her breasts into his broad chest, pulled herself upwards, arched her back and slammed down against him. Behind her, the chanting kept pace with the rhythm of her rut. Her consciousness narrowed to his flesh and hers and was then unable to make even that distinction. There was just flesh and lust and movement.

A second wave of orgasm took her when she bit deep into his neck and broke the dam that held back his seed. He flooded her, sweeping up into her womb and crashing down across her mind until all was heat and darkness.


Aillen watched the young woman, the vessel of the Goddess, was lifted unconscious from the horn that still jutted up from between Fionn’s legs and carried away to recover a little before rejoining the feast. Within seconds, another woman had impaled herself on Cernnunos. Aillen turned away and found himself facing Naeve.

“You look disgusted.” Naeve said.

He made no reply. She took his hand in hers.

“She wants to be blessed with a Samhain child” Naeve said, “that’s why she climbs on him so eagerly.”

“And his “charmed” flesh will stay hard all night.” Aillen said. “But by morning…”

“His heart will fail. There can be no life without…”

Aillen spat upon the ground.

“This is not new Aillen. Why does it trouble you so this year?”

“This is your last year, I think.”

“My last year…”

“To be blessed. So I’ll leave you to the horned one and your hope.”

Naeve moved in front of him, preventing him from walking away from her.

“Don’t you understand, Aillen,” she said, lifting his large hand to her mouth and kissing it. “I already am blessed, and you are my hope.”


The Dryad felt young and invigorated. In the soft moss that covered her roots humans in couples and threes and groups were flaring with passion as they invoked the Goddess.

Cernunnos still strived for release with each woman who came to try the power of his rut and offer her womb to his seed. Let winter howl as it may, the spirit of the goddess would carry all but the oldest of them through to spring. The dryad slowed her consciousness to match that of the tree whose life she shared and began the long wait for the Goddess to return.


Magda folded the man’s head to her breast and let him suckle. He had served her well. None could match the potency of her Consort but each man she had lain with had succeeded in invoking the Goddess. She knew that her womb had been quickened. By Beltane she would be round and filled with promise. By summer her daughter would be born. She stroked the head that was still paying homage at her breast and thanked to Goddess for her blessing.

© 2008 Mike Kimera  All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

Sex With Owen

When I started “Sex With Owen”  I was in too dark a mood to continue the story of Mrs Prendergast and her offer of enlightenment. I decided she would have to wait.

I was having one of those death-ridden days when I wished I was a theist, but the only spirits that moved me were the ones who came and whispered their stories in my ear.

This story began with the voice of a woman saying “He always starts by brushing my hair.”

She wouldn’t go away, so I started to write.

I initially thought she would lead me into a story of dominance and submission. The working title was “The Bone Cage” and was meant to be about how she transcended the constraints of her mortal flesh.

As I wrote, the story started to change. Firstly the female narrator was a stronger, more up-beat person that I’d imagined. Secondly the man in the story demanded a name. “He” was no longer good enough, he wanted to be a character in his own right and not just a foil to make the woman more interesting. I christened him “Owen” and suddenly I had a tale about a couple. My mood lightened and instead of a gloomy doom-laden story, I produced a piece that is about a small woman and a large man who are fascinated with each other.

I put the piece through the writers’ workshop at the Erotic Readers and Writers Association – (ERWA – a great list if you want to improve your writing – you can join here). The feedback on the list was that I’d written a love story. This was a first for me, so I was a little bit surprised, especially as the word “love” is never mentioned, but I read it again and discovered that they were right.


Sex With Owen

(c) Mike Kimera 2010

Owen always brushes my hair first, his large, scarred, sculptor’s hands accomplishing the task with a patient, graceful thoroughness that calms me, distracting me from our nakedness and the hard hot proximity of his presence.

My red-blonde hair is long and thick and heavy. It is the seat of my femininity; the only sexual flourish that my small androgynous body has gifted me with. My hair says more about who I think I am than any other part of me. Lazily bound in a bun with pencils pushed through it, it is my companion as I work on the pen and ink drawings that pay my bills. Tightly braided, it is the emblem of my controlled professionalism when I journey into corporate land to sell my work. Left loose, to fall down to my arse, it is my declaration of sexual intent.

We both know that, when he kneels behind me, the brush in Owen’s hand is not there to groom me, but to claim to me; to shape the heart of who I am into who he needs me to be.

By kneeling here, naked, my back to him, my hair in his possession, I signal that I am his to take tonight.

When he is satisfied that the slow rhythmic brushing has settled me and focused me, he puts the brush aside and slowly wraps my hair around his left fist, like a rider gathering in the reins of a skittish horse, until the tightness of his grip forces my head back, exposing my neck, straightening my spine, holding me in the first position of our well-practiced dressage.

After a second’s pause he moves forward until my back is pressed into his belly and my head is held motionless against the broad expanse of his chest. He lowers his head to mine and inhales the scent of my hair in a slow, deep intake of breath. He holds the air inside him, possessively, until it seems that he must breathe or die. At last, he exhales, pushing a stream of warmth across my vulnerable neck, making the short hairs there rise as I imagine myself like a log in a fire, burning brighter as he feeds oxygen to the flames that both consume and illuminate me.

Still holding my hair in his left fist, Owen slides his heavily muscled right arm down my body, between my small high breasts, until his hand finds my sex and his thick fingers spread out on either side of it, claiming the territory as their own.

In an act of practiced surrender, I place my arm over his, push my fingers briefly across my hardened nipple and move up, over my shoulder, until his lips capture the tip of my index finger and hold it there.

Slowly, methodically, he works his fingers into my flesh, He does not force his way inside me, nor does he seek out my clit to hasten my arousal and make it march to the rhythm of his own testosterone-driven need. Instead he kneads my flesh as if it were dough. He works in circles and spirals, summoning my blood and its heat to where he wants
me to be.

I try to remain still and silent even though I know his relentless actions will make this impossible. From the first time he took me, Owen has been an unstoppable force, overwhelming me, stripping away flesh, ripping apart bone and tendon in a ruthless quest to free the woman he sees behind my eyes.

Before Owen, my struggle had always been to live up to the mind-shattering, soul-liberating, consciousness-changing orgasms that the heroines of the romantic novels I am addicted to had each time their dashing-but-dangerous lover pushed himself into them.

The men who had pushed themselves into me with various degrees of skill and enthusiasm, had always seemed to find the release they sought. As they sweated above me, corded forearms holding their weight, hips banging out the rapid percussive tune of their lust, there would come a point when, eyes closed, faces twisted in apparent pain, their condom-covered sex buried as deep in me as they could manage, they would leave me for a few seconds.

It seemed to me that this departure, these moments of not being with me, were the most important part of the act to them.

As I lay looking up at them, my own rhythm disrupted, my desire falling away like the arm of a child stretching for but unable to reach the next monkey-bar, I understood that I had failed, again, to be the woman I was supposed to be. Even while I was preparing to smile when they returned and tell them that they were wonderful and perhaps encourage them to push into me once more before sleep claimed them, I was cursing my small, under-developed, childish, sexless body for leaving me hanging rather than letting me achieve a departure of my own.

Sex with Owen is not about departure. It is about struggle and surrender and release.

It used to be that the only release I found was at the end of my own fingers. Alone in my bed, between freshly laundered sheets, I would lie on my belly, arm trapped beneath me, fingers pressing against but never needing to enter, my sex. It seemed to me that, whereas men beat upon me as if I were a drum, I played myself as if I were a violin. Pleasure grew from the steady slide of rosined bow over tautly stretched strings, until I brought myself gently but firmly to a dizzying cliff-edge that I would teeter on for a moment before plunging away from myself, into the warm embrace of the waves below.

About a year ago, I stopped bringing men into my bed. I did not want to be their point of departure; I wanted to be their destination.

I allowed my sex life to become an accomplished violin solo and took pride in my own skill. Yet part of me knew that this bowing, this fiddling if you like, was not enough. The voice of the violin was too thin, too close to a cry of pain, to bring any real joy.

I needed the crashing wall of sound of a full orchestra to smash against my consciousness, annihilate my will, erase my sense of self, free my spirit from the bone cage that binds it, until I become the sound, pure energy, pushing past the silence of my life.

Instead, in my loneliness, I told myself that I preferred the silence and I let it swallow me. I wrapped myself in a blanket of celibacy and convinced myself that it gave me heat enough.

Now I know I was slowly freezing to death.

Owen rescued me from that slow dying. He is still rescuing me from it.

Owen’s fingers on my sex mimic my fiddling but the tune he plays is completely different. My fingers pushed me gently towards a release, his fingers demand that I surrender to my lust. Held immobile against his body, I am defenseless against the assault he makes upon me. My sex is moist, my nipples are hard, my body is demanding to be fucked.I struggle to defer the moment of the first surrender but I know I am lost when he lowers his mouth on to my neck and gently bites me. A line of heat travels down my spine and ignites a fire at the base that he fans by pushing my labia together, rolling them against one another so that they slip and slide. I thrust my hips forward and surrender with a single word:


His fingers hook into my sex, spreading me and filling me as I fuck the air. Cleansing tongues of flame lick across my belly. I close my eyes and, for a moment, a long delicious moment, I am no longer there.

As I return to myself, I am aware of Owen lowering me to the floor so that I am lying on my back. I keep my eyes closed, happy to let him arrange my limbs, which feel loose and not entirely mine to control, any way that pleases him.

Gently, he bends my right arm at the elbow and places the palm of my hand over my left breast. Bending so close to me that I can feel his breath against my skin, he lifts the back of my head, gathers my hair in one hand and arranges it so that it flows like a river over my right shoulder to come to rest just above my sex. He leaves my left arm at my side but lifts the forearm across my hip, so that my hand holds my hair in place against my belly.

Finally, his strong hands take hold of my legs just below the knee. I expect him to spread me wide. My hands flex against breast and sex at the thought of being held open beneath him, waiting to be devoured. To my surprise, he pushes my knees together. I do not understand what he is doing. Then there is a moment when he is not touching me. The moment becomes two, then three. Even though I know that he often does this, I rush to open my eyes the way a diver rushes to regain the surface before she runs out air.

Owen is kneeling beside my shoulder, back straight, hands resting on his thighs, looking down at me with a smile on his lips. The smile calms me. I smile back.

“Welcome back, Venus,” he says, and at once I understand the placement of my limbs. He has posed me as Botticelli’s Venus. I blush, both pleased and embarrassed by the comparison.

Looking up at Owen, I am reminded once more of how huge he is. He has the build of a peasant, born to hard labour: tall, wide-shouldered, deep-chested and wrapped in heavy slabs of muscle that are a functional statement of the strength he uses to carve stone, rather than a narcissistic display of gym-won beauty.

I let my eyes track down the firm barrel of his belly to his sex. His erection is substantial, pointing upwards from a thick nest of pubic hair at an angle that seems to salute my nakedness. The foreskin has rolled back to sit like a collar behind the smooth fat width of his glans. I want to wrap my hands around his shaft and use my tongue to glaze his flesh, working him until the tip of the penis stretches upwards but I know that Owen would not allow this. He does not want me to worship him. He wants to awaken the spirit he sees inside of me.

I first met Owen in an art supply shop. I was squatting, searching a low shelf for iron gall ink for a Victoriana piece I was working on. Owen blocked out my light. I looked up to find him looming over me. He was so large, he made the store seem like a scale model.

Perhaps it’s because I’m so small, a few inches below five foot, but truly large men have always fascinated me. It’s not that I find them particularly attractive, none of the men in my life have ever been the behemoth type.

What catches my attention is how alien they are, almost a different species.

It’s not just the difference in scale, the fact that one of their hands could swallow both of mine, or that I’d have to climb on them like a tree to steal a kiss, it’s about presence.

Big men move with confidence. They radiate a sense of power and entitlement. They expect space to be made for them and they occupy a great deal of it, with expansive gestures that instinctively claim territory. They look at the world from the top of the food chain which makes the rest of us prey.

I squatted further down, tucking my bum against my heels, making room for the big man to pass. He stayed where he was, looking down at me.

“That’s almost perfect,” he said. “It just needs…”

Moving too quickly for me to avoid him, he reached down and removed the two pencils I’d used to hold my hair in a loose bun. As my hair cascaded down my back I felt as if the giant above me had stripped me naked. A tiny tremor of arousal greeted the idea.

“Wonderful,” he said. “Feral and fey at the same time.”

The language was unexpected, his voice was rich and easy to listen to and his eyes were full of light. I almost did nothing. But, the man had violated my space and I couldn’t let that pass. I would not let myself be prey. So, I told myself that he was an over-sized lout who was treating me as if I were a netted butterfly, waiting to be dropped into his killing jar. And he’d taken something of mine.

I stood. My eyes were on a level with the base of his sternum. I took a step closer to him and looked up.

“Give me back my pencils.”

If he had laughed, I’d have kicked him in the balls and forgotten all about him. Instead, he held out the pencils in one hand and slowly squatted in front of me until he was below my eye level. I grabbed the pencils and reached behind me to gather up my hair. He watched me intently, registering every move. He stayed silent but his eyes blazed so brightly I felt my skin warm under his gaze.

“I have to sculpt you,” he said.

His desire made my anger impossible. He reached out and touched my cheek, gently but confidently. The warmth of his touch made me aware of how cold I had become in my months alone.

I smiled at him and said, “That sounds like a line to see me naked.”

He smiled back. “In my mind, you are already naked. That’s why I’m smiling.”

And now he is smiling at me again and I know exactly what I want from him. I roll onto my side, facing away from him. Slowly, I move up on to all fours, my arse towards him. I tilt my head to the right so that my hair falls to one side and look back at him over my left shoulder. Then I dip my head, letting my hair close like a curtain around me and I wait.

Silently, Owen moves into place bend me. He presses the tip of his cock just below my arsehole. He has never taken me there, but that does not mean he will not. I stay perfectly still, waiting on his decision. He slides downwards, parting my labia in one firm stroke and pushing forward just enough to keep me open. I want to push backwards, to impale myself on him, but I make myself wait.

