Come for Dinner

Mr. Costello challenged me to a smut duel. 300-500 words on a prompt of my choosing. The person with the most likes by noon Eastern Time on Friday wins. So, please read and like, either here or on Twitter. Thanks! (And check his out, too, here:

The prompt is “tacos.”


She liked to make her own corn tortillas. It was meditative, it had rhythm.

“Sure, come over any time. Let yourself in. I’m making tacos.”

Her cheeks flushed at the thought of him, or maybe it was the pan of sizzling oil she stood over.

She rolled the dough into balls. She would press one flat, put it on the hot skillet, press another one, and hold it until the previous one cooked. It kept both her hands full, holding an uncooked tortilla while tending to a cooking one with a spatula.

She was in a sort of trance, press, cook, press, cook, when she heard the front door open slightly. “I’m in here!” she called out.

She glanced at him as he appeared in the kitchen, and smiled. “Hey,” she said quietly, then turned back to the skillet.

He moved behind her. She was very aware of his tall frame hovering over her. “Hey,” he whispered in her ear. He placed his hands on her hips, grasping her tightly. The spatula she held trembled slightly. “Don’t let me stop you,” he whispered.

He thumbs ran up and down her sides while his hands rested on her hips. She closed her eyes and leaned against him for a moment. She smelled burning corn meal and opened her eyes, flipping the tortilla quickly off the skillet.

“Keep working,” he whispered. One of his hands slid into the waistband of her jeans. “Don’t come,” he whispered, and the command made her ache to come suddenly. He slipped one finger under her panties, brushed her clit. She sucked in her breath, staring at the tortilla in the pan.

“You’re wet,” he whispered, as one finger, then two slipped into her.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” she murmured, shakily reaching for another ball of dough. But she stopped before she got to the tortilla press, squeezing the dough involuntarily as he held her tightly against him. She felt his hard cock pressed against her ass. She wanted to abandon dinner-making entirely.

His finger inside her, his thumb brushing her clit. “Not yet,” he whispered. “You’re burning another one.”

She dropped the spatula and turned the burner off. She dropped her hand with the dough in it, leaving a streak across his jeans as she grabbed his thigh.

“Please,” she moaned.

With his free hand he pushed her jeans and panties down, then undid his own belt and jeans. His fingers slid out of her and rested on her clit as his cock slid in. “Not yet,” he whispered, rubbing her clit as he filled her. She she wanted to feel him touch the deep places inside her. Slowly, he moved. A rhythm, meditation.

“Please let me come,” she begged.

He paused before saying, “Yes.”

She screamed. Short, but powerful. She clenched around his cock until she was spent.

“I’ll come later,” he promised, kissing her neck as she leaned on him for support. “You go lie down. I’ll finish making the tacos.”

See You at the Park

“I’ll be at the southwest corner of the park at a quarter past two this afternoon,” I told him and then hung up before he replied.

By ten past, I’m in my usual spot, sitting on the ground. I admired my legs, stretched out before me, long and tan after the summer of running. The grass smelled sweet and the sun was warm. It was a perfect afternoon to be in the park.

I look up at 2:15. I spot him running along the path in my direction. He’s wearing my favorite t-shirt. I smile. He looks straight ahead.

He’s running fast today, breathing hard. He must have started late. I love that he worked hard to be here on time for me. I watch his leg muscles slide under his skin, pushing him along.

He stops at a bench about five feet away from me, leaning over the back and panting. He looks around, avoiding eye contact with me. He stands up straight and tall and slowly pulls the t-shirt over his head. I watch his arms, his torso, stretched out in front of me.

He drops the t-shirt over the back of the bench. He rests there for another minute then continues running down the path, not as quickly now.

I sit absolutely still until he’s out of sight around the corner then I scramble to my feet and rush to the bench. I pick up the shirt in both hands and lift it to my face, breathing in deeply. I love the smell of him. Sweat and shampoo and whatever it is that makes him smell like him.

