Break

Georgia heat is an entity of its own. Thick, damp, almost suffocating. Suffocating to those unfamiliar with it, but an embrace to those born in it. Towards the end of August there is that point of the day late in the afternoon when it reaches its heaviest; anyone feeling it has the fleeting thought that if heat could crush you, this would..

It had to break.

His weight crushed me, his body heat mixing with the atmosphere and the only noise was silence. The ragged lace curtain hung straight and still at the window. His mouth wet my collarbone, up the side of my neck, my earlobe, and it was first hot, then cooling. I moaned softly and smiled, my hands on his upper arms. Our bodies stuck together like flypaper.

I ran my toe up the back of his leg, feeling the crisp hairs and his groan against my throat, then in my mouth sending shockwaves through my center. I begged for him when he broke the kiss, begged him to fuck me. He looked into my eyes like he was mining for something, and I said it again. He growled and shifted. The length of him slid to the end of me and I held him there. I gasped with the building sensation.

A thunderclap rocked the frame house and drowned out my cry. We broke with it and lay in one another’s arms while cicadas sawed in the pines.

“What else breaks?” I whispered against his grizzled jaw. He needed to shave.

He made a noise of incomprehension. His thick rough fingers scratched against my nipple.

“Never mind.”

He rolled away with a grunt. His spent cock slid like slug across my thigh. I didn’t need his answer, because I only asked questions for which the answers already existed. “Everything,” he said.

“Us?”

The knobbed curve of his spine shone with sweat and oil.

He turned back to me, and his face was quiet. Not soft, but not hard, either. “Maybe. One day. Not today, though.” He leaned down and kissed me.

“Not today.” I smiled against his lips.

He let out another low, hungry sound, “Swear to God, woman, you got super powers,” he said against my neck, and I felt him growing again, swelling against my hip.

I pushed at his shoulders. “But I gotta go,” I said under my breath, smiling still, loving his need of me.

He pinned me. He was hard now. “No. Not yet.”

“I’ll be late, Jim-”

Another blue and white flash and the curtain sucked out the window. The crack was close, deafening. I found myself face down, his arm around my middle and pulling my ass into his hips. His whiskers scratched my shoulders and neck. “Late for him. He’ll wait.” His cock pressed against my ass, and I tensed, fought him half-heartedly.

We both knew I could get away if I wanted to. He held me tightly, roughly, while rain started to sheet and blow through the open window, running over our skin. He didn’t force me. But he adjusted, thrust brutally against my pussy.

It felt good, the brutality. It felt good teetering on the edge of the break and knowing if I mentioned my husband again he might actually cause pain. He might even leave a mark I could carry home, to remember. I reached back and dug my short nails into his pumping buttock, scratching. Perhaps I would be the one, the one to fall over, to take him down with me.

To leave a mark.

The Box

He put her in a box. Tied it up in a neat pink ribbon and held her there. When he opened the box she was always waiting, smiling, wet. He could fuck her or hold her, woo her or cajole her. His heart swelled, his cock hardened when he thought of the box tucked safely in his breast pocket. There while he sat through tedious meetings, or wrote tedious papers, or taught tedious classes. His baby girl wrapped up and kept safe just for him.

 

He never stopped to consider what the box did to her.

Tempest

She was a riot of color, of chords, of words. Passion in reds and bass notes, frivolity in pastels and trebles. Words vibrated around her and collided without breaking. Strong words like lust and cock and cunt and love. She blazed, until she didn’t. Until reds faded to blues and the notes grew discordant, the words a nonsensical jumble. That was when he put his hands out, opened his arms, pulled the mess of her against his chest and found her heartbeat with his. If he held her firmly, put his mouth against her hair and breathed her, pulled her skin into his own, her chaos would quiet. Her heartbeat followed his, slowing, her breathing syncopated with his own, and her A minor shrill flowed into a swirl of soft purples and shadows. She steadied.

If love were a song, or a painting, or even a verse, he thought it would be nothing of the schmaltz that spread like a romanticized kudzu vine. It would be this. Painful moments turned quiet, chaos turned lustful, and the soul was renewed. He thought if she burned any lower perhaps he wouldn’t love her as much. That his calm found its home with her chaos, and that was how it should be.

Cold – Writing Prompt #149 “Collage 18”

And how quickly you run cold, I forget when I’m away from you. That passion that sets my cock afire, drives me to please you, please me, please, please please… Then you’re cold. What did I do? Not do?

But you’re so quiet. Are you angry? Upset? I know you suffer. I forget because you smile, always smiling. And I forget to look closely because your eyes tell. Maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe I’m a shit person because I don’t want to know what I can’t fix. My cock is still hard. I still want you, even though you’re cool and quiet. Can I bring you back with my lust? If I kiss your mouth, and taste your tongue, slide my fingers against your clit, will you flow for me, Baby? Flow and writhe and scream, I want you to release because then I feel I’ve done something good for you.