“Down on your elbows. Keep your arse high.”

I follow his instructions swiftly, careful not to lose contact with his cock. I let my head rest on my hands and keep my back arched.

Owen’s hard hands grip my hips as if they were smooth bone handles that he had carved for his use. He pulls me upwards as he pushes into me. He is squatting behind me, feet firmly on the floor, knees spread wide, upper body bent over me. My sex is his fulcrum and his cock is the lever with which he will move my world.

He is neither gentle nor quiet. He slams into me in short, shallow strokes, too rapid to count. He pulls me up so high that my knees leave the floor. All my weight is on my elbows, He holds me suspended as he pistons into me, like a dog on his bitch. He keeps at me and at me, never slowing. His sweat starts to drip onto my back. I am too breathless to moan.

Then he stops, cock buried inside me, still hard, still holding my hips in his hands. He lowers me so that my knees are on the floor and then he kneels behind me. I am breathing hard, focusing all my attention on my battered sex and the hard heat inside it.

Owen bends over me, his sweat-covered body sliding against mine. His hands slip upwards to my breasts, cupping them firmly. Then he starts a slower, deeper penetration. At the apogee of each thrust he squeezes my breasts, releasing them as he pulls back, and then he leans backwards, taking me with him, pivoting me on his cock until I am leaning back against his chest. I cannot decide if I am horse or rider or if we have both become the ride.

“Put your hands behind my head,” he says, at the peak of one of the strokes.

As soon as I obey, his right hand slides down my belly and his broad thumb finds my clit. My hands still behind his head, I pull at his hair, I squirm on his cock, I shout at him and call him names. His thumb carves through all my resistance and shapes my arousal into a sharp spike that pushes up into my brain, until there is nothing but light behind my eyes and my second surrender is complete.

When I can speak, I say, “Let go of me, you ape. I want to see your face.”

Owen, lifts me off his erection, as if I weighed nothing at all, which is exactly how I feel. I find my feet, a little unsteadily, and turn to face him. His body is slick with sweat. His hair is matted to his head. The smell of him fills my nostrils. Best of all, he is still hard.

I extend one finger and push against his chest. Grinning, he pretends to let me drive him backwards until he is on his back with me standing over him.

I straddle his hips and then squat above his erection. Owen knows how the next part goes. He makes no move to enter me. I reach between my legs and finally take hold of his cock. I squeeze as hard as I can and am rewarded with a sharp intake of breath from Owen. Slowly, I lower myself onto him until he is all the way in and my knees are either side of his hips. I lean forward, position my right hand over his heart and then take my weight on it.

Concentrating on the shape inside me, I use all the strength I have to close myself around it. Once. Twice. Owen groans, I grin, enjoying thepower I have over him.

I dip me head forward. My hair is lank with sweat, but still heavy enough to fall over Owen’s chest and shoulders. I put both hands on his chest and then I start the rhythm that will end our dance: I rotate my hips, right, then left, grinding into him. I let the motion flow up my back, working my shoulders in counterpoint to my hips, while my head moves from side to side forcefully enough for me to whip Owen with my hair. I stop shaping my thoughts and become nothing but movement. I flow over Owen like a tide climbing a beach and sliding back down again, never letting go.

When it feels right, I stop moving my head. At this signal, Owen’s huge hands close around my arse, pressing me onto him as his hips drive upwards at double speed. Our eyes lock. His pace increases. There is a surge of heat inside me that feels like a tribute or a blessing. But the real prize is that Owen’s eyes never leave mine. He does not depart. He has just arrived.

© Mike Kimera 2010 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk


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


In Jack’s Hands

“In  Jack’s Hands” stands alone as a story in its present form. In my head, I imagine it as a novella I haven’t yet finished. I hope to return to it someday. Let me know what you think of it.

Jack’s wife is younger than me. His “She’ll-be twenty-two-next-April”child-bride is almost young enough to be my daughter; certainly young enough to be his. I think about that sometimes when I’m alone in this bed that he pays for.

She’s his second wife of course; his first left him once their children were grown. She’d left his bed long before that. Perhaps she’d sensed my presence there, like perfumed sweat on the sheets. She is the kind of woman who would rather starve than share a plate.

It had amused me at first, when he’d taken me to their bed, then taken me on it, riding me with my legs spread wide and my ankles held high, not so much screwing me as nailing me to the bed, making me cry out with every swing of his hammer.

Back then I’d assumed my youthful form was the source of his vigour. Now, when I remember how, leaning over me, soaked with sweat and pink with effort, he closed his eyes just before he came; I wonder who he imagined spilling into, me or his wife?

It’s not in Jack’s nature to be faithful. He’s a strong, slightly selfish man who takes what he wants and expects the rest of us to do the same.

He took me the first time that we met, ten years ago.

I was twenty five, had just moved to London after a lifetime in the frozen North and was determined to enjoy myself in the big bad city. I had a good body, a great smile and a very sexy little black dress that would get me in to almost anywhere.

That evening my dress and I were at a cocktail party in an expensive gallery in South Kensington. I’d come because I knew there’d be free champagne and rich young men, not all of whom could be gay. To my surprise the art turned out to be more interesting than the men: large bronze figures of naked women. These were not the fantasy nymphs of mass-produced, middle-class, middle-brow, masturbation-art, but real women with imperfect bodies naturally posed, that I thought were intensely sensual.

I found myself walking around the figure of a slightly heavy woman who was lying on her side. She had that just-come look. Everything from the trace of a smile beneath her closed eyes, through to the way her top leg lay slightly in front of the other, told me that she was resting in post-orgasmic warmth, though whether from her own fingers, that rested on her soft belly just below her hips, or through a good fucking, I couldn’t say. How she got to her afterglow didn’t matter. This piece was about how she felt when she arrived and the answer was very clear: entitled to be there.

Without thinking about it, I reached out to stroke the smooth line of her thigh, half expecting to feel warm skin beneath my fingers. I’d just reached her hip bone when someone very close behind me said: “I could never resist touching her either.”

I whirled around, hiding my hands behind me and blushing as if I’d been caught shop lifting.

I recognized Jack at once. His picture had been in the entrance to the show, above a sign saying “Jack Cavanaugh: Artist”. The head and shoulders shot had captured the strength of his forty-something face but it hadn’t shown how big he was up close. He was a foot taller than me and with shoulders so wide that I couldn’t see beyond him to the room full of people. It felt like there was just me and him and the naked woman behind us. I should have taken that for an omen.

“The eyes lie,” Jack said.

I felt his eyes roam over me like a skilful tongue, from my thighs, up my belly, lingering for a second on the free motion of my breasts, along the smooth length of my neck and finally up to my mouth. It seemed to me that I was already naked in front of him. It had been a while since I’d been naked in front of anyone. My body was telling me that I liked the idea.

“But touch always tells the truth.”

Jack took a step towards me, bringing him so close now that I could smell him: an alcohol top-note and a hint of Bulgari over a strong base of warm male. It was a scent that made me want to inhale deeply.

The lust in his eyes excited me and I tilted my head up, waiting for the first kiss. I didn’t know then that Jack never does the predictable thing.

He leant forward but instead of kissing me he took hold of my wrist and placed my hand back on the hip of the bronze. “Her name is Angie,” he said, “and she likes to be touched.”

Jack put his large hand over mine and traced the curve of Angie’s belly up to the fullness of her breast. In the process he turned me around so that I was facing her and he was pressed up against my back.

I knew I should say something but I had no words. All my concentration was on the surface of my skin: my fingertips on the cold bronze nipple, Jack’s hard hand on mine, the heat of him behind me. No words passed my lips but my whole body was broadcasting, “Fuck me. Please.”

Jack pushed forward, pressing his chest against my back. I shivered and pushed back into him.

“Close your eyes,” Jack said, “let your fingers tell you all you need to know.”

I cupped the bronze breast gently, imagining the weight of it in real life. Jack placed his other hand on my ribs, just below my breasts. It felt as if he was burning me but I wanted to move towards the fire, not away from it.

“Feel the how her breast fills your hand. Imagine it heavy, firm, hot and responsive. Run your thumb over the nipple and feel her shudder with pleasure.” With Jack’s hand on mine I could almost believe that the warmth came from the bronze beneath me. I’d never wanted to touch a woman but I found that I liked the idea of Jack making me caress Angie.

“I like my hands to know a woman before I sculpt her,” Jack said, sliding his hand over my breast and cupping it. “My hands tell me the truth about who she is and what she wants.”

To my acute embarrassment, when Jack’s thumb grazed my lightly clad nipple, I groaned with pleasure.

It was, I think, the signal Jack had been waiting for.

“Don’t let go of Angie,” he said “and try not to make too much noise.”

Jack wrapped his arm around my chest, squeezing me until it was hard for me to breathe. I could feel his erection, hard and hot, against my arse. I parted my legs in anticipation.

I was in a public place with a man who hadn’t even asked me my name and yet I was ready to bend over and let him fuck me in any hole he could reach. It was insane and intoxicating and out of my control. My legs were tensed, my eyes were closed. I was waiting impatiently for him to fuck me.

Of course Jack didn’t fuck me; he was too controlling for that. He fed my hunger rather than sating it.

Taking his hand off mine he slid it gracefully up my thigh, under my short dress, over my hipbone and then down between my legs. When he closed his wide hand over my cunt it felt like he was claiming territory.

Pushing upwards, Jack lifted me up onto tiptoe, pressing me into his erection, bending me closer to Angie. I waited for his strong fingers to force their way into me, wondering if they’d hurt and if I’d care but he didn’t enter me.

He didn’t even move my panties aside. He massaged me through them, working my labia and clit with a skill that had me breathless in seconds and made me come in less than a minute. Then he let go and stepped away from me.

I slumped against the bronze, my head almost resting on Angie’s ample arse, waiting for him to continue. Looking behind me in what I hoped to e a provocative way, I saw Jack, smiling and holding his fingers to his nose.

“I’d like to do you,” Jack said calmly, making no move towards me “You’d make a fine bronze.”

I couldn’t believe Jack’s arrogance. He had my juice on his fingers and he was talking to me as if we were having a coffee. I pushed myself upright, one hand on Angie’s thigh and moved towards him.

“Perhaps, I could persuade Angie to pose with you. You look so suited to one another.”

That’s when I tried to slap him.

I’d never hit a man before. I’d never hit anyone. But he’d made me so angry that I wanted to smash his smug bastard face so that he could never smile again.

I put all my strength behind the blow. He caught my wrist in midair and held it tight. He was still smiling so I let fly with other hand. He caught that one as well. Then with great speed and apparent ease, he forced both hands down and held them at the small of my back.


My words were stifled by his kiss.

I should have bitten him or kicked him or both, God knows he deserved it, except I was too busy discovering how much I liked being held totally helpless by a large, powerful man who kissed me as if it was his right.

My eyes were closed when I heard that distinctive upper-class throat-clearing sound that expresses disapproval and mild irritation without requiring words to be wasted.

A tall thin man stood behind Jack. He was in his thirties, casually dressed but with a “groomed by others since birth” finish that spoke of breeding and not just wealth.

Jack let go of my hands but did not move away from me.

“The Culture Vultures are waiting to be fed. These people are too well-educated to touch a sculpture. They wait for someone to explain it to them so that can tell their friends why buying my work cost them so much money.”

Jack stepped away from me and turned towards the tall man.

“Campion, give this woman the address of my studio and set up an appointment for a session when the dragon lady is away.”

Jack moved towards the crowd that was waiting to hear him speak. Without looking back he said “Oh and Campion, find out her name for me.” Then he was gone.

“You can take your hands from behind your back now.” Campion said.

Although Jack had released me, I was still standing as if bound. I refused to let myself be embarrassed. I held out my hand towards Campion and said “My name is Tracey Muir.”

Campion shook my hand briefly but politely. His skin was soft and dry. His face was carefully neutral.

“This is Jack’s address, Ms Muir,” Campion said handing me a card. “You can have your session with him any time from Wednesday noon onwards. If you call that number, we’ll send a car for you.”

Campion started to turn away from me to follow Jack. I wasn’t ready to be dismissed. Some of the anger I should have directed a Jack splashed onto Campion instead.

“Are you always, Jack’s pimp, Campion?”

He turned to face me, looking at me properly for the first time. He smiled.

“I see Jack has found a brave one. Jack can sense bravery from fifty paces. The only thing I always am, Ms Muir, is Jack’s brother. In any case, I believe the role you were casting me in was panderer rather than pimp.”

He stepped towards me, moving close enough so the he could speak without the possibility of being overheard. I wanted to step back but I didn’t want to look weak so I stayed put.

“Jack will be forty next week. You are somewhere in your twenties I would guess. Jack has been married for most of your life. His oldest child has just gone up to Oxford. You wear no wedding ring. Jack is a selfish, domineering, intensely passionate man who eats young women before breakfast. You need to decide who you want to be, before Jack casts you in bronze. And now, like a good brother, I must join the crowd in time to applaud Jack for being Jack.”

He left before I could think of anything to say beyond “Fuck you” which was in danger of sounding like an offer in the circumstances.

That night I lay in bed, thinking over the encounter. So Jack was a married man who ate young girls before breakfast. It sounded like a good way to work up an appetite to me. Besides, the idea of fucking a married man had a certain illicit thrill to it. And it placed a limit. If he had a wife then things could never get too serious.

I didn’t want serious. Not then. Then I was twenty-five and he was a good story I would tell one day to shock my daughters. “I once bedded a sculptor you, know – very good with his hands. Even better without them.”

I decided to conclude my day with a reprise of Jack’s finger fuck. I rolled over onto my belly, closed my eyes and slid my hand into position trying to imagine Jack’s weight on top of me. Annoyingly I couldn’t get anywhere near the level of arousal that Jack had produced. My own hand felt more like Campion’s than Jack’s. An image popped into my head of me, naked, hands bound behind my back, sitting on Jack’s lap with my back to him and his cock up my arse and Campion standing in front of us, face carefully neutral, waiting to applaud Jack for being Jack. My arousal peaked and I fell asleep determined to visit Jack on Wednesday.