I throw the shirt over one shoulder and decide to stroll home slowly, making him wait for me to join him there, taking my time enjoying his scent.

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Wicked Wednesday: Strangers and Cake

The prompt for this week’s Wicked Wednesday is strangers on a train. My first thought upon seeing the prompt, however, was of some notes I jotted down several years ago inspired by a cable-car ride up the Untersberg in Salzburg. I had fun revisiting those notes.

She was riding the cable car to the top of Untersberg. She traveled alone but the car was full with a tour group of senior citizens. Their guide was a young man who spoke English with a hint of an accent. He also spoke perfect-sounding German. He wasn’t much taller than she, with a shock of white-blond hair. Black-rimmed glasses. Gray sweater with blue striped collar shirt peeking out. Jeans. Black walking shoes. Very studious looking. Distractingly cute.

She didn’t know that much about the area so she tried to eavesdrop on what he told the group. She inched closer to listen. He stopped talking to allow the group some time to admire the mountain view.

Caught up in the view herself, she flinched when she heard a low voice close to her. “You didn’t pay for the tour.” She hadn’t noticed he’d moved next to her. His eyes sparkled blue. He was smiling.

“It’s a small, enclosed space,” she said. “I couldn’t help over hearing.”

“Still,” he said. “I think you owe me something.” She couldn’t believe he was coming on so strongly and in front of all the senior citizens. His smile was genuine, though, lighting up his eyes.

“What did you have in mind?” She turned to face him directly. Her cheeks burned. She was never this forward but she was on vacation and trying new things.

“Coffee later? I’m free after I finish this tour.”


“Do you know the city well?”

“Well enough to not care how touristy it is, but I want a piece of cake from that place on Mozartplatz.”

He frowned.

“I bet you have to take tour groups there all the time.” She smiled.


“I’m only here a few days so I’m going back for some cake.”

“How’s this?” he countered. “You buy me a coffee while you eat your cake at an over-priced tourist café, then I decide where to take you for dinner for some real local food. Including cake.”

“You already want to make dinner plans with me?”

“Yes, if you’re only here a few days I have no time to waste.”

“How do you know you like me enough for dinner?”

He shrugged. “I don’t but I’m willing to take the chance. It’s just dinner.”

“And cake.”

“And cake.”

The cable car was docking at the top so he had to turn his attention back to the group. She waited in the back to let the group off first. As she stepped off, he maneuvered through the crowd back to her.

“Kurt,” he said, extending his hand.

“Allie,” she said, shaking it. “Have fun with your friends.” She nodded at the group.

“I’ll meet you at that café as soon as I’m done here.”

Allie hiked across the snow pack beyond the group. She watched Kurt from afar, speaking easily with them, smiling when the women flirted with him, nodding patiently at everyone’s exclamations over the view, answering questions, gently herding them away from getting too close to the edge. He was friendly and forward, good qualities in a tour guide. But he knew absolutely nothing about her. She didn’t believe she was breathtakingly gorgeous enough for guys to hit on her like that.

She wondered how often he used his tour guide job to pick up women traveling through town. The glasses were a nice touch, she thought, attracting a certain type of girl. Attracting her.

The group eventually shuffled through the snow back to the cable car, Kurt making sure everyone boarded safely.

Allie waited for the following cable car. She pulled a book out of her backpack but she couldn’t concentrate on reading. He was coming on very strong and she usually didn’t like that. But something about him seemed genuinely sweet.

Try new things, she reminded herself. I’ll spend an hour with him, eating cake.

“You have a little cream on your face,” Kurt said. “May I?”

Allie looked up from her half-eaten cake and nodded. Kurt’s eyes sparkled, holding her attention. He raised his hand to her face. His thumb pressed to her lips. Impulse took over Allie. She licked his thumb and drew it into her mouth. She sucked the cream off, then released his thumb.

They hastily stood up, dropped some euro on the table, and rushed out the door.

“My hotel is three blocks away,” Allie said, flustered.