You deserve good, baby girl. I want to give you good. And better. Come for me, sweetie. Please?

Prompt here.

Food for Thought Friday – Dealbreakers

What would constitute a deal-breaker in terms of finding someone attractive? List the top three things that would be a serious turn off for you; it can be physical, a personality quirk, a habit… whatever does NOT float your boat!

Having answered Kat and Wookie’s question on what is sexy it seems only fair to answer the flip-side. I consider myself someone who is pretty easy to get along with most of the time. However, there are a few traits that put me off without fail. And I’m not sure this applies solely to the opposite sex, either. But for the sake of the exercise, I shall stick to what does it for me in a mate.

1) Arrogance. This is the number one thing that will put me off faster than anything. There is a fine line between confidence and arrogance. The man who is confident in himself without approaching the world as though he knows everything and it’s his way or the highway is a keeper. But as soon as that glimmer of arrogance or cockiness comes through I’m checking out on an emotional level.
2) Volume. Not as a physical measurement, but in decibels. I like things low-key and quiet in day to day life as a general rule. In my experience, those who are boisterous and loud are too often covering insecurity, often uncomfortable with themselves and use it as a smokescreen. I like a man who is soft-spoken but firm, and takes time and care with his words. If I’m being yelled at, or pushed into a lot of unnecessary conversation, I immediately withdraw.
3) There is one physical trait that will put me off pretty quickly. Long dirty nails. Ick.

 

In addition to those top three, other things will put me off, too. Taking oneself too seriously, cruelty, poor personal hygiene… but those are pretty universal and no-brainers, I think. Or maybe I really am just that particular!

Let us know what puts you off in a potential partner by heading over to Food for Thought Friday.

Loosed

They watched her and the way their eyes slid over her body was like a physical touch. She wanted to revel in it, believe it was because she was beautiful, or at least feminine. But it wasn’t true.

She wondered what it would be like if one of them touched her. Not just with his eyes, but his hands; palms and fingertips slipping and sliding over her arms and hands, against her neck and over her clavicle, sliding lower… What about brushing across her stomach, her waist, a thigh? She would then stop herself, flush, and busy her hands with something meaningful.

Sometimes the pressure built to a staggering crescendo as she lay in the darkness, in the bunk beneath her sleeping sister and across the room from her sleeping brothers. The silence was deafening, broken only by the snores and mumbles of others. She could hear her father’s even breathing in the next room, once and awhile punctuated by a sudden snort. The clamor within quickly drowned them out. Her fingers would find that sweet spot between her legs, and it was always slippery and hot. Only a bit of pressure, circles, this way then that, and her body would shudder. The crescendo would fade, drain away, leaving her limbs heavy, her body content, and her mind working to shut out the shame.

But when she did that, she saw them looking. Watching. And heard Mama say with disdain as they passed by, “Dirty old men. Just ignore them, dear. They’ve evil on their minds.”

When the time came that she found herself an adult alone, and feeling eyes slide over her body, she wanted to revel in it. Mama was no longer there to tell her it wasn’t her they were watching; only their own filthy fantasies. And when he approached her, looked into her eyes and smiled, she returned it. When he offered his hand and his name, she did the same. When he told her she was beautiful over the meal he bought her, her mouth said thank you, but her mind grew suspicious of his motivations. He only wanted to own her. Beauty did not enter in.

When he asked her after a number of dates if he could kiss her, she said yes. He told her again that she was beautiful and asked if she believed him. She attempted to lie, but he caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger and made her look at him. She couldn’t lie looking into his brown eyes.

He smiled softly, and kissed her. And when he did, his hands swept her skin and their bodies melded and she felt him. Him. Firm and growing against her hip, and the crescendo rose again.

When he whispered into her ear with his need pressed against her, Now do you believe you are beautiful to me? she believed him. She invited him in.

The Beast was loosed. And it was not him.

Lydia

It was a laserwash, one of those no touch deals. Gone were the days of giant slinging brushes buffing your car with blue suds that smelled oddly of bubble gum. He remembered fucking in those car washes, when Shel had been young and limber and perpetually horny. God, he’d loved that. So predictable too, almost a fetish with her. It got to the point where he’d get a hard on just driving by one.

Shel was gone. Cancer. Fuck cancer. Cancer in her breasts, metastasized to her liver and then her lungs. Those gorgeous breasts. Bouncing in his face while the car rocked inside and out. Her voice, her violet eyes boring into his while she told him to fuck her, the mascara streaking her cheeks.