© Mike Kimera 2005 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk


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

American Holidays 5: Thanksgiving

MKEF American HolidaysMy understanding is that Thanksgiving is fundamentally a family holiday in the US. People will travel great distances to be together with their families on that day.

Erotica and families make uncomfortable bed fellows. Apart from stories with a (usually extremely unrealistic) fetish for incest, most protagonists in erotic stories spring whole onto the page with neither parents nor children to distract their focus from sexual satisfaction. Yet our families are an inescapable and sometimes inscrutable part of our identity.

In this story, I wanted to understand how little Helen grew up to be a sexually dominant woman and I wanted to set her relationship with Peter in to the context of her relationship with her parents.

I hope you enjoy the result.



“You want me to sleep here?”

“Well this is where you slept when you lived here, Helen. Why should it change now? I thought you’d be pleased to have your old room back.”

I try to read my mother’s face. She must being doing this deliberately. And she must know that I can see what she is doing. But she still has that innocent, not-quite-connected-to-planet-earth look that she uses to avoid any minor questions about her decisions that my father might be rash enough to voice.

I stare in disbelief at the single bed that I slept in as a child. It’s a very narrow single bed.

“I know that you prefer to ignore the fact that Peter and I are married mother, but he is my husband and I expect to have him in my bed. We can’t sleep here.”

“Really, Helen, I have no idea where you get these impressions from. I have no opinion about Peter. As I said at the time, who you chose to marry was up to you.”

What she’d said at the time was “Are you sure you want to marry Paul, dear? He’s such a bland man. I can see the advantage of having someone manageable but marriage needs a little spice if it’s to last. I’ve always preferred to wake up to Huevos Rancheros, the problem with Paul is that he’s just so… oatmeal.”

I’d stood there, with my hands balled into fists and my jaw clenched, trying to quell the desire to hit her.

“His name is Peter, mother,” I’d spat out.

“You see, dear, not even his name is memorable. Ah well. It is your decision of course.”

Now, seven years later, I find myself having to bite back my anger one more time. My mother is talking. I’m trying not to strangle her.

“I didn’t think that you and Peter would mind being separated for one night. I’ve given him the fold-down bed in your father’s den. He’ll be perfectly comfortable. I had to give the guest bedroom to Troy and Dianna; after all they have the baby to think of.”

The baby. Of course we should be thinking about the baby. My younger brother (what kind of mother calls their kids Helen and Troy?) produced a grandchild right off the bat. I of course committed the sin of putting my career ahead of my duty to deliver grandchildren, although even that became Peter’s fault in my mother’s mind. “If Peter has a problem dear, I can recommend an excellent clinic.” My mother had left that helpful tip on our answerphone in the second year of my marriage. Peter played it back to me when I got home from work.

I don’t resent the fact that Troy and Dianna got the big bed. I resent the implication that Peter is so bland that I won’t even notice his absence.

“I want him here with me, mother.”

Even I can hear how petulant I sound.

“Well if it’s that important to you, dear. I’ll ask your father to move the fold-down bed in here. I’m sure he won’t mind. Although of course he has only just set everything up the den. But then your father always makes sure that his little Helen gets what she wants, doesn’t he?”

I don’t believe it. She is still jealous of the fact that Dad will do things for me.

“There won’t be a lot of room in here. You’ll have to fold up the bed before you can open the door. But, if that’s what you want…”

Oh God. It is always like this. A constant trickle of words that erode my will. I either have to get angry or to shut down and give in. Giving in is easier. If I push her now, the topic will come up at dinner. And again in the morning. And in the next time we come to the house. If there is a next time.

“Never mind, mother. Peter can stay where he is. Let’s just concentrate on getting dinner ready.”

“Well, if you’re sure, dear.”

How did this woman live so long?

“You look tense, Helen. Why don’t you take a moment to freshen up? Dianna is changing the baby in the bathroom but you can use the en suite in the master bedroom. I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready.”

And then she is gone. The relief is physical, like when your ears pop at altitude.

I don’t really need to freshen up but it gives me a reason to delay going downstairs. Nothing has changed in my parents’ bedroom. The huge wrought iron bed with the chintz canopy over it is still there. I used that bed the first time that I fucked Peter. I used it because I liked the headboard, because I wanted revenge on my mother for all the times I’d had to listen to her thrashing in this bed in the middle of the night, and because I wanted to see if good, nice, sensible Peter Brader would do what I wanted him to do.

I sit on the stool by the dressing table and summon up the memory of a nineteen year old Peter, lying on this bed with his wrists tied to the headboard; so calm and trusting that, except for the impressive erection he was saluting me with, he might almost have been ready to sleep.

Other boys I’d known had only pretended to submit. They’d made comments as I tied them to establish that it was all a game and as soon as they’d come; they’d started to fret at their bonds, demanding to be let free. Peter didn’t do any of that. He just waited for me to use him. But his serenity wasn’t passive. Somehow it managed to amplify everything I did. The harder I fucked him, the harder I wanted to fuck him. His cock was my lightening rod, calling me forth, daring me to spend myself on him, taking everything that I could give and leaving me discharged and sated.

Afterwards I’d left him tied to the bed while I sat and brushed my hair. A beam of sunlight was shining down on him, highlighting the sweat on his muscles and the small scratches and bites I’d visited on him. He looked happy, even grateful. I’d shown him my wildest side. I’d sworn and fucked and bitten and scratched and shouted my come with my head thrown back and he hadn’t pulled away, he hadn’t been threatened. He was waiting for more. He was waiting for me. For the first time in my adult life I felt as if I’d found a home.

Peter wasn’t my first fuck, but he was my first lover. Actually, he is my only lover. To me that is a statement of how rich my life is rather than how narrow my experience has been.

“Helen dear, if you’ve finished up there, you can help your father lay the table.”

The sound of my mother’s voice makes me feel guilty and furtive and childish. I get off the stool quickly and smooth the cover of the bed, as if I had just used it. Why does coming home always turn me back into a little girl? And why do I hate that so much?

There are six of us at dinner but there is food for at least a dozen. The conversation is stilted at first. Troy and Peter have the mandatory road-number-filled review of the drive to my parents’ house, even though I actually did the driving. I ask Dianna about the baby, revealing my ignorance of modern childrearing with each question that I ask. Mother fusses over dad, ensuring that he gets the best slices of meat, touching his hand when she passes him things, keeping his glass full. She always makes sure that he knows he is the centre of her attention. Dad catches me watching them and gives me an unapologetic grin. This is how the world is, that grin says, and it’s too late now to change it.

As the wine flows, words become easier for everybody but me. I feel as though an invisible barrier has settled between me and everyone else. I watch but I don’t speak.

Peter fits in so well. He is a good listener. People relax when they talk with him. When they talk with me it is as if they are always just a little on their guard. Dianna is talking to him now. Peter isn’t talking to her about the baby. Somehow he has learnt that she paints and within a few moments the woman I could barely exchange a word with is sharing her passion for abstract art.

As the courses go by I drink and eat more than I should. I want to speak to Troy. I want to sit and exchange deep truths with him, except that those truths remain just out of reach of my tongue so I remain silent. By the time we reach desert I am quite drunk. It seems to me that Peter has abandoned me. Everyone has abandoned me.

“I think you might want to have little lie down, dear.”

My mother is leading back to my little virgin bed. I’d protest except that I can’t find the words. And I’m tired. Very, very tired.

I wake with a fierce thirst and a vicious headache. It’s dark. I’ve slept through the afternoon. I groan in self-pity. I’ve made such a fool of myself. I know that mother will be secretly pleased.

I want Peter. Except Peter isn’t here, my mother saw to that.

Sitting up is not pleasant so I lie down again.

The room has not changed since I left it seven years ago. I’ve changed so much since then that it seems incongruous for me to be occupying the same space that I did then. Peter is responsible for most of those changes. Living up to how he sees me, using the quiet space he provides for me to seek refuge in, has changed who I am.

Who would I have been without Peter?

Back before Peter, I’d never really been that comfortable with boys. It wasn’t that I was shy; it was more that I saw them too clearly and I didn’t like what I saw. For them, girls were trophies to show off to other boys. I used to imagine them at swap meets, talking to each other about girls like they were baseball cards: “Had her. Had her. Had her. Want her. I’ll swap you two Heathers for an Alicia.”  But the worse thing was that, when it came to sex, they all seemed to want to be in charge although very few of them seemed to know what to do.

I knew enough about my own body to know what I wanted: where and how I wanted to be touched and for how long. I also knew the kind of body I wanted to do the touching: tall, lean, strong. Unfortunately, most of those bodies seemed to come with the supersized ego option as standard.

I tried a few anyway. It wasn’t hard to get their attention, I was attractive enough in a petite, androgynous sort of way, the challenge was to stay in control. The first couple of attempts were an education.

“Tall ‘n’ Lean #1” put his hands everywhere but he didn’t know what to do with them. And he got irritated when I moved around. I was supposed to be his bendyfucktoy, something he could pose for his convenience. His dick was nice: smooth and hard; but he wasn’t interested in me touching it for long, he wanted to “slide it home”. I moved to climb up on his lap but he wanted me on my back. He wasn’t in me for long before he came. Then he asked me if I wanted to go get a burger. I realized I’d just had the sexual equivalent of a drive thru meal: smells good, is over too quickly and lies like a lump on your stomach afterwards.

“Tall ‘n’ Lean #2” wasn’t interested in entering anything other than my mouth. He wanted me on his knees, looking up into his eyes. I had no objection to the idea in principal. It was corny but it had a sense of theatre to it. What turned me off was him placing his hand on the back of my head and using my mouth like an extension of his hand. I’ve seen drains unblocked with more finesse. I had to grab his balls to make him stop. I thought he’d be angry with me, maybe even try to hit me, but he actually whined like a little boy, “What did you do that for?” It was the question I was beginning to ask about sex as a whole.

I decided to do some research before seeking out “Tall ‘n’ Lean #3”. I went to Barnes and Noble to see what kind of books I could find on sex. I’d done the “Insert Part A into Part B” manuals and the “Joy of Sex” hippy-type manuals but they didn’t give me what I wanted. They were too much like cookery lessons and not enough like good food. I moved on to the erotica section and found “The Story of O” and “The Taking of Sleeping Beauty”. They definitely got my attention. Hours of it. The thing was, I didn’t want to be O or Beauty, I wanted to be the person doing things to them. Well not them in particular. I wanted to be doing things to “Tall ‘n’ Leans”. I’d lie in my narrow little bed, exhausted from my reading or listening to my parents having sex in the room next door, and I’d think about what it would be like to have that kind of control. Then I got to thinking about how I might make it happen. As it turned out it wasn’t that difficult but it wasn’t that much fun either.

I found “Tall ‘n’ Leans #3” in a Karate class. I’d signed up because I wanted to be able to protect myself and because I figured the boys there would be more disciplined. He was beautiful, his sweat smelled good, he was a black belt and he was older than me. I waited for him in the parking lot after class. I had decided to be direct.

“Would you like me to fuck you?”

He didn’t look stunned, offended or even pleased, just curious.

“Are you sure you mean it that way around? Most girls want me to fuck them.”

“I’m very sure.”

He eyes licked slowly over me body. Then he smiled.

“OK.” He said, like he was agreeing to grab a pizza, “but I have a question.”


“What’s your name?”

I blushed at that. It hadn’t occurred to me that while I’d been noticing the muscles in his forearm and the tight curve of his butt, all he’d been paying attention to was his Karate technique.

My parents were away on one of their pagan weekends. Sex was the bedrock of their marriage; you only had to look at the two of them together to see that. The pagan weekends gave them the opportunity to concentrate on fucking each other’s brains out without worrying about making a noise.

I’d decided to have a mini pagan weekend of my own. I brought Tall ‘n’ Leans #3″ back to my house. I was more than a little nervous. He didn’t touch me or hassle me but there was a confidence behind his eyes that was unsettling. I took him into my dad’s Den and gave him the speech I’d rehearsed.

“OK, here are the rules. I want to fuck you. I want you to do what I tell you while I fuck you. If you don’t do what I tell you, the fucking will stop. Do you understand?”

It was supposed to be my first step to establishing mastery over him. He sat on the edge of my dad’s desk, like he had a right to be there, and said, “That speech would work better if you said ‘I am going to fuck you. You will do what I want’. You have to sound like you mean it.”

He slipped off the desk and on to his knees in front of me without breaking eye contact.

“Tell me how to serve you, Mistress.”

In theory this was just what I wanted. But he was laughing at me. It was gentle laughter, but laughter all the same.

“Shit.” I said.

For a second he looked surprised. He thought I was giving an instruction.

“I so wanted to tie you to my dad’s chair and tease you and fuck you. But it’s not going to work is it?”

He stood up, lifting me like I weighed nothing at all and placed me on dad’s desk. I felt a little bit of panic and a lot of excitement.

“Your dad’s chair? How old are you, Helen? No. Don’t answer that. You’re a pretty girl, Helen, and a brave one. You know what you want but you don’t yet know how to recognize who can give it to you.”

I’d known he was a little older than me but I hadn’t expected him to talk to me like I was a child. Who did he think he was, my camp counselor?

“Well why did you come here then?” My eyes were hot with embarrassment.

“You sounded convincing in the parking lot. And I don’t mind switching from time to time.”


“I’m a Dom, Helen. I normally do the tying up.”

“You think I’m stupid, don’t you?”

“No. But I think you need to learn to recognize a sub when you meet one.”

Then he kissed me. It was a slow kiss, passionate but friendly. It made me wonder what it would be like to be tied up by him. To let him do whatever he wanted. Then he wasn’t kissing me anymore.

“Gotta go, Helen. My name is Jon, by the way. I’ll see you at Karate next week.”