“My office is two,” Kurt replied efficiently. They crossed two streets against the lights and crashed into a locked door in an alcove. Allie pushed against Kurt and kissed him deeply while he fumbled with keys from his pocket.

In the dim office Allie saw a couch and rushed for it. She heard the click of the door locking, then Kurt grabbed her from behind. They tumbled onto the couch together.

There was no time for slow, romantic overtures. Allie sat on top of Kurt and pulled her t-shirt over her head then reached for his sweater. He reached around her to unclasp her bra.

“Put your glasses back on,” she said when he’d removed them to take his sweater off.

“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled, then grabbed her tight to flip them over together. They tugged at each other’s jeans.

Naked chest to naked chest, denim-clad legs tangled, Kurt held Allie tight and kissed her hard.

“I’ve never fucked someone I just met,” Allie whispered.

“Still time to change your mind,” Kurt whispered back.

“I want to do it,” she assured him. “I’m ready when you are.”

“You taste like sweet cream,” he replied, kissing her again and sliding into her. She moaned and bit his lip gently.

Later, Allie awoke from a light doze. Kurt’s body on hers warmed her. She touched his naked back. It was cool from the sweat. He mumbled something in German before fully waking.

“What was that?” she asked.

He raised his head slightly and adjusted his glasses.

“Does this mean you’ll have dinner with me?”

“Well, I never did get to finish my cake.”

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The Annual Flamboyance

When I saw this image for fdotleonora‘s Friday Flash, the only stories that popped into my head were also perfect for the EuphOff hosted by The Other Livvy. I’m a little late for Friday Flash but never call me late for a date with euphemisms and puns. z4OkkHaT

“Ah, the Annual Ornithological Flamboyance puts me in such a good mood.” Mr. Godwit clapped his hands together and breathed deeply, the fresh air filling his lungs and invigorating him. He parted the branches to reveal a clearing ornamented with a large birdcage. Groups of people lay scattered on the grass in couples and threesomes. Upon stepping from the path through the branches, Miss NIghtingale saw various states of undress among the ornithologists.

“Come along, my dear.” Mr. Godwit took her hand. “I’ve got a red-headed woodpecker to show you.”

Miss Nightingale was familiar with the activities of the Oneida Ornithological Society but this was her first year at the Flamboyance. Most Sundays they took walks to go birdwatching. But on the first warm Sunday of spring each year, they used a sheltered clearing to explore tits and cocks of another sort.

Miss Nightingale was exhilarated. Watching was encouraged and indeed some folks packed a picnic and brought out opera glasses for better views, rather than joining in the activities themselves.

Bits of chatter flitted through her ears as they wandered through the groups to find a clear spot.

“How about a flicker at your tit, mouse?”

“I’d like to peck at your red-capped boobies.”

“You say you have a cock? Is it a large one? There are few things I find more agreeable to look upon than a proud cock.”

“Would you like to admire my woodcock?” Mr. Godwit smiled as they settled on the grass away from the others. He pulled Ruby down to sit on the grass beside him. After seeing the others, she was anxious to be part of the festivities herself.  She unbuttoned her blouse and removed it.

“Lovely plumage, Mr. Godwit,” she said, rustling her fingers through his hair.

“Put your head to my tufted breast, Miss Nightingale. She nuzzled the down upon his chest.

“Miss Nightingale, would you like to search for my nice, fat worm?” She wanted to very much. She freed his worm, nicely fattened, from his trousers and pecked at it lightly before enclosing it entirely in her mouth.

“Oh, my sapsucker,” he sighed. “My nuthatch! My swallow! My little seedeater!”

Swiftly, she loosed him and rolled onto her back.

“Land your redshank into my nest, Mr. Godwit!” she cried out.

“My beloved Miss Nightingale! My cock will gladly enter your henhouse upon your gracious invitation, to frolic amongst the downy softness and provide you great pleasure!”

Later, they sipped from the nectar of the wine bottle and nibbled on the grapes while adoringly watched the rest of their flock enjoy the same. Miss Nightingale very much looked forward to the next year’s Flamboyance.