The car was filthy. And he asked this young woman with him did she mind if they went through the wash on their way to dinner. He’d tried to get it done before he picked her up. Time management wasn’t his strong suit. Shel had always helped him with that, sending him reminders, hand-writing him notes, packing his lunch every morning at 5:30. Now he was always late. Always sad, always late.

This one, her name was Lydia. She wasn’t classically beautiful, but she had a smile that melted his sadness. And woke his cock. Was it her smile? She had an open, curious kind of face. He felt like he could ask her anything and she’d probably answer. Anything? She had short blonde hair that flew around her face and big green eyes. And a figure. He wanted to bite her. Everywhere. From her plump ass to her tiny waist to her smiling lips.

Yeah, those lips, too.

“No, I don’t mind at all.” She smiled sweetly and tucked her hands between her thighs. It was almost demure. Maybe it was his dirty old mind that made it something else. She was wearing dark slacks and a loudly colored blouse with a plunging neckline. She looked casual but put-together. And she smelled like sugar and flowers.

The wash bay was glass. They were alone, though. He looked for conversation starters through the sheet of weak suds flowing over the windshield.

He heard her turn slightly toward him. “I love car washes,” she said softly.

He looked at her and smiled. “Yes? What do you like about them?”

She laughed. It was a gentle sound. Her lashes brushed her flushing cheeks. “I’ve always imagined that people… you know…”

His heart thumped. His cock stirred. He teased her. “No, what? What do you think people do in car washes, Lydia?”

It was something in the intimate atmosphere. Like the closed car and waterfall around them made it a place set apart from the real world.

“I’ve always imagined that if I were with the right someone, we could get up to all kinds of trouble in a car wash.” She looked at him boldly, and he stiffened. Just like that. His hand moved there, without his telling it to. And she noticed.

He caught her eyes again before leaning across and catching her mouth. She kissed with an abandon, a lustful hunger that ignited his skin. He took her hand while he explored her mouth and placed it on his raging cock.

It was all the invitation she needed. She was a minx, this one. Wild and sweet and everything about her generous and luxurious.

Lydia was the first step. Lydia and her magic mouth, Lydia and laser washes.

Shel would approve.

Food 4 Thought – What is Sexy?

The folks over at Food for Thought Friday asked this week: “What is sexy? Is it appearance, is it an attitude, or is it just some unfathomable quality that you see in someone?”

This is a question I’ve mulled over quite a bit throughout my life, as I never seem to find myself attracted to the ‘usual.’ In other words, what the media tells us is sexy in a man (and speaking of men here, though it applies both ways, my interest in that regard is pretty narrow) or even those men that my peers would fawn over.

But for all my mulling, I’m still not sure I know how to answer it. I’ve been attracted to the occasional ‘classically’ handsome men. (Think Robert Urich, or Tom Selleck, or, at this moment, Jeffrey Dean Morgan… ) But it is more an appreciation. I love to watch them. And also, as they age (I’m sure it would have been the case for Urich, as well) they get better. Give me Jesse Stone over Magnum P.I. any day.

When pulled into real life and those men I’ve been affected by and attracted to, none of them has a single physical attribute in common. Dark and swarthy or fair and bookish. Tall and skinny or short and plump. Clean-shaven, bearded, blue eyed or brown, deep baritones or no… Those who catch my interest and light my imagination seem to be those you would least expect.

On the other hand, they all share something in common in terms of personality. I’m attracted to thoughtfulness. The ability to speak well and intelligently. Open-mindedness and a willingness to explore. And perhaps top of my list is a sense of humor. Not silliness, but the ability to find humor in the shit of everyday life accompanied by a razor sharp wit. I’m also attracted to men who aren’t afraid to be vulnerable. That’s a very manly trait, if you ask me.

Oh yeah. Come to Mama! (Wikipedia)

I’m very much attracted to age. I suppose that’s sort of a physical attribute. But there’s nothing sexier to me than a kind, generous, funny silver fox with an open mind and a burning passion for life. I can get behind that… or in front of it, over it, under it…

So what’s my answer to the question? Sexiness is a state of mind. It’s a meeting of minds. The clothes it’s wearing have little impact on the spark, if it’s there.

And as a side note; I also find sexy the man who in turn finds me sexy. So it feeds off one another, making it even more exciting. Perhaps that’s what is meant by it being the the eye of the beholder. We see what is reflected; we reflect what we see. When you find someone who does that for you, hold them tight. It’s a rare and wonderful thing.

Head on over and give your opinion on the nature of Sexy.

Mine

His voice came across the phone line like honey. Thick and warm, seductive.

“Where are you right now?” he wanted to know.

“On my bed.”

“What are you wearing?” It should have sounded cheesy, but it didn’t. A simple question requiring a simple answer.