I picked up a book from the desk and threw it, but it only hit the door closing behind him. I was mad at Jon for the rest of the day. Then I started to think about how things might have gone wrong: about the risks that I’d taken; about how gentle he’d been. Gentle and strong. I could see why women would let him tie them.

Jon and I became friends but not lovers. He gave me things to read and told me about his life. I left the “Tall ‘n’ Leans” alone for a while and concentrated on getting to college. I’d gotten through two more “Tall ‘n’ Leans” in college before I met Peter, both of them one night stands, both of them left me feeling hungry and somehow cheated.

My head is feeling better so I check my watch. Somehow it has reached 10pm. I’ve missed Thanksgiving and they’ve all forgotten about me. I hug my sense of hurt to me tightly. It serves me right that I’ve been abandoned. You see I made a mistake. Such a big mistake. I gave Peter away to my best friend. I was so sure of him you see. So certain that I was what he wanted. I thought I could lend him out. Share him with a friend.

It started out Ok. Barbara was sad and needed comfort so I tied Peter and blindfolded him and then I shared him with her. It was fun. It felt human and loving. I was so proud of all of us. But the thing is, I get jealous. Just the way my mother does. I hate myself for it but I can’t help it.

I’d invited Barbara to stay with us, to join the Peter and Helen household. I knew they liked each other but I was too vain to think it through. And then I saw how Peter looked at her. How he wanted her. It was my doing, not his. Peter followed my lead, trusting me to do the right thing, and I gave him away.

Except Barbara gave him back. Barbara gave him back. I don’t know if he’d have come back on his own.

I must still be a little drunk. I’ve spent months carefully not thinking about this and now I’m crying into my pillow afraid that Peter hasn’t really come back to me.

You see, I know that I’m not worthy of Peter. I’m not really the person he deserves. For weeks now I’ve been watching him, wondering if I’m living in a charade; whether Peter would rather be with Barbara but is just too nice to leave me. Maybe my mother was right to put him on the other side of the house.


Peter is standing over me. I didn’t even hear him come in. I sit up on the bed, conscious of how red my eyes must be and how strongly I must smell of drink. I want to get up and hug him but I can’t make myself move.

Peter has brought the toybag with him. I didn’t even know he’d packed it. Shit, he’s brought the toybag to my parents’ house.

He places the toybag on the bed beside me. Normally I choose the toys, but this time it is Peter who opens the bag. He takes out the strap-on. It’s a complicated affair. The strap that goes between my legs will push a dildo and a buttplug into me and leave a long thin curved black latex cock jutting out from my belly.

“I’d like you to use this. I want us to make some noise”.

Peter wants me to fuck him and he wants everyone to know its happening. Joy spreads through me like liquid sunlight. Peter wants me.

He’s been watching me figure it out. When he sees my smile start, he kisses me. I am sleeping beauty being brought back to life. Except I’m going to reward my Prince by reaming his ass as hard as I can.

I take the strap-on from him.

“Strip, Peter,” I say.

He sheds his clothes calmly but quickly. He is already hard. I make him wait while I shrug out of my clothes, then I stand with one leg on the bed and tell him to tool me up. I mean to sound stern but I can’t keep the joy out of my voice.

Then it starts for real. Peter lubes me slowly and thoroughly and straps me tight. With both holes full and a strong black cock thrusting in front of me I feel powerful and as randy as hell.

“Get on your back on the bed, Peter, and hold onto to your ankles.”

I love the sound of that. Love the calm excitement with which he obeys. He doesn’t ask why he’s on his back when he should be bent over. He does what I tell him.

I spread lube over my mockcock, place my finger and thumb around the base of Peter’s erection and push the strap-on hard into his anus.

“Keep your hands around your ankles, Peter.” Then I make the noise he’s been waiting for: in my best rodeo tones I shout, “YEEHAW” and we’re off.

I ride him hard enough to make him buck on the bed. I keep his cock in my hand like a joystick or perhaps a saddle horn, squeezing it as I pound his ass. The harder I push into him the deeper the dildo rises into me. When I’m close, I slap his hands away from his ankles, lift his feet up over my shoulders and fuck for depth. The bed is bouncing now.

“Jack-off, Peter. Jack-off hard.”

His hand moves eagerly on his cock. I am so close that I’m groaning as I grind into him. The heat of his sperm splashing onto my belly pushes me over and I growl my come at him.

I pull out of Peter’s poor abused asshole and collapse on top of him. I feel strong and whole and loved.

Peter holds me gently and whispers, “Welcome back, Helen”.

It turns out that the bed is not too narrow if we lie like spoons. As I fall asleep I remember that I’m still wearing the strap-on but I’m too tired to move.

We are both sore the next morning but that doesn’t stop us grinning at one another.

“Do you think they heard us?”

“Your parents’ bedroom is still next door isn’t it, Helen?”

We both laugh.

At breakfast I wait for my mother to say something. She discusses the weather and asks if we really have to leave straight after breakfast but makes no mention of our exploits. As we say our goodbyes, mother hugs Peter and says something to him. I miss the exchange because I have a crying baby in my arms at the time.

When I’ve driven as far as the freeway, I ask Peter what my mother said.

“She told me you were lucky to have me.”

“What did you say?”

“I said that you would always have me and that I would always give thanks for that.”

I try to imagine the expression on my mother’s face when she heard that. I decide that it would probably be one of approval. “Thank God for Peter”, I think to myself. Then I start to look for the next rest stop. I want a quiet place where we can do a bit more thanksgiving.


© Mike Kimera 2003 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk


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

American Holidays 4 : Halloween

MKEF American HolidaysHalloween is for me the ultimate American Holiday: a European tradition that has mutated into something spectacularly American and then been resold to the rest of the world. It’s a feast that celebrates transformation and brings to the surface things we normally keep in the shadows. I decided that the best way to get the spirit of Halloween was to tell it from the point of view of Anthea, Mark’s boss. Once I got inside her head, everything looked different.

I hope you enjoy this. Please let me know what you think.



“You can’t do this to me, Anthea.”

Mark is more pathetic than fierce. The smell of alcohol preceded him into my office. He looks slightly jaundiced. His cheeks and chin sport small islands of stubble that managed to evade his razor this morning. I’m surprised he can keep his hand steady enough to shave.

“I’m not doing it to you, Mark,” I say. “You’re doing it to yourself. You’ve lost it. Look at yourself. How long can you last between drinks now, Mark? An hour? Two if you really try? I’m giving you a simple choice: either dry out or ship out.”

For a moment I think he’s going to tell me to fuck off. I almost wish he would.

When we first met, before his long-suffering wife finally left him, he was a maverick. He always had a comeback ready. I liked him. He reminded me of Davey, my younger brother. Or at least how Davey would have been if he hadn’t wrapped himself around a tree riding that motorcycle of his.

I’ve never found it easy to talk to men. Somehow it always turned into a conflict: the strong ones saw me as a challenge, someone to put down either by bedding or ridiculing; the weak ones were afraid of me and their fear made me despise them and despise myself for feeling that way. I built a shell around myself. I out-manned them; being tougher than the strong and ruthlessly removing the weak.

I thought Mark was the exception, that for once I could drop the macho crap and make a friend. I liked the way he smiled and he was easy to talk to. Then, one evening, when we were working late, Mark pushed his fingers between my legs. I wanted to kill him. I felt betrayed. Stupid really, he wasn’t to know that he reminded me of my dead brother.

Mark works for me now. I should probably have fired him, but I always hoped that he’d pull himself together and be the guy I wanted him to be. Now he’s sitting on the other side of my desk with nothing to say. Oh shit. He’s crying. Not big sobs. More like his eyes are leaking.

Part of me wants to hug him and help him, but most of me just wants to slap him. How could he fuck up his life like this?

Of course I can’t do either of these things. I’m the boss, Anthea the Hun they call me: strong, logical, unemotional.

I look at my watch. Mark is my last chore before I head home. It’s Halloween tonight and I have things to prepare. I let my eyes rest on the picture of Drazen and his daughter that I keep on my desk. The picture is supposed to remind me of home, give me a smile in the middle of the day; increasingly it just reminds me that I spend too many hours at work and most of them are wasted on cleaning up the messes other people make. Time to clear up my last mess of the day.

“I’m going to leave these details with you, Mark. If you want to keep your job then I will get a phone call from the clinic on Monday saying that you’ve checked in. If you want to continue to drown yourself in booze, then just clear your desk and don’t come back. This is your last chance, Mark. Choose wisely.”

Why do I always sound so pompous when I’m doing something unpleasant?

Even though it’s my office, I get up to leave. I want to be home. I want to be somewhere where I don’t have to be in charge and where I can let people love me. Mark starts to cry properly as I leave. I pretend not to hear him and keep moving.

The express elevator, a perk of my executive status, is softly lit and lined with mirrors, presumably so that executives can maintain a positive image. I stand in the centre of the elevator and stare at the infinite number of Antheas that head off in each direction. I don’t recognize them. I don’t want these uptight, asexual women to be me.

Perhaps it is the shock of seeing the wreck Mark has become, or perhaps it is the news I want to give to Drazen tonight, but I feel a strong need to change the images in the mirror. I reach up and release my hair, letting it fall around my shoulders. My hair is thick and soft, I love the feel of it against my face, the taste of it in my mouth. My hair is my freedom, my sexuality. Which is why I bind it so tightly at work, but why I refuse to have it cut.

I bend forward at the waist, letting my hair fall forward over my head. It is almost long enough to touch the floor. Then I flick myself upright, casting my hair behind me like a mane. The images in the mirror, with their legs apart, shoulders back, hair shining in the massaged light, seem more recognizable now. I wave to myself just as the deferential tone sounds to let me know that I have reached the ground.

I opt for a limo rather than taking the train. I tell myself that it’s because I’m late and I need to hurry home, but I know that what I want is the privacy.

In the car I settle back against the leather seat and slip off my shoes. I will be home in less than an hour, but I need Drazen right now. The wireless earpiece of my cell phone (Anthea the Hun always has all the latest boys toys) is hidden beneath my hair. I say, “Drazen” and the speed dial starts.

“Anthea.” A statement, not a question. Drazen’s voice, soft and calm, slides into my ear and makes me shiver. In his mouth my name is “Ann-Tea-Ah” and immediately “the Hun” is left behind. I remain silent, waiting.

“So…” he says, “you can be overheard, but you want to play. Soon, I hope, you will be home, but then there will be other things before… I understand.”

I can hear him walking through the house. He will go to his studio. Sound proofed and secure. I recognize the noise the door lock makes as it snaps shut.

When he speaks again he is more relaxed. His voice is still soft but it has energy to it suggesting the confident strength and controlled arousal of a predator stalking his prey.

“You are in a car. No, it is quiet enough to be a limo. I can hear your breathing, Anthea. Press your shoulders back against the leather seat. Keep your thighs together. Tight together. Squeeze. Close your eyes and remember how it feels when your thighs close against my beard, when my tongue dips into you. Remember the smell of your arousal, the soft drizzle of your juices onto my chin. Remember how hard it is for you to stay still, how much you want to move, to grind, to rock, to press, to drive yourself down upon my tongue until it impales you. Remember all of that but keep a calm expression on your face.”

I look forward at the rearview mirror. The driver’s eyes are on the road, but if he looks up he will see me.

It feels as though Drazen is behind me, breathing into my ear, as if it is him I am pressing into. I want to open my legs, just a little, slide a finger along my thigh, draw small circles on my mound.

“No touching, Anthea. Keep your legs closed and your mind open.”

I smile. I know he will be imagining me smiling.

“Stretch your legs. Feel the muscles at the back of your thighs tense. Keep them tense. Can you smell yourself yet? Do you think your driver can smell you? Not yet perhaps, but soon.”

My face flushes at the thought. I check the rear view again. The driver looks up, then looks away.

“You will feign sleep, Anthea. Let your beautiful head rest against the leather. Hold some of your hair across your mouth. Keep it in place. Remember how my thumb feels, pressing against your lower lip, my fingers resting on your cheek, how good it feels to dip your head forward and feel the thumb press into the roof of your mouth.”

I bite down on my hair as the first little contraction hits. Memory flares. The first time that he fucked me in a public place it started like that, a small dip of my head on his thumb, my face scarlet with embarrassment, my sex damp with need. It ended with me bent over the back of a park bench, Drazen behind me, pushing slowly and calmly into my ass, as if anal sex was a normal pursuit on a Sunday morning stroll in the park.

“Good girl, Anthea. Good girl.”

His voice is stroking me. Soothing me. I hear him unzip his fly and a small moan escapes from me.

“Shh, Anthea is sleeping. She cannot see how hard I am at the thought of her, cannot smell the musk of that arousal.”

I love the smell of him. The taste of him. The fascination of playing with his foreskin. The strong scent that rises when I roll back that soft skin.

“In her sleep Anthea will reach beneath her respectable executive jacket, open one button of her pressed and spotless white blouse, push aside the cup of the plain white cotton bra and let her breast rest in the palm of her hand.”

Slowly, shifting to one side as if in sleep, I let my hand slide onto my breast.

My nipples are so sensitive that I can hardly bare to have them touched. Before Drazen, my lovers had always been too rough: pinching and biting when they should have been caressing. I had begun to think that I was a freak with hair-trigger nipples that would be constantly off limits. Drazen, with his pianist’s hands, showed me how wrong I was. He would stand behind me, his mouth on my neck, my breasts cupped gently in his hands, just the underside of them resting against his skin, lifted slightly but with no pressure. Then his thumbs, light as butterflies, would graze the tip of the nipples, coaxing them, letting them rise, working them until they throbbed, finally pushing them back firmly into my breasts and biting down on my neck until I was wriggling with pleasure.

“Anthea is dreaming. In her dream my cock slides, slick and stiff, out of her mouth. She guides it to her breasts. Uses it to draw a wet circle around her nipple. Laughs when I flinch with the extremity of the sensation. Rubs the underside of the gland over the stubby arousal of her nipple, then squeezes the head of my cock until the slit opens. She looks up at me, her eyes on mine as she pushes her nipple into the slit, fucking me and fucking me and fucking me.”