I have an aunt who is a serious birdwatcher. This story is the result of all the giggles I’ve stifled over the years listening to her talk of her birding. I don’t know how to add a link to a photo, so in lieu of clicking on the coffee bean below for more EuphOff stories, click here.




Wicked Wednesday: One Man

I’m a week late with the One Man prompt…

I dreamed I was being nosed by a dog in my sleep, so realistically I believed it was happening. As I drifted toward consciousness I remembered we don’t have a dog. Or a cat. Or children, or anything else that might take it upon itself to wake me up. I opened my eyes just enough to make out his shape from the light of the street lamp outside the window. He stood over the bed, nudging my forehead and cheek with the end of his hard cock.

“Blow me before I leave for work?” It was a soft request. Not a demand. Almost pleading. Hopeful.

I rolled over and checked the clock.

“Come back in twenty minutes.” I closed my eyes and pulled the puffy down comforter over my head.

“In twenty minutes I’ll barely have time to catch my bus.” He sounded slightly more pleading now. But perhaps that was effect of his voice being muffled through the comforter.

“That’s your problem,” I mumbled, near dozing again.

I did want to give him a blow job. I love giving him blow jobs. Sometimes I comply fully, right away, and give him what he asks for. Sometimes I make him wait for it until the very last minute. Sometimes I really do fall back to sleep and he doesn’t get anything until he gets home in the evening.

Footsteps tread lightly but steadily. He paced, the discomfort of the hard on making him anxious. After a few minutes, his weight sank the far corner of the bed with a faint whine of the springs. Lightly his hand touched my ankle through the comforter, then withdrew after a moment.

I pulled the cover down just enough to peep at the clock.

“You’re awake?”

“I am,” I replied but I didn’t remove the comforter any further.

He sighed. “I have to go soon.”

“I know.”

He waited with impatient sighs and his foot tapping against the leg of the bed.

“Come here,” I finally directed him. I rolled over onto my stomach, propped on my elbows, facing the side of the bed. He presented himself, hard cock level with my face having escaped from his jeans. He wore my favorite striped sweater of his, too. He really did know how to make me happy.

I eased his cock into my mouth. He moaned with relief and pushed forward, wanting more. We didn’t have time for frivolity. He fucked my my lips, my tongue, the back of my throat. I imagined him fucking my pussy. I was going to be wet all day, waiting for him to return home that evening.

His release shot through me like a shockwave. I swallowed hungrily. I didn’t want him to leave now.

“I really have to leave now.” He carefully hid his cock behind the buttonfly of his jeans before leaning down to kiss me deeply. He pulled the comforter back over me.

“Be ready for my turn when you get home.”

I’d be the one pacing impatiently all day.

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This piece was written for Exhibit A’s Great British Bake Off competition. Click here to see the rest of the entries.

On the morning of the Annual Winter Wonderland Gingerbread House Competition in Winter Pine, Pennsylvania, Monica had been up since five o’clock finishing her perfect Victorian-inspired gingerbread house.

“Mon, it’s amazing.” The low voice whispering behind her made her flinch slightly, causing her to make a light imprint with her fingertip in some icing along the peaked roof. She drew her hand away quickly and as she stepped back, she leaned into Jared’s broad chest. He enveloped her in a bear hug. “Good morning.” He sighed into her hair, then breathed in deeply the scent of sugar and ginger. “You’ve been up all night?”

Monica was exhausted. She closed her eyes and nodded, needing his strength to hold her up. She brushed her bangs out of her eyes.

Jared released her and she turned to face him. “I know you want to work,” he said. “I won’t get in your way. Do you want some coffee?” He raised his hand to her cheek and used his thumb to brush at a smudge of flour but he didn’t quite get it all. She leaned her cheek into the palm of his hand. She licked her lips and looked up at him, eyes wide. “I know that look,” Jared whispered. “You don’t want coffee.”

Monica smiled. She wrapped her arms around his head and drew him down close for a kiss. He made to push her against the table. “No!” she cried out. “Not in front of the gingerbread people!”