“Nothing.”

“Good girl. Which toy are you going to use?”

“How much time do we have?” My heart was already racing, and the first flush of arousal pushing every sensation to the surface where they screamed and cried.

“Half an hour or so.”

“The wand, I think.”

“Good. Get comfortable. I’m going to tell you what I intend to do to you when I get my hands on you. How I will make you mine.”

“Yes.” I switched the wand on pulse and began to tease. Barely touching it to the edges of my labia, tucking the phone against my ear so as not to miss anything he said.

“First I’d get the butt plug. Cover it with lube. Have you lie back and relax while my index finger traces around the outside of your pussy. I want to watch you get wet, sweetie. Stroking your labia, beside your clit, running around the edges of your opening, down to your asshole. Just teasing.”

A small moan escaped.

“Are you using the wand as though it were my finger?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You’re a good girl for me.”

That drew another whimper.

“I press the steel plug against your hole, gently. My eyes are watching your face, I’m looking at you, your naked body. Enjoying you. One hand caressing your breasts, my palm brushing over your nipples, arousing them, arousing you. I tell you to relax. I push it in a little way, and wait. Then a little more, and more. I’m pleased with you. You’re taking it, and the pleasure shows on your face. Touch the wand to your clit, baby.”

I do as he says and gasp. My body is shaking as though he were beside me, touching me. His voice flows over my skin.

“A final push, slowly, and the plug pops into place. How does that feel?”

“So good, full, nice.”

“I leave it. Kiss your lips, and finally slip a finger into your cunt. Kissing you deeply while my fingers massage you, finding your cervix, slipping back to your G-spot. I press, and move my mouth to your nipples, sucking and biting. I catch one between my teeth and pull till you whimper, then release. Then the other. I feel your pussy working around my fingers. You’re so wet.”

“So wet,” I groan. I am. The wand is slipping over my clit with delirious ease.

“I take my hand away.”

“No!”

“Yes. And paint your lips with your juices. All so I can eat them off, kissing you again.”

“Fuck.”

“I move to your head, help you up with a hand in your hair. And I touch my cock to your lips. Do you want it?”

“Oh fuck yes. Yes, Sir, I do.”

“I push it over your lips, onto your wet tongue. Feel the spongy head. Taste the salty precum I’ve made for you.”

My body trembled. The climax was bearing down, but I knew better. I pushed it back. “I want to taste you.”

“I know you do, baby. I want you to.”

I switched the speed on the wand to low. Began to ease my way back up as his voice washed over me again.

“I lie down beside you, you take my cock into your mouth and I push in deep, until I feel the back of your throat. I kiss over your mound, around your labia, run my tongue along your slit and taste you… fuck, sweetie, I want to taste you like that. And with my hand I tug on the plug. Gently, stretching you just a bit, fucking you with it while I take your clit between my teeth, while I suck you and lick you.”

I was trembling and gasping, feeling every word he spoke, exactly where he spoke it. I knew he heard me, clearly. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

“My hand in your hair again, pushing my cock deeper, silencing your screams while I fuck you with the plug, and my tongue tormenting your swollen clit, your juices flowing, making everything slick. You’re ready for me, aren’t you, baby girl?”

“I am, yes, please! Fuck me…”

“I flip you over on your knees and elbows, and run the head of my cock, wet from your mouth, up and down against your clit, teasing you with it.”

“You want to hear me beg.”

“Yes. I want to hear you beg.”

“Please, Sir. Fuck me. Give me your cock, I need it. I need you.” I was panting, barely able to find the words through the fog. “Please,” I gasped.

“I slide it into your hot cunt. Feel me stretching you, baby. Feel Daddy fucking his good girl. Deeper, and out, and deeper still, filling you up. Fucking you harder, faster. Reaching around to pull on your breasts, to pinch and pull your nipples. Are you close?”

But he knew I was, my pants coming faster and mingling with rising moans.

“Let go, sweetie. Come for Daddy. Let go and come hard while I stretch you and fuck you, while I come, shooting jet after jet of hot cum into you. You are mine, baby girl. Let it go, let me hear you, sweet girl…”

His words severed the last of my control. Each one, each endearment pushed me a little higher and when I did as he said, when I surrendered to him it tore through me like a riptide. I cried out for him and rode it to the end, listening to him, softer now, whispering almost, telling me to come down gently, slowly, to feel his arms wrapped around me, his lips on my cheeks and eyes and forehead.

“If you were here,” I finally asked him. “Would you hold me like that?”

“Yes, baby. I’d like to never let you go. You’re mine.”

“I like that.”

“I know. I gotta run, sweetie, wife’s home. We’ll talk again soon.”

The line went dead, and I reached for the warmth. The memory of being his would have to hold me. For now.