Drazen’s voice has a ragged edge now. He will be touching himself. His eyes will be closed as he remembers how I took him that night. The first time I really took the initiative.

“Stroke the nipple, Anthea. Slow strokes. Persistent strokes. Suck on the hair in your mouth. Squeeze your thighs. Sweat for me inside your executive suit in your oversized limo. Come for me. Come hard. Come silently. Come for me, Anthea.”

And I do. Not at once. Not on command. It takes maybe a minute of silent struggle. I can hear him breathing hard into my ear, listening to me, sniffing at me through the phone line. The come is a sunburst of warmth spreading up from my stomach, exorcising the tension of the day.

“Good girl, Anthea. Very good girl. Now come home to me.”

The line goes dead in my ear.

I open my eyes and sit up straight. The driver’s eyes flick away a little too quickly when I look into the rearview. I realize that I am smiling. “Ann-Tea-Ah” smiles a lot.

I open the window, even though the day is cold. I don’t want my smell to stay in the car.

I am nearly home now. We’ve left the freeway behind and are driving slowly through tree-lined streets. I can see Jack O’ Lanterns on porches. They are all grinning at me. I grin back.

Drazen was my New Year’s resolution. It was part of project APT GAL (Anthea’s Plan To Get A Life) that I dreamed up when I found myself alone in my house on New Year’s Eve. If I’d been sober when I put the plan together, I’m fairly sure that step one would not have read “Take piano lessons”. Nothing might have come of it except for the card I saw the next day on the notice board at the convenience store. It read “Drazen Bebic: Piano Teacher”.

For some reason, “Piano Teacher” had summoned up an image of a kindly old man wearing spectacles and an old brown cardigan and speaking with a Professor Von Duck accent. Drazen was nothing like that. First there was his hair: thick, jet black, and brushed straight back so that it seemed to cascade to his shoulders. Then there was his beard, short, precise, somehow emphasizing the sensual softness of his lips. But most of all there were his eyes, dark but filled with light, and hard to look away from.

He was at least fifteen years older than me and I’d only just laid eyes on him but, by the time he stepped forward and shook my hand, my palm was already damp. When he touched me, my nipples hardened. No one had ever had that effect on me before. Then he said my name, “Ann-Tea-Ah” and I understood what gives cats the urge to purr.

He sat me down in front of the huge piano that dominated his tiny apartment. I felt like Jane Ayre, asked to play for Mr. Rochester, and knowing that every note would diminish her in his eyes. Yet I’d been good at the piano once, back before work spread itself across my life like a gorse bush, leaving room for nothing else, so when, standing so close behind me that I could smell his cologne, he said, “I would like to hear you, Anthea.” I started to play.

He listened and watched. There was nothing flirtatious, but I had his complete attention. I played quite well once I got started. Enough to demonstrate some technique at least. He didn’t tell me to stop, so I played every piece I knew. When I finished I wondered why I’d ever given up playing. I was good and this was fun.

“I would like to know what it is that you want, Anthea.” Drazen said.

I had turned to face him, waiting for praise or at least coaching, wanting to look into his eyes again. His question surprised me.

“I want to play the piano.”

“Ah, I had hoped that perhaps you wanted me to teach you.”


“You already play the piano. But you play with these…”

He reached out and picked up my hand, holding it gently by the tips of the fingers. My skin prickled where it touched him.

“When you could be playing with this.”

He held me by the wrist and placed the palm of my hand against my chest, between my breasts. The contact wasn’t overtly sexual but I felt naked in front of him. The surprising thing was that my body was clearly happy about that. My mind was offended.

I shook his hand off my wrist and stood up.

“I’m leaving now,” I said.

Drazen bowed his head. I’d never seen anyone do that in real life before. His eyes stayed on me during the bow. I couldn’t read them but I didn’t want to look away from them. I had to remind myself that he had been rude to me and that I wasn’t going to stand for it.

“Are you always so…” I realized that rude was the wrong word. He’d been polite but, “…personal with your students?”

“What is life if it is not personal, Anthea?”

That was pretty much the question I’d been asking myself on New Years Eve.

“I’m going now.”

He stepped back and to one side so that I had a clear route to the door.

I didn’t leave. It was Anthea the Hun who wanted to leave. The rest of me wanted to stay. I sat down.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “You caught me by surprise. I’d like to stay.”

He didn’t look surprised, but he did smile.

“Then I’m glad that I ‘caught’ you at all,” he said.

And he had caught me. We became lovers within the week. But even in bed he was my teacher. He taught me to listen to the now, to surrender to the needs of my body in order to feed my soul. Another man talking like that would sound ridiculous, Drazen just sounds truthful.

Months afterwards, lying in his arms after sex, I asked him about the day we met. I wanted to know what he thought of me then.

He lifted my chin off his chest to make me look at him and said, “I thought then, what I think now. That I want you. That, if you will let me, I will take you. That sometimes life is worth living.” I knew then that he loved me.

“We’re here ma’am”, the driver says.

There are no lascivious looks, no innuendo. I smile at him and tip him more generously than usual.

Anja is waiting for me when I get home. She has the same grave face as her father, one that is transformed when she smiles.

Anja is doing her best to find a place for herself in America, but she has a solemnity about her that is not normal for an eleven year old American girl, but she is strong, a survivor. She has survived the war in Bosnia, the death of her mother, her exile in America. Seeing her standing there on the porch, her face lit by the huge Jack O’ Lantern that I helped her carve last night, I want to rid her of her ghosts. I want to see her filled with joy.

“Hello, Morticia,” she says, holding out her hand in a formal invitation “come and meet Gomez.”

Tonight we are, at Anja’s insistence, the Addams Family. She will of course, be Wednesday.

Drazen is already in the double-breasted pinstriped suit that is his concession to costume. I wonder if he was wearing it when I called.

“Gomez, mon cher, mon amour,” I say in a voice I hope is like Angelica Houston’s.

“Ah Tish, you spoke French,” he says on cue, taking my outstretched arm and kissing his way from the back of my hand up my arm to my neck. I glance sideways at Anja/Wednesday wondering if she approves, fearing that moments like this summon the spirit of her mother. The edges of her mouth are slightly upturned. I take that as warm approbation.

When Drazen’s head is at my neck I twist sideways, plant a quick kiss on his cheek and say, “Thank you. That was delicious.” Then I send him away so that Anja and I can change.

Anja has prepared everything, the clothes are laid out on the bed, the wigs are on the dressing table. It is all I can do to slip away and shower before she sets about her work.

There is an intimacy in dressing each other that is like nothing else. It is a recognition of trust and an offer to reveal and to transform. The costumes emphasize this. I never wear black at home, yet now I am wrapped in it like a shroud.

“How do I look?” I ask as the wig goes on.

“Believable.” Anja says.

Not quite the comment I expected. I wonder how I normally look to her. There is a short silence during which I grow nervous in front of this child.

Then she hands me the make-up bag and says. “Make me look sad, but scary”.

It doesn’t take long.

“Gomez” declines to walk the streets with us. Waving a thick cigar, which I know he will not smoke, he says, “My dears, the two of you are frightful enough, three of us could prove fatal.”

By the standards of the day, our costumes are sedate, yet at every door Anja makes a killing. She never once steps out of character, extorting treats because, from her, the threat of tricks seems so real.

I let her walk ahead of me, keeping to the shadows, arms folded across my breasts, whenever we reach a house. Watching Anja, I see her father, his stillness, his confidence. I wonder which of her gestures belong to her mother, Sanja.

I realize that I am jealous of Sanja, for having Drazen before me. Crazy to be jealous of a dead woman, and yet tonight I feel as though, at any moment, I might meet her.

When Anja’s sack is full we return home. She is so serious that I am uncertain whether she has enjoyed herself or whether this has all been a bizarre experiment in which she has tested the sanity of those around her and found them wanting. Yet when she sees Drazen on the porch, she runs to him.

“DaDa,” she says, holding up her sack, “look how much they gave me.”

“You must have made them tremble, little one.”

“No, it was Anthea, standing in the shadows like a threat. She was perfect.”

Drazen looks over Anja’s head at me and smiles. I feel as though I have won a medal. I wait for Anja to turn and thank me, but she grabs her sack and runs into the house.

“Happiness still catches her by surprise,” Drazen says. “She wants to go and hug it to herself in private.”

He takes my hand in his, rubs his thumb against my palm and says, “You understand that I’m sure.”

I almost tell him then, but I don’t want to do it in my costume so I wait. Dinner comes and goes without me finding the right moment. Anja gets permission to sleep in her Wednesday outfit because, as she explained very seriously, “it is still Halloween until morning”, and then Drazen and I are alone.

I go into the bedroom to change out of my Morticia costume. Drazen follows me. Leaning against the door frame, he looks at me, waiting for something.

I want to tell him. But not yet. ‘I need to think some more’, I tell myself. ‘Coward’, I reply.

“Come to bed,” Drazen says.

“I have to do some work first. I’ll be back later.”

I can see he doesn’t believe me, but he makes no comment when I go back downstairs.

I sit at my laptop, pretending to work, trying to find my courage. I make some coffee and go out onto the back porch.

The moon is full tonight. It sits in the sky, large and round and proud. It occurs to me that the moon and I are both pregnant, except that I don’t show yet.

This is what I need to tell Drazen. So what’s stopping me? We aren’t married. We’ve never really talked about the future. A man with a past like Drazen’s can be forgiven for living in the present. I don’t want to drive him away and I don’t want to force him to commit. And I don’t know how I feel about being pregnant.

I know exactly when this baby was conceived. It was on the anniversary of Sanja’s death. Drazen had never talked to me about how his wife died, but then I’d never found him crying before. I held him and let him cry.

“They hurt her, Anthea, before they killed her; they spent a day hurting her. And I couldn’t stop them. I didn’t even know what was happening until they dumped her body at my door.”

I rocked him, holding his head to my breast.

“She was my life, Anthea. And they killed her.”

There was nothing to say, so I stayed silent.

After a while he looked up. His eyes had no strength in them, only sorrow. I kissed them one at a time. Then I kissed his mouth, again and again, small healing kisses.

I put his hand between my legs. I don’t know why I did it. Words seemed so inadequate. I gave him what I had. The sex started slowly. I sat astride him and pulled him into me. Then I carried on kissing him. He stopped crying. He held me so tightly that it left bruises. Then he started to fuck me, fiercely, passionately, as if fucking me was the only thing that kept him alive. He clung to me even after he had come. I still hadn’t spoken to him, but now it was me who was crying.

I think he was saying good-bye to his wife that night. I know he was choosing me, choosing life. It turns out that we were also creating one.

I shiver in the cold and realize I have been outside a long time. Drazen is asleep when I reach the bedroom. The moon is washing his face with silver. He looks older, more vulnerable. I want him so badly it frightens me.

Time to choose: trick or treat?

I stroke his face, following the moon, then I sit astride him. He doesn’t wake until I kiss him. I place his hands on my breasts and rock gently on his cock, which is lying flat against his belly. I lift my hips and he slides into me. So good to have him there. So good to have him.

“There is something I need to tell you,” I say.

Drazen puts his finger across my lips pulls my head down to him. He pushes upwards, slowly, without urgency, until he is all the way in.

“What shall we call the child?” he says.


© Mike Kimera 2003 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk


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American Holidays 3 : Labor Day

In Europe, the equivalent holidays to Labor Day, those that celebrate the worker, are held in the beginning of May, at the start of the Summer. They are still strongly associated with Trade Unions in many countries.

My understanding is that, in the US, Labor Day is seem more as an end to the Summer and has lost most of its links with celebrating workers. It is a time when people start again after the Summer break. I decided that this story should be about endings and beginings, in the same way that the holiday is. Here we get a closer look at Barbara and at the impact of the threesome on Memorial Day on Peter and Helen.

Labor Day

“You OK?”

The concern in Peter’s voice makes me smile.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just taking a moment you know?”

His stillness in the doorway calms me.

I stand, check my hair in the mirror and say, “I’ll be out in a minute and I’ll be the life and soul of the party, honest. After all, it’s a holiday right?”

He says, “You’ve done the right thing Barbara,” like it’s not a non-sequitor. Then he leaves.

I hope I’ve done the right thing. I hope it with all my heart.

There has been so much change in my life, in such a short time, that I feel giddy. I sit back down, composing myself, staring at the woman in the mirror, looking for signs that she has changed.

When I was a child I used to love to play blindman’s bluff; to be blindfolded and turned round and round and round until all sense of directions was lost and the only way left was forward, into the arms of whomever I could catch. These past months I’ve been playing that game with my life. Now it’s time to take off the blindfold and seize what I have found.

God, I sound like some New-Ager peddling re-birthing seminars. How Mark would laugh at that. I can imagine the ‘commercial break’ voice in which he would say, “Tired of the old you? Give birth to a new and improved one after only five days at our woodland retreat!”

I’ve always sneered at the idea of such fundamental change. You are who you are. You don’t suddenly become someone else. But maybe, sometimes, we settle for not being all of who we are. We shut down the parts that don’t fit. We grow, but we grow stunted, like plants raised in a too-small pot. At the beginning of the summer it came to me that my life had become pot-bound. So I smashed the pot.

God knows, Mark had already put a few cracks in it, with his serial seductions of silly girls. But in the end it was me, not him, who shattered our marriage beyond hope of repair.

When he abandoned me, in the middle of a Memorial Day BarBQ with our best friends, so that he could go and fuck his latest Barbie, everything suddenly changed. I didn’t get angry. I got cold and still and then I cracked, like an iceberg snapping off from a glacier and sliding into the sea. One moment Mark and I were connected, the next we were separated by an unbridgeable stretch of despair and disappointment.