Jared laughed. The last thing he wanted was to send the gingerbread house off the table crashing to the floor. “Next to the coffee maker?” He nodded toward the counter.

Jared pushed a bag of gumdrops aside on the counter and lifted himself up to sit on the edge. Monica used the stepstool, out from reaching those gumdrops from a high shelf earlier, to climb up onto the counter after him. She wrapped her legs around his waist.

Jared slipped a hand under her robe and was surprised to feel her warm pussy instead of her panties. He slipped a finger inside her. She groaned and put her hand on his cock, warm through the flannel of his pajama pants, pressing tight against the fabric. She freed his cock from the fly and smiled widely as it jumped up to greet her.

Monica lifted her hips and hovered over Jared’s cock, the tip just resting against her clit. “I want you so badly,” she whispered, her lips nuzzled in the hair behind his ear.

Jared’s hands rested on her hips as she slid down slowly. His cock filled her bit by bit until she settled on his lap, his cock deep insider her, the bottom of her thighs tight against the top of his. He grabbed her hips tightly, holding her firmly in place. “You feel so great,” he whispered.

She sat still for a moment, enjoying the feel of him inside her. Then she moved her hips slightly, just enough friction to send a wave of warmth through her pussy. Little by little she felt the pressure build. Jared held her tight. He tensed as she rode him. When she came, he held her tight, and all the exhaustion of the last few days flowed out of her.

With a deep sigh, Monica rested her head sleepily on his shoulder. “Do you have time to go back to bed for a nap?” Jared asked.

“No,” she said, glancing at the clock. “I need to shower and pack up my gingerbread house.” Monica reluctantly unwound her legs and climbed down. She adjusted her robe and gave Jared one more smile before turning out of the room.

“I’ll have coffee ready when you get out,” he called after her.

Later, Jared helped her place the pieces into two large cardboard cake boxes and secured them in the car for her. The roof wasn’t attached yet; Monica would do that at the setup. A third, smaller box held several gingerbread men and women. She’d use two in the display but had some extras just in case.

The conference room was a whir of activity as teams and individuals unpacked their displays. Monica glanced around the room and realized she didn’t have much competition. She was still anxious about finally snagging that first place, though.

“Monica!” A woman wearing a berry red twinset and waving a clipboard hurried toward her.

“I’d better see to this,” Monica said, kissing Jared on the cheek.

“No problem, I’ll set the roof on for you.”

Monica turned her back on Jared and the gingerbread house for a minute to talk to the berry red twinset. When she turned back, Jared was stepping away from the table, dusting powdered sugar off his hands.

“All set for you to finish up,” he said. “I need to run to the car for a sec. I forgot my phone in there.”

“Okay, see you in a minute.” Monica kissed his cheek as he walked away.

Monica placed her gingerbread couple side-by-side in the front lawn of the house. As she wiped some icing from the edge one of the windowsills, Monica peeked through the window.

Against an inside wall of the gingerbread house two gingerbread figures were stuck together with a smear of icing across their stomachs. They were slightly askew. She saw a smudge of flour on the face of the figure with its back to the wall.

Kuchen Wunsch

A version of this piece was originally written for Exhibit A when he was running a marathon and asked for stories about running and sex. I raced last weekend and I recently had an amazing piece of cake, so this story came back to my mind. He enthusiastically encouraged me to share it.

In Munich it isn’t easy to find a meal that’s healthy rather than heavy but for my last meal before the marathon I needed to eat reasonably light. I found a café open early for dinner and explained that I simply wanted grilled chicken and a green salad. Of course it was served with fried potatoes on the side. I’m not one to deny myself pleasures so I took a few bites, salty and greasy and magnificent, before returning to my plain chicken and large glass of water. I wanted a beer. The weather was perfect for sitting all night in a biergarten but it would have to wait for tomorrow. Okay, so sometimes I do deny myself pleasures, at least temporarily.