I think I might have frozen forever on that day. Gone into shock and never come out. But Helen and Peter rescued me, right there and then. They took me into their hearts and, for a while, into their bed. I know that sounds bizarre and weird, but it didn’t feel that way. I’ve known them both forever and I love them in my way. Helen, so brave and fierce and full of energy. Peter, her rock, her keel, always there for her, always calm and true. Being with them felt like coming home. Like rejoining my family. Except, of course, I don’t fuck my family.

But now it’s time to leave. The summer, that started so badly, is coming to an end. It’s Labor Day today. Helen and Peter are having a little party to wish me well in my new job in big bad Chicago. All my friends are waiting out there and yet I can’t bring myself to leave this room which has been my refuge from having to deal with the reality of divorcing Mark and learning to live on my own.

I know I should despise Mark. Everybody else does. But I can’t. He’s weak not wicked. I know all about being weak. I was weak for years. In a way, my whole married life was a result of weakness.

I let Mark marry me because he wanted it so much. He was the first man in a long time to see past the cloak of invisibility I had wrapped myself in. The dowdy clothes, the shyness, the lack of makeup, didn’t put him off. He wanted me and he wanted to please me. That was flattering. He found ways to make me laugh. That was endearing. And he was always there, like a faithful hound waiting to be taken for a walk. All I had to do was look at him for his tail to start to wag. That, in the end, turned out to be irresistible.

It’s not that I didn’t love Mark, I did. I still do. But the thought of him never made me wet. When we kissed it was nice rather than good. When we fucked it was urgent rather than potent. I told myself that things would get better; that we would learn how to please each other; that we had plenty of time. But that isn’t how it worked out. Things got worse, not better. We never talked about it, but it was always with us; an absence of the passion that should have made our marriage grow.

In the end, that absence became the center of our marriage. We walked around the hole it left in our lives every day, until it became our habit to circumnavigate sex, at least with each other. Mark found solace in sport-fucking shallow, undemanding women. I let my fingers release what I couldn’t suppress.

I wonder sometimes if things would have been different if I’d been a virgin when I married Mark. But I wasn’t. Not by a long shot. Todd had seen to that.

“You thinking of Mark?” Helen says, “You look upset.”

I didn’t hear her come in. I knew she would want to see me alone before I left. I have, I realize, been avoiding it. Now she is here, looking at me in the mirror, and I can’t read the expression on her face. She can do that sometimes; just switch her face to neutral. It’s disturbing because she is normally so expressive. Mark christened her ‘Helen, the face that launched a thousand quips.’

“Actually, I was thinking of Todd,” I say.

“Todd the impaler? What brought him to mind?” Helen moves closer to me. Her face has softened a bit. She knows Todd is a difficult subject for me.

“I was wondering if being with him screwed up my marriage.”

My voice sounds like I’m on the edge of crying. I didn’t expect that. I hate that I cry so easily.

Helen is smaller than me. When she hugs me, I have to bend slightly to put my head on her shoulder. She leads me to the bed and we sit for a moment, next to one another. She holds both my hands within hers and suddenly, I see her as she was when we were both in our first year in college.

She was my first adult female friend. She told me everything about herself. No embarrassment. No restraints. It was infectious. And one night, when we were sitting on her bed in her room, I started to tell her about Todd. I hadn’t told anyone about Todd. She let me talk. For hours. I think that Helen performed an exorcism that night.

When I had finished she said to me, “You are a good person.” It felt like a blessing.

If I had been prettier earlier, I would never have gone with Todd. Up to my senior year in high school, I was the invisible girl. The one everyone wrote, “I hope you have a great summer” to when they signed my yearbook, trying to remember who the hell I was.

The summer before my senior year I had a growth spurt. I grew three  inches, lost some weight, and acquired a waist and hips. Suddenly I had long legs and a good ass. Barbara the boring became Babs the beautiful over night.

My mother was so pleased, that she bought me outfit after outfit. “I’ve been waiting to take you shopping for such a long time,” she said. In the store I became the center of attention. My legs were applauded and I was encouraged to buy skirts that would display them. I went back to school feeling wonderful.

It didn’t last long. I’d broken one of the prime rules of High School: I’d tried to move out of the slot that my peers had allocated to me. My best friend, Alice, felt slighted by my new look. My studymate, Carl, suddenly became tongue tied and uncomfortable. But the toughest reaction came from the wannabe-prom-queens. They started to call me Babs the Booty. The said I looked like a slut. But I wouldn’t give in. I wouldn’t sacrifice the look of pride on my mother’s face just to fit in in High School.

So now I looked good but no one talked to me. Then the boys found me. They weren’t bad boys. They were polite and nice and muscular and I ached for them. I hadn’t dated much so I wasn’t really sure what to do. I knew enough not to fuck on the first date. But the second seemed reasonable. And the boys wanted it so badly. And they were so nice to me. And besides, the sex was good. Sometimes very good.

I was Barbara the Queen Bee, surrounded by a group of adoring drone-boys. We went everywhere together. We had fun. And at the end of the evening one of them would take me home and on the way we would park and I would find out one more time just how good it felt to ride a fresh strong cock.

Looking back now, I think I went a little crazy for a while. The thinking me was switched off. I stopped being shy and introverted and tried hard to live in the now. The now where I was beautiful and the boys were eager. I was aware that they didn’t love me. I knew I didn’t love them. But it felt so damned good.

I’d been Queen Bee for about a month when Todd Rawlins showed up. Todd was two years older than me and had been the star of our football team in his senior year. If it hadn’t been for a knee injury, Todd would have made it to college on a sports scholarship. Instead he was working at his daddy’s Chrysler dealership.

Every girl in school knew three things about Todd: he drove a brand new LeBaron Convertible, he partied hard and he had the biggest dick in town. One Friday night the drones and I were coming out of the bowling alley and I was teasing them about who would get to drive me home, when Todd pulled up next to us in his killer car. No ‘hello’s. No ‘baby you look good’s. He just said, “Get in,” and I did.

Once we were away from the boys, Todd was nicer to me. He told me how he’d heard that I’d become hot and said he’d decided he had to take a look for himself. I asked him if he liked what he saw. He told me that, he hadn’t seen it all yet and that he’d let me know later.

In a way I was still a virgin until Todd fucked me. I mean, I’d had sex, lots of it, but I’d never been possessed by it. Never had it take over my whole mind until I was just a set of nerve endings surfing on wave after wave of orgasm.

That first time, he took me to woods and we parked. He led me out of the car and made me sit on the hood.

“I got something for you, baby and you’re gonna like it a lot,” he said.

I nearly laughed at that, but realized in time that no joke was intended.

Then Todd unzipped and took out his dick. It wasn’t fully hard yet but it was already bigger than most of the cocks I’d had inside me. My cunt contracted and my mouth went dry. I wanted to see it stand and I wanted to feel it stretch me. That dick of his brought out desires that I didn’t even know I had.

“Told you you’d like it,” he said, “they all do.”

I wasn’t listening. I was spreading my legs and pushing my panties aside and staring at his dick and wondering if it would tear me. There may have been a small voice saying ‘why are you fucking this dick’, but even if I had heard it, my only answer would have been ‘because it’s there! Now shut up bitch and let me fuck.’

The first fuck, he just grabbed me by the back of the knees, spread me so wide that it hurt and rammed it home. Nothing had ever made me feel so full. It hurt but it hurt good. He pounded away at me so hard I thought we’d dent the car. I was breathless and stunned. Not ready to orgasm yet; still amazed at how full I felt; almost afraid to move in case I hurt something.

Then he came and I thought ‘Shit no, not yet!’

I must have said some of that aloud because Todd grinned at me and said, “We ain’t done yet, baby. You feel anything getting smaller down there? All we’ve done is get you nice and lubed.”

It was true. He’d come, but he was still hard. I pushed against him gratefully, eager to chase my orgasm. But he pulled out.

“Time to say hello properly, baby,” he said.

I didn’t know what he meant.

He stepped back from the car and said “On your knees, baby. Come and show Mr. Pecker here your deep appreciation.”

I wish I had laughed then. I wish I had told him and Mr. Pecker to fuck off. But I didn’t. I got on my knees and I took him in my mouth. It was bitter tasting and unpleasant but sort of compelling at the same time. There was just so damned much of it.

I didn’t have a lot of experience with giving head. The drones and I had skipped that part and gone straight for the main course. It must have showed.

Todd said “Jesus girl, mind those teeth,” and took Mr. Pecker away from me.

I thought it was all over then, but Todd wasn’t done. He bent me over his car and took me doggy style. You wouldn’t believe how deep he could get like that. And he was slow now. No hurry at all. It went on and on. He made me come the first time just from the way his cock moved. The second time he got me there by working on my clit while still going with that slow deep stretching in and out movement. My third orgasm was triggered when he spurted inside me.

My legs were shaking when he pulled out. I couldn’t move off the hood of his car, even though I could feel his cum running down my thigh. I’d never come three times one after another like that. My mind had gone away completely, a bit like the way you lose your hearing after a gun goes off. I wanted to sleep right there.

Todd guided me back into the car. We drove to my house in silence. I don’t think I could have talked even if I’d wanted to. When we reached my house, Todd just waited for me to get out.

I struggled onto the curb and he said, “You have a great cunt, baby, but you’ve really gotta learn to give head. See you tomorrow.”

Then he drove off.

I lay on my bed thinking about what had happened. It was shameful. I knew that. Todd was using me and I was letting him. My cunt was sore. My legs ached. My pride wanted to say, ‘Screw you, Todd Rawlins.’ I fell asleep still undecided about whether to see him again.

I was late for school the next day. By the time I got there, everyone seemed to know I was one of Todd’s girls. Not Todd’s girl. Just one of them. The drone-boys all found reasons not to be available that night. My ex-best friend told me I should be ashamed of myself.

After school, Todd was there with his shiny car and his big smile. We did it all again. The only difference was that I nearly threw up on him when he tried to push Mr. Pecker down my throat.

At the time it seemed to me I was out of options. I couldn’t go back and I didn’t know how to go forward so I just let Todd go on fucking me. It lasted a whole month.

My cunt was sore by then. My mind was working loose from the corner I’d tied her up in and was shouting ‘stop this nonsense right now, young lady.’ I gagged her because I didn’t want to hear it.

It ended when Todd called me and asked me to come over to his house. He said his parents were away and he wanted to show me something special.

I went because I couldn’t figure out how to say no.

When I got there the door was open so I went into the family room. Todd was on the big sofa watching a porno movie. Amy Shanks, universally known at school as Amy Skanks, was on her knees sucking his dick. I must have just stood there looking stunned.

Todd said “Hi, baby. This is what I wanted to show you.” Then he turned to Amy and said “Do it, baby.”

Amy looked at me. She held eye-contact while she lowered her mouth on to Todd’s dick. She swallowed it. All of it. It made her throat bulge but it she swallowed it all. Todd placed his hand on the back of her head and started to move her up and down on his dick.

“Amazing isn’t it?” Todd said. “And Amy here is gonna show you how it’s done. Come on over, baby and get a better look.”

My mind finally broke free of her bonds and all I heard was her shouting ‘Run, Barbara and don’t stop until you’re home in bed’.

I don’t remember getting home. I don’t remember anything until I woke up the next day. Then it all hit me. I was a slut. I had been a slut for months. Everybody but me knew that. And my grades. My grades had seemed so unimportant while I was slutting around but now I knew that they were dropping enough to put college at risk. I stayed in bed all day. And the next day.

Finally I told my Mom that there was a problem at school but I didn’t want to talk about it. I think maybe some the neighbors had already been talking about it, because Mom quickly sorted things out without any questions. She arranged private tuition to rescue my grades. I worked hard. I made it to college.

But I still had a secret. The secret was that I had wanted to be fucked like that. I’d enjoyed it. I wanted more of it.

My mind was firmly back in control now and she tried hard to banish Miss Libido. She made me dress in baggy clothes and to stop even talking to boys. I became invisible again. But at night, before I fell asleep, my fingers would find my cunt and I would think of Todd and wonder if I would ever find anyone who could make me come like that ever again.

Helen is waiting for me to tell her what’s on my mind.

I manage a smile.

“Remember when we talked about Todd that night? You were wonderful. And then you introduced me to Mark,” I say.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Helen says, “He seemed like a nice guy at the time.”

“He was a nice guy at the time.”

We are both smiling now and I can finally say to Helen the thing that needs to be said.

“Helen, about Peter…”

Helen’s smile goes. I feel her stiffen.

“I’m so sorry,” I say.

“It’s over now,” Helen says. She removes her hands from mine but manages a smile that almost reaches her eyes. “No harm done,” she says, moving towards the door. “Now stop moping and come and join the party.”

No harm done. I hope that’s true.

The day Mark left me, the day when I could have shriveled up and nursed my sense of worthlessness, Helen rescued me. She knew that I was attracted to Peter. She’d told me that he was a little in love with me. We’d laughed about that. Imagine quiet Peter harboring a passion for Barbara. That was back when Helen and I would trade stories about our husbands. When I still felt married. Before the lack of passion in my life made me feel dried up and useless and unlovable.

By the time I reached that Memorial Day BarBQ it was painful for me to watch Helen and Peter together. I was like a starving beggar pressing my face against the window of a restaurant, tormented by the sight of food but unable to look away.

When Mark left the BarBQ with some insultingly see-through excuse, I headed back to the cabin to cry and to feel sorry for myself.

Barbara stopped me. She spoke softly. What she said surprised me. “We love you Barbara. You deserve better. Let us care for you. Let me share Peter with you. Be with us for a while.”

I could tell that she was sincere and that what she was saying wasn’t springing spontaneously into head. I knew what ‘share Peter’ meant. Something in the way that Helen said it left no doubt.

Above all else, this felt like an act of friendship. I accepted it, my numb distress starting to be replaced by a sense of dislocation from reality.

The sex was fun.

Helen likes to tie Peter. I’d known that for a long time. Mark was always going on about how odd that was and how Helen ‘had Peter’s Pecker in her pocket.’ I couldn’t quite imagine it.

That night, Helen tied and blindfolded Peter and then we both… played with him. My memory of it is so clear. Time slowed down. I tried not to look at Helen. I was at such a high level of awareness that reality was too vivid to be anything but a dream. Peter surrendered himself to us. We took him in turns, never speaking, always preserving the convention that it could have been just the two of them in the room. But we all knew. And we all wanted it.

My orgasm was like a return to sanity. It sounds an extravagant claim, but it healed me. I felt, for the first time in a very long time, happy.

I moved in with Helen and Peter after that. I had my own room. There was no more sharing. But there was love and support and a space to learn to be me again.

Things might have been fine if the walls had been thicker, or if Helen had been less noisy when she came, or if Peter had not been just a little in love with me. I lay there at night and listened to them having sex. I could tell they were trying to be quiet, but there would always be that last moment in which Helen lost control. I would close my eyes and try to remember Peter being inside me. I would try to come when Helen came.

After a while we all started to become less comfortable with each other in the mornings. We took care to dress before coming down for breakfast. I tried not to watch Peter’s every move. I tried not to yearn for him. I failed.

Later Peter told me that he couldn’t get me out of his head. He said the blindfold had meant that he was never sure when it was me and when it was Helen he was with. He felt like he should have been able to tell. He felt like he wanted to experience the difference.

One evening, Helen went to fix us some drinks. While she was out of the room Peter and I accidentally looked into each other’s eyes. We’d each being trying to sneak a quick look at the other. We were still looking at each other when Helen came back. We broke contact guiltily. Helen just stood there. No one spoke.

I wanted to leave or to apologize. I felt as if she had walked in on us fucking.

Helen handed us both a drink. Then she said “It’s Ok. Really. I’ll sleep in the other room tonight.”

Peter started to rise from his chair to protest. Helen stopped him with a glance that I couldn’t read but which brought him to a complete halt. Then she was gone. She took my room.

I was standing too now, staring at the closed door between Helen and us.

Peter and I turned towards each other. I was uncertain. I wanted Peter. Really wanted him. He was so close and so alive that I thought sparks might jump the small gap between us.

I reached up and stroked the side of his face. He was very still. I kissed him.

It was as I had imagined it. Soft lips. Warm. Accepting. Except that it felt wrong. It felt like betrayal.

Peter didn’t kiss me back but he didn’t resist. I know that if I had continued he would have let me. To please me. To please Helen. But I stopped.

Still we didn’t speak. I took Peter by the hand and led him, quietly, into my room. Helen was curled up in a ball facing the wall. She didn’t hear us come in. I said her name. She turned and looked at both of us. There were tears in her eyes. I held Peter’s hand out to her. She jumped up off the bed and hugged him. When I left, they were kissing fiercely, as if they were sucking in oxygen after almost drowning. I went for a drive. They were in their room when I came back and everything was quiet.

The next morning I declared my intent to look for a job. Here I am, five weeks later, ready to move to one.

“B. Are you in there, B? Come out, come out wherever you are.” It is Mark’s voice calling from the garden. He sounds drunk. I rush out. The last time he and Peter met there was trouble. I expect to see Peter dragging Mark away, but it is Helen, little Helen, who is blocking Mark’s path.

“B. Please, B.”

I put my hand on Helen’s shoulder and she lets me step in front of her. She continues to glare at Mark.

“B, I’m drunk. I’m sorry I’m drunk but I’ve got something important to say to you.”

Mark looks ill. His clothes are dirty and his complexion is pale. I wonder how long he has been drunk this time.

He staggers towards me, reaching for me. I stay still and he stops short.

“I know you’re going away. The lawyer told me. I want to tell you… to say… to let you know that I love you, B. I’ve always loved you.”

He was crying now. He looked lost. I assumed his nympho intern had left him. He looks like he wants me to take him in my arms as I have so many times before.

Everybody at the party is looking at us. I step forward so that I can speak directly into Mark’s ear. His arms fold about me as I say, “I know you love me, Mark. I love you. But it will never be enough will it?”

His face turns towards me. He seems suddenly sober. I wait for the tantrum or the insult. Instead he says quietly, “Good luck in your new job, B.” and walks, a little too precisely, towards his car. Helen sends Peter after him to drive him home.

The party doesn’t last long. Mark has taken the edge off it. By the time Peter gets back people are already leaving. It’s getting dark earlier already. Summer is over and Fall, “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” is here.

The last of the guests leaves just before sunset. I stand and watch the slow ignition of the sky. Peter and Helen come and stand on either side of me. I take their hands.

I don’t know who Barbara will become in Chicago. I hope Barbara the Bold, ready to make her own future. But right here and right now, she feels like Barbara the Blessed.


© Mike Kimera 2000 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk


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American Holidays 1 : Memorial Day

“Memorial Day” was originally a free-standing story, prompted by some discussion about threesomes: why they are such a common fantasy, whether the fantasy is the same for women as for men, and what threesomes are like in reality.

I wanted to write a story about a threesome between people who had known each other a while and had some affection for one another. As I started to think this through, the characers took on voices of their own and I realized that they had more to say and that nothing is as simple as it first seems. So I extended the thinking into the “American Holiday” series.

Even now, the voices of the characters are not silent in my head. From time to time one or more of them whispers to me, “Don’t you think we deserve to be a novel?” What do you think?

Memorial Day

“So what was your best?”

“Best what?”

“Best erotic experience.”

Mark is a sex bore. He talks about it so much it’s a wonder he gets time to do it.

“Mine was with two Swedish twins in a sauna,” he says, leaning towards me conspiratorially. “I’d added a day to a Swiss business trip to get some skiing in and these two and I were first back to the hotel from the piste. Well, you know how the Europeans are with saunas, everyone together and no clothes allowed. Just one of these girls would have been amazing — snow white hair, all-over tan and sleek body — but twins! I thought I’d died and gone to pussy heaven.”

I hate men who say pussy like that. Like a woman starts and ends at her cunt. But I’ve known Mark since grade school, so I give him some latitude. Turning slightly away from him, I look toward the lake where my wife, Helen, and Barbara are sunning themselves. They are the best of friends, and they tell each other everything. I want to sit quietly beside them and listen to their talk. Instead I am standing next to Mark at the BarBQ pit, burning burgers.

“So anyway, the shock came when the first one took me inside her. In the heat of the sauna her pussy felt cool. No shit. Cool pussy from an ice maiden in a sauna. How sexy is that! Then, when her sister joined in…”

I think Mark is making this up. Maybe the twins were real. Maybe he even saw them in the sauna. But I want to believe that he doesn’t cheat on Barbara on his business trips.

I am a little in love with Barbara. Helen pointed it out to me one night as we drove back from dinner at their house. She said that she’d noticed that Barbara is always the last person I look at in a room, and that I avoid being alone with her, both sure signs of my attraction. Denial would have been pointless; Helen knows me too well. After a few seconds of guilt-ridden silence, Helen pulled the car over to the side of the road, and right there, on a tree-lined suburban street, where nice neighbors repaint their picket fences every spring, she fucked me. She didn’t say a word. Mouth on mine, she freed my cock, pushed aside her panties and rode me. I came like a boy. She grinned at me, held my face in her hands and said, “If you ever call me Barbara while we fuck, I’ll cut your dick off.” Then she drove us home.

Only when Mark says, “Your turn,” do I realize I’ve missed his sauna-sex story, and he is now waiting for mine.

“Come on Pete”, he says, “even a terminally married man like you must have had some erotic adventures.’ Fess up”

An image of Helen blossoms in my mind. She is nineteen and has just let me fuck her for the first time. She’d insisted that we use her parents’ bed. “It will make up for all the times I’ve had to listen to them screwing,” she’d said as she led me into the master bedroom. I am lying on my back, wrists still tied to the headboard, sated and happy, watching her between half closed eyes, pretending to be asleep. She is sitting at her mother’s dressing table, brushing her long black hair. The sun streaming through the window behind her seems to me to be a kind of halo. She leans her head to one side so that she can push the comb through the full length of her thick glossy hair. This causes one small upturned breast to push off the silk robe that Helen has “borrowed” from her mother, and to stretch triumphantly up towards the sun. I am hypnotized by the play of light on her hair; the smooth movement of her arm as she wields the brush and the slight but attention-grabbing movement of her silhouetted breast. She puts the brush back on the dressing table, looks at me and smiles. Many times since, I have returned to that moment of still happiness, crowned with the love in her smile.

“Well?” Mark says.

“Sorry Mark,” I say, “nobody seems to want erotic adventures with me.”

I mean it as a playful way of changing the subject. Mark takes me literally.

“I don’t know,” he says, “you’re not bad looking. I know Barbara thinks you’re sexy. You just need to read the signs.”

“I think the food is ready now,” I say, gathering the half-burnt/half-frozen products of Mark’s culinary skill onto plates.

“You must have been tempted. At least once,” Mark says.

“I’m happily married Mark. Temptation is easy enough to overcome.”

“Ah yes,” Mark says, “I’d forgotten about the ‘Peter Brader, man-of-steel’ act.”

I start to walk back towards the lake, hoping to bring an end to the conversation before we get in to a fight. Mark has always taken my abstinence from casual sex as a personal affront. Briefly I wonder if he thinks it’s all an act and I’m just refusing to share the details with him.

“Barbara really does think you’re sexy, you know.”

I stop and look at him. He laughs.

“No need to look so horrified. She’s not going to rape you or anything. But she told me that she admires your serenity. Isn’t that a great phrase? Admires your serenity.”

I try for a wry smile but Mark is already striding ahead of me, so it is lost on him.

“OK girls, the hunters have returned with freshly charred dead animals for their women to feast upon,” he shouts.

Sometimes I think Mark is locked in a parallel dimension. The “girls”, both in their late twenties, exchange pained glances at Mark’s return, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

This meal is a tradition amongst us going back eight years, to when we were both newly married couples. Every Memorial Day we drive out to the lake and have a barbecue on the public beach. Back then we slept in our trucks and drank beer with our burgers. Now we rent a large cabin and sip Pinot Noir. Sometimes I think the burgers are the last talisman of the days when we had more hope than history.

I have my head in Helen’s lap. She smells of sunshine and cotton. I relax; content to listen to her telling Barbara stories about the people in her office. I have never visited Helen’s office. I am reluctant to have reality superimposed on the vivid images I have of her colleagues. Barbara and Helen used to work together, and Helen introduced Barbara to Mark.

When Barbara laughs at the punch line of Helen’s story, it is a raucous laugh that seems to escape from her. I turn my head slightly, knowing that Barbara will have one hand in front of her face. Helen feels me move, recognizes the reason and unseen by the others, pinches my earlobe as she pulls me back to my original position. I look up at her. She mouths the word “later” and I shiver at the thought.

Despite Helen’s admonition, I find myself wondering about Barbara’s laugh. It reminds me of Miss Honeychurch in “Room With a View”, whose passionate nature is discernible only by the way in which she plays piano. With a stab of guilt, accompanied by a sudden erection, I have a flash of Barbara coming as raucously as she laughs.

On our second year out here, we almost got into a group thing. We’d stopped talking and started kissing, still in couples but with each couple acutely aware of the presence of the other. I left the decision to Helen, who in turn looked to Barbara. Mark was thinking with his cock and pushed up Barbara’s T-shirt to take her nipple into his mouth. The discomfort on Barbara’s face was obvious.

Helen grabbed me by the belt and said, more loudly than she needed to, “Come on Peter, I need a bed to tie you to.”

I was happy to leave. Barbara smiled her gratitude while trying to keep Mark’s fingers out of her shorts. Civilized man that I am, I still could not erase the sight of Barbara’s stiff nipple topping a small neat breast that just demanded to be taken into my mouth. Helen knew what I was thinking. When she rode me she held my nipples between her fingernails and used them like a bridle. I was sore for a week but my cock was made of ivory that night.

The scene was never repeated. Barbara confided in Helen her embarrassment at how Mark fucks her. I was puzzled when Helen passed on the remark. She just laughed and said, “Well, you’ve seen him dance haven’t you?” Mark thinks he dances like John Travolta, but he looks more like Fred Flintstone. He dances vigorously, with his eyes closed, paying little attention to either his partner or the rhythm of the music. The magnitude of the criticism made my balls retract.

I am constantly amazed at what women tell each other. Men brag, women tell the truth. It’s a frightening thought.

A tinny rendition of the James Bond theme fractures the silence. Mark has brought his cell phone, even on Memorial Day. Barbara glares at him, but he turns his back on her and takes the call. Mark uses an earpiece on his phone. He says he doesn’t want to fry the brain cells that survived the drugs. He looks demented as he paces in a circle, apparently talking to himself.

We overhear enough of the conversation to know that he has been summoned back to the city by some European emergency that he must respond to at once. I wonder at that — it’s 9 p.m. in Berlin right now. It occurs to me that I have just seen a piece of performance art. Maybe Mark doesn’t make his adventures up. Perhaps there is someone waiting for him even now in a city center hotel room.

To my surprise, Barbara lets Mark go without complaint — she just sits and watches as he takes the car, leaving her behind like luggage that we will forward to him later.

“I’m going to lie down in the cabin for a while,” Barbara says once the car is out of sight.

“Are you OK?” I say. Dumb question. Helen digs her fingers into my side to tell me to shut up.

“No Peter, I’m not OK, but I’m trying to get used to it. Not everyone has a marriage like yours. I live with a man who never touches me, but who tries to fuck anything female that can move without a Zimmer frame. He doesn’t even have the tact not to embarrass me in front of my friends. So I’m trying to preserve my dignity by not letting myself cry until I get back to my room.”

Barbara’s eyes are wet, but she is standing straight and her voice is strong and clear. She holds my gaze until I look away, then she picks up a bottle of wine and heads back to the cabin. Helen follows her. They talk quietly but passionately. I can’t hear what is said. Then they hug in that way that women do, halfway between a caress and a handshake.

Helen waits, head on one side, hands on her hips, for my questions. I don’t ask any. She looks at me for the longest time. I seldom know what she is thinking. She moves to stand in front of me, tilts my head down towards hers and says, “I love you, Peter Brader.”