The waiter cleared my plates. Behind him appeared a buxom young woman holding a dessert tray. So much powdered sugar and sculpted chocolate it held that fairy tale enchantment that Bavaria oozes with.

Haben Sie einen Kuchen Wunsch?” Her large blue eyes begged me to take a piece of cake, and they begged for something more from me. Kuchen Wunsch, cake wish. The phrasing charmed me almost as much as her blushing pink cheeks. I did have a wish to take her back to my hotel and see just how flushed I could make those cheeks but it was one of those pleasures that would have to wait. I couldn’t expend the energy so close to the race.

My eyes lingered on the bit of cleavage peeking from her scoop-neck blouse before settling on her tray of sweets. If I wasn’t going to fuck her, I would definitely be having a piece of cake. I chose a kirschtorte, black forest.

Her thumb slipped as she handed me the plate, sliding through the top layer of cherry syrup and cream. She made to draw back and apologize but I placed my fingertips on the back of her hand. Her eyes encouraged me. I raised her thumb to my lips and kissed her offered confection, licking the cream from my lips. Suddenly shy, she drew her hand back and I let her. More than anything else that little gesture of pulling away made me so hard. I planned to enjoy my cake then go back to my hotel room and think of her.

After the last bite, I ran my finger across the place through the syrup and cream then licked it. I wanted to smell like the cake, and like her. I wanted to smell the sticky sweetness on myself later.

Alone in my room, I turned off all the lights, undressed, and sank into the soft, thick comforter. I held my fingers to my nose and inhaled the almost sickly sweet scent of cream and chocolate. I moved my hand to my hard cock, imagining her large blue eyes watching me and her cheeks blushing deeper with every stroke I took. When I came, I imagined myself drizzling cum over her breasts and the dessert tray, like icing.


I’d been going along at a nice pace, stopping for water every few miles. I felt like I would finish with no problem, maybe even a personal record. The weather was perfect. The crowd was jubilant. I felt confident in my training and in my choice of dinner and activity the previous night, especially the cake.

In a race as long as a marathon, I always start to get hungry around the halfway point. I considered stopping for one of my gels. I was used to them but for some reason today they seemed so unappetizing. When the hunger became strong enough that I had no choice, though, I paused to fish one out of my shorts pocket.

In that moment I smelled cake. I glanced up to see I’d stopped in front of a patisserie and several of the spectators held sweet confections in their hands. It seemed a cruel joke, a bakery at this point along the marathon route. The sweet scent of kirschtorte reached me. My dick twitch. I saw her. The woman who’d granted my cake wish stood in the crowd, eating the kirschtorte, a bit of cream smeared across her lips. She saw me and smiled. Suddenly my dick became hard and I could think of nothing else but wanting those cream-smeared lips around my cock.

Discipline. I ran another couple miles, my dick surprisingly hard for the amount of exertion I was using the rest of my body for. When I arrived at a bank of portable toilets, I ducked into one. I raised my hand to my face. I hadn’t showered that morning so my fingers still smelled slightly of the sugar and my cum from last night, erasing the odor of the urine and shit from the marathoners that had already used that toilet. I closed my eyes and again I thought of her large eyes and blushing cheeks, this time with the bit of cream on her lips, imagining them sucking me hard, then me licking the sweet cream and cum off of them. When I came I imagined coming over her breasts then dusting them with powdered sugar and licking them clean.

I continued on with the race, determined to find that café again fulfill all my Kuchen Wunsch that evening.

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“She could feel the sun penetrating even into her bones; nay, farther, even
into her emotions, her thoughts.” – D.H. Lawrence, Sun

I stared at the slightness of her shoulders. She’d put the sunscreen on my back already, sloppy, like a child rushing through a chore before going out to play. I’m certain she missed a spot. It didn’t matter, though.

The thick white cream had a slightly floral scent. I rubbed her shoulders, marveling how one of my hands completely covered one of her shoulder blades. I rubbed slowly, deep. She sat stone still. This was sunscreen only, a practicality, nothing more to her. This was my opportunity to touch the skin on her back but I’d get no response.

I moved slowly across the back of her neck, remembering kissing that exact spot late last night. I moved down, slipping my fingers underneath the tie of her bikini top that stretched across her pale back. She loved the sun but preferred to stay pale. She worshipped the sun. She knew I hated so much heat and brightness but she brought me along on these beach holidays for exact this purpose. Lotion application.

My fingers slipped along the string to the side of one breast, exposed by a tiny triangle of fabric that only just covered her nipple. She willed herself to stay still, to not let her body betray anything. She might let me get away with a little fun but I shouldn’t push it. One finger strayed across her nipple. It tightened and hardened at my touch but her face didn’t flinch. Behind the sunglasses, under the large-brimmed hat, what the world could see of her face was as white and immoveable as marble.

“That will do,” she announced a moment later. I shifted back to my own towel and watched her lie down. Stretched and ready for the sun to work its magic on her. I was jealous of the sun. I didn’t want it watching her. I didn’t want anything or anyone but me watching her. In that bikini, though, plenty of other beach-goers would see. I hated that she brought me to the public beach. I had to watch others steal furtive glances at her all day long. Some would outright stare. And why shouldn’t they? She intentionally put herself on display for the sun and the vacationers to view.

I fidgeted on my towel. I’d forgotten a book but I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on it anyway. It was too hot. My forehead was slick with sweat and sunscreen. Even with sunglasses on the glare from the water gave me a headache. I reached for a water bottle and drank deeply from it. Icy droplets fell on my chest. I briefly considered flicking some of the cold condensation droplets across her stomach but I gave up that thought as quickly as it entered my mind. She wasn’t that kind of playful.

“Go take a swim,” she murmured, followed by the lazy sigh she always let out just before she fell asleep. There was nothing for me to do except follow her order.

The water was beautiful, clear and blue, but not at all refreshing. It was a warm bath on a hot day. I swam, though. I swam out as far from the beach as I could. The shallow water in the cove remained too warm. I didn’t know if the moisture on my forehead was sweat or saltwater spray. I turned and looked back at the beach. By the bright color of our beach towels I could pick her out easily. Such a crowded fucking beach and I knew her well enough to know she really was dozing contentedly under the gaze of everyone. Including the sun.

I put my feet up and floated on my back in the saltwater. She wouldn’t be ready for me yet. As I bobbed I thought about what would happen later but I didn’t dare touch myself, despite how much my body needed and wanted it. She would know.

I imagined her sun-heated body lounging on the cool, crisp bed linens in our cabana. Trees in the garden casting the room in shade, windows open with a warm tropical breeze blowing in. She liked to lick the saltwater from my skin. The scenario sustained me, kept me afloat. Distracted me from her display on the beach. She would be all mine.

Several hours later I confirmed that she did miss a spot with the sunscreen. Searing pain on my back when I showered. A white handprint surrounded by scorching red skin. I could see the imprint of her fingertips curling slightly around my waist. She held onto me always.

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O Christmas Tree

“I know what I want to hang up first.” I’m so curious I’m paralyzed as I watch him take a length of tinsel rope and wrap it around my wrists, then makes a loop on the end. He raises my hands over my head and hangs the loop on a high branch. I’m almost on my tiptoes. “You’re the perfect ornament.”

“I can’t lean back on the tree,” I gasp. Through my sweater I can feel faint pricks of the needles when I shift my weight.

“Nope, you’ll have to stay completely still.” He smiles as he pushes one hand up my thigh, under my skirt. He tugs at the waistband of my tights, pulling them down to my knees along with my panties.

“My parents will be here for dinner soon.” I’m panting now.

He continues to smile, calmly. “I’m giving you an early start on your Christmas present.”

I close my eyes, bracing myself for the feel of his fingers or tongue against my clit. What other reason could he have for hanging me on the tree like this?

After a few moments nothing has happened so I open my eyes to find him still smiling, but now with a small gift box in his hands. He lifts the lid to reveal a small pink egg.

“What’s that?”