We give Barbara an hour before we return to the cabin. I head into the kitchen to clear away the debris of our meal. Helen goes to check on Barbara. I have just loaded the dishwasher when I hear Helen say, “Come here, Peter.”

I know from her tone that we have started to play. I am surprised, but out of long habit I go to her and wait, eyes downcast, for her instructions. I love surrendering to her like this. My cock is already thickening and my heartbeat is elevated. It is so exciting not to know what will happen next. Even so, I am concerned. Surely she’s not going to take me here, in the main room. The thought worries and thrills me at the same time.

“Strip, Peter.”

Helen has never done this before. On our Memorial Day weekends she has always used the bedroom for our fucking.

I don’t look at her or speak as I strip. I feel exposed standing there, my cock sending semaphore signals of desire to my mistress.

“Put your hands behind your back,” Helen says.

The steel cuffs Helen produces from her bag are cold against my wrists. They make me feel pleasantly helpless.

“Peter, I want you to stay hard as long as you can. Let me help you,” She ties a soft leather strap around my balls. My cock trembles at her touch. She grins and plants a chaste little kiss just underneath the head.

I wait for her to undress. She doesn’t. Instead she reaches into her bag and pulls out a scarf. Standing behind me she blindfolds me with the scarf. I feel her breath on my neck. Her teeth sink into my earlobe as her fist closes around my cock. I groan.

“You wanted Barbara today didn’t you,” she says.

I nod.

“Say it. Tell me what you were thinking”

“I wanted to know how she sounds when she comes,” I say.

She lets go of my cock. A cool finger probes my anus.

“So you prefer her to me?”

“No. I love you. I need you.”


“But I like Barbara.”

“Would you like her to fuck you?”

“Yes,” I say. I think I know where Helen is going with this but I can’t believe she really means it.

Helen kisses me; a deep, slow kiss, exploring my mouth with hers. Except it is not Helen. Helen is still behind me.

The kissing stops. Before I can speak Helen presses against my back and whispers, “It will be OK Peter. Trust me.” I nod my head slightly and she whispers “Thank you.”

I understand the blindfold. It gives us the option to pretend that none of this has happened.

No one is touching me now. I wait. I assume the women are undressing. I wonder if they are touching. Suddenly it occurs to me that over the years they may have done more than just touch. My mind doubts that this is true, Helen would have told me, but my cock goes with the image and twitches ludicrously.

A hand, strong and purposeful, pushes on my shoulder, signaling for me to kneel. The floor is hard on my knees. I won’t be able to do this for long. I recognize the smell of Helen’s sex, seconds before it is pressed against my face. She holds my head and rubs herself against me. My tongue presents itself for use. She presses her labia against my mouth until my head is forced backwards. She rubs me in a figure of eight against her sex, then she is gone.

Seconds later another sex is pressed against my mouth. To my surprise it smells and tastes just like the first. Maybe I can’t tell the difference between Helen and Barbara. Maybe Helen is returning to confuse me. The message is clear enough: stop trying to analyze, go with the flow, be the moment, let the sex flow through you. That message is at the heart of my sexuality, and I recognize it as their gift to me.

Hands guide me to lie first on my side and then on my back. Cushions are placed under my head and my butt. Care is taken to ensure that I am never touched by both women at the same time. I could let myself imagine that there is only Helen or only Barbara, but now is the time for feeling, not imagining.

A mouth suckles my nipple. The sound of it is loud against the eerie silence that possesses us like a spell. The tongue moves down my belly slowly, skillfully, until it reaches my pubic hair, then it goes away. A hand, warm, strong, grips my cock around the shaft. The palm of a second hand rubs my precum over the head of my cock, making me wriggle and moan. It takes effort not to come, but I control myself.

Attention shifts from my cock to my mouth. Swift butterfly kisses that make me smile. Then tickling. Tickling that goes on until I am giggling helplessly with tears wetting my blindfold.

I am allowed to get my breath back, then I am mounted. My cock slides into ripe wetness that grabs at me eagerly. Hands on my chest. Thighs around my legs. Deep forceful strokes, followed, after the shortest of times, by a tremor of passion that passes through to my bones. She falls forward on to me, sweat-slick breasts sliding over me, teeth nipping at my neck.

Then she rolls off me, leaving my cock straining for relief, my body demanding stimulus. Both are granted by the mouth that envelops my cock and the swollen labia that descend upon my face. I lick eagerly at first, then become distracted by the play of teeth and tongue and lips upon my cock.

I break the spell of silence, begging to be allowed to come. The mouth releases me as she slides down my body and impales herself on my cock. She does not move, but she squeezes me with her cunt, milking me irresistibly. She is moaning now, but quietly, as if she were gagged. Her hands are on my ankles; her cunt is pressed hard against my pubis. When I start to come, her grip on my ankles tightens and I hear a groan that starts in the back of her throat and becomes an explosive “Fuck!” She stays on me until my cock softens, then she lets it slide out.

I am exhausted. Cool fingers undo the leather around my balls. My cock is patted gently, like a Labrador being rewarded for performing a favorite trick. I find it hard to focus. My awareness always ebbs after I come.

I am being helped up and lead somewhere. A bed. Fresh clean linen. The bed feels so comforting after the hardness of the floor. My hands are uncuffed. My arms are massaged vigorously and asexually. Scarves are used to tie my wrists to the headboard.

I am ready to give way to sleep when I hear that unmistakable buzz followed by the smell of lubricated latex. My asshole clenches in anticipation.

“Spread, Peter,” Helen’s voice. A calm command she knows will be obeyed.

The vibrator is slim and has a slight curve. It is perfect for stimulating the prostate. I relax and let it slide in, wondering who is holding it. My tired cock starts to rally. I think I hear a giggle from beside the bed, but I am distracted by having my balls sucked one after the other.

My brain is fuzzy. I want to sleep. I want to fuck forever. I turn down the noise in my mind and focus on the cunt that is now raising and lowering itself on my cock. I have no control over the pace. I am a flesh dildo. I am happy.

With the vibrator in place, I manage to stay hard until after she comes. I am rewarded with a skilful handjob that drains my balls and takes the last of my energy.

I hear Helen say, “You can sleep now Peter,” and I know the game is over. As sleep washes over me, I think I hear a different voice say, very quietly, “Thank you.”

I sleep late. When I awake my hands are free, the blindfold is gone, my ass is sore and my memory is confused. Before I can get out of bed, Helen and Barbara, both fully dressed and looking refreshed and relaxed, bring me breakfast on a tray.

“Good morning sleepyhead,” Helen says. “We’ve brought you something to build up your strength.”

“Do I need building up?” I ask.

Helen ignores the question and hands me a glass of cold OJ. Barbara is standing at the foot of the bed. She is smiling, not broadly, but persistently. I doubt she is aware of it.

“Barbara is going to come and stay with us for a while,” Helen says.

I look at both of them. Helen posed it as a statement, but we all know it was a question. The silence continues while I think about it.

“It’s only until I decide what to do about Mark,” Barbara says, “Helen thought I could stay in the guest room for a while.”

I think about how long I have known Mark and yet how little I really like him. I consider how comfortable Helen and Barbara are together. I remember the carefully anonymous passion we shared last night. I know that if I say yes, it will change things forever in ways that I can’t yet predict.

“I’m sorry about you and Mark,” I say to Barbara, “but I’m glad you’re coming to stay. I’m sure we’ll work something out.”

The look on Helen’s face tells me I’ve done the right thing. I don’t know if last night will be repeated. I trust Helen to work that out. I do know that I am still naked under the bedclothes and that I desperately need to use the bathroom.

“If you ladies will excuse me,” I say, “I have some urgent business to attend to, privately.”

Helen grins and leads Barbara by the elbow, saying, “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” in a terrible John Wayne accent.

Barbara picks up the theme and says, “Yep, and there are some things a man must do alone.” They are both laughing as they leave the room.

I’m still not sure what I’ve just agreed to, but however it turns out, it won’t be dull. I head off to the bathroom, whistling happily.

© Mike Kimera 2003 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

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Writing Naked – Part 3- Kissing Kathy Doyle

It’s five a.m. and I’m sitting naked in a warm circle of light, focusing intently on the images moving across the screen of my iMac. My libido is howling like an abandoned dog, yet, for once, the slide show that holds my attention contains no porn.

I pause the slideshow on the second run through, trapping on the screen an image that I cannot look away from. It is of a young woman, perched on a desk, leaning forward, both hands gripping the edge of the desk a little too tightly. Her pale skin is smooth and perfect. The sight of it  summons up from my hindbrain the smell of fresh cotton sheets and sun warmed-forearms. I run my tongue over my lips, wanting the salt taste of her flesh.

The woman’s lips are just starting to form a smile that has not yet reached her eyes. She has wonderful blue eyes – not the washed-out blue of Scandinavia but the warm blue of a summer sky – with pupils so dark that they seem to glow. Her eyes speak of passion held in check but fretting at its bonds.

The clothes she is wearing place the picture firmly in the 1970’s: a ballet-wrap top, laced at the waist, caresses her small round breasts; sleeves, split at the shoulder and tied halfway down the biceps, reveal the skin they pretend to hide; a bias cut skirt that reaches the knee on one side but only makes it only part way down the thigh on the other, continues the theme of hide-so-they’ll-seek. This is an outfit chosen with care, designed to send only one message: “unwrap me, but do it slowly”.

The woman’s name is Kathy Doyle; she is nineteen years old and still a virgin. I took the picture twenty-seven years ago, the first time she slept in my bed, two years before we had sex, five years before she married me.

Now her name is Kathy O’Connor. She is the mother of my children, my best friend, my wife. For my fortysixth birthday she digitized the pictures that map our life together and gave them to me on CD. “Something for you to look at when you can’t sleep,” she said, and for the first time I wondered if she knew that when I leave her side in the mornings to “work” on my computer, I litter my screen with porn like a man searching his desk for something he has lost and needs desperately to find.

I remember taking this picture. I sat on the single bed in my campus room and asked her to smile. I was looking up at her, trying to pretend that everything was normal; that this was not the day before the first night she would spend in my arms.

I was also nineteen but not a virgin, at least, not quite. Kathy’s best friend, Eilleen, had taken that particular trophy. Kathy never asked me about what we did or didn’t do but I’m certain that Eilleen will have told her about my insatiable appetite for her mouth and my willingness to take risks when sexual favours were on offer.

Not an inaccurate description but one that somehow didn’t apply to Kathy and me. With Eilleen, everything had been about sex. With Kathy, everything was about the nervous excitement of finding somebody who makes you more than you can be alone. There was a strong sexual potential but it was folded into a strong sense of having discovered someone unique.

After I took the picture, there was a pause. Neither of us knew what to say. So for once I didn’t say anything, I just held out my hand and pulled her to me. Then I kissed her.

Kissing Kathy was always an intense experience back then. She would give herself completely to the kiss: her eyes closed, her mouth welcoming but not demanding, her body molded against mine but immobile, subsidiary to the contact between our mouths.

My fingers would tingle, my nose would fill with her scent, my body would register her soft heat, but my mouth, my mouth became everything: sensitive, greedy, and insatiable. We would kiss and kiss and never have enough of it.

Many times, after an evening being left discretely alone together in her parents’ parlour, I walked home through the cold darkness glowing with the remembered contact. Her scent would cover me like a promise. My mouth would smile, not in triumph, just at the surprising, irrepressible joy of it all.

We were both good Catholics. Sex outside marriage was sin enough. Pregnancy outside marriage would have been a personal disaster. Kathy didn’t trust the condoms and had moral objections to the pill and so we agreed upon restraint. Or at least our minds agreed. Our bodies constantly rebelled.

Recently, behind every kiss, there was the knowledge that we could do more; that we could go further. That I had been further already and so could show her the way.

That knowledge stretched taut between us as I led her to my bed. She looked excited and afraid. We both knew that this time a kiss would not be enough.

I entered a kind of trance state, undressing her in silent wonderment.

I wanted… everything.

But I held back. I explored her with my mouth and my fingers. I pressed her thighs together and pushed between them, mimicking the action we both wanted but had chosen to deny ourselves.

Back then I thought I knew what Kathy wanted: tenderness, respect, passion, restraint. I did my best to give them to her.

It took me years to understand that Kathy really wanted was to be lead. To be taken. To be absolved of responsibility.

If I could go back to my nineteen-year-old self, I would whisper in his ear, “Take her. Take her slowly. Take her with love. But take her. She will love you for it.”

Kathy still loves me. But we don’t kiss the same way anymore. We kiss for comfort or for greeting or for happiness but never with the astonishment of unlooked for passion.

Now of course we can have sex whenever we want and yet there are still things I won’t do, or daren’t ask for. These things are part of the reason I haunt the porn sites like a ghost unable to touch what it most desires.

I allow myself one last look at the image of Kathy perched on the edge of my desk, poised to be lead into her future, and sigh at how much I see now that was hidden from me then.

Finally, I scroll forward to the last picture on the disc: Kathy as she is now. She is still a handsome woman. Her face is lined more from laughter than from worry. Her hair is cut short into a style that is pragmatic, timeless and yet still hints at sexual intent. Her eyes have a depth to them that makes it hard to look away. It is a face that would be fearsome in anger and radiant in happiness. Looking at Kathy, you want to make her smile.

I study this image of hers, the last sentence in the coded message she placed on this CD and I wonder: have I harmed her with my too careful loving? Is it too late for me to take her in my arms and take her to places where we have never been? Perhaps I should go back into her bed now, part her legs, stroke her awake, hold her hands up above her head and drill her into exhaustion?

But she dislikes sex in the morning. She is too stiff she says. And the kids will be awake soon. It may even be her period.

Instead I will switch off the computer and head for the shower. Standing beneath its forceful indifference I will deal with my erection. Then I will bring my wife breakfast in bed.

Sure, you’re a fine husband, Kieran O’Connor.


© Mike Kimera 2000 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk


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