He picks up the egg, dropping the box on the floor. He slips his hand under my skirt and slips the egg into my pussy. He pushes it up far enough that it doesn’t slip out when he removes his hand. He pulls my tights back up into place and steps back from me, putting his left hand in his pocket.

“Oh!” I squeal when a gentle vibrating emanates from my pussy. The speed increases. I struggle not to squirm against the tree. I don’t want to knock it over. I don’t want to get scratched. I’m held in place, helpless against his devilish smile and the remote control in his pocket.

“Oh! Ah!” I don’t know if I should laugh or cry.

“Don’t move,” he says. “And don’t you dare come.”

He turns his back to me, hand still in his pocket. He rummages through the box of tree ornaments with his other hand. The strength and speed of the vibration in my pussy continues to change every few seconds, quickly bringing me to the edge of an orgasm, then backing down.

He pulls ornaments out of the box, one at a time, carefully placing them on the tree around me. I resist the urge to squirm. There’s too much at stake, in ruining the tree. It doesn’t take long before I’m out of my mind. I close my eyes to concentrate on not coming.

“Open your eyes and watch me decorate the tree,” he says, still smiling. With the word tree, the vibrating in my pussy intensifies.

“I can’t,” I gasp through gritted teeth.

“Yes, you can. And be mindful of the tree.” Another strong pulse with the word tree.

I open my eyes and watch him move back and forth between the box and the tree. The vibration in my pussy is relentless. He somehow knows just when to back down before I come. I’m sweating. My parents will be here soon. He can’t keep me up here forever.

“You look so beautiful, hanging from the tree” he says, sending another jolt through my pussy.  He holds the last ornament in front of me, uncomfortably close to my face. It’s a clear glass orb. It will shatter if I move suddenly and knock it out of his hand. I fight not to buck my hips as he holds the ornament just in front of me, daring me to move.

“This will look lovely on the tree, won’t it?”

Another strong buzz in my pussy.He reaches over me, close to me, his lips millimeters from mine. I try to reach forward to kiss him but he moves back just enough. He hangs the ornament over my head then lingers over me.

“Please.” I beg. I can’t hold out much longer.

The doorbell rings.

“Your parents are here,” he announces. His breath is warm on my face. “I’m sure they’ll admire the tree.”

“Oh! Please, let me come now,” I moan as another pulse puts me even closer to the edge.

He grins and shakes his head. He unhooks my tinsel rope, releasing my arms. He kisses my cheek just as my parents have let themselves in and enter the room. To them, the kiss looks as chaste and innocent as could be. But no kiss is innocent right now, as I use all my willpower to resist the thrumming in my pussy. My back itches from the scratch of the branches through my sweater.

“Nice to meet you, sir.” His right hand extends to shake my father’s hand while his left hand stays in his pocket.

“Your tree is gorgeous, dear.” My mom gushes.

“Yes, you picked a lovely tree,” my dad says.

I can do nothing except smile and agree. “Yes, I’m very happy with this tree.”

Check out Exhibit A for more Awesome Christmas Erotica!

Last Christmas

There are some weeks when I think I’d rather get malaria than get the chalky malaria pill stuck in my throat again. It is, quite literally, a bitter pill to swallow. A year later and it’s still my weekly reminder of last Christmas. There’s no pill to help me forget that.

Last Christmas I had malaria, and yes, some days the heartache seems more painful.

I was putting my microbiology degree to good work at a clean-water project in a remote village in southern India. The Doctor worked at the local clinic. He’d grown up in the village but had left to go to school in London. After a few weeks of my being immersed in work, a stomach bug sent me to the clinic for cipro. After the weeks of cultural isolation I clung to someone who spoke English so well and knew some of the same pop culture references as me. And who seemed to have a never-ending supply of gin.

It’s easy to romanticize India. Sultry, spicy food eaten with your fingers. Air thick and heady with incense. Swirling colorful scarves. At a Diwali party The Doctor and I snuck off to a private corner of the garden to make love in the glowing flashes of the fireworks, not needing to be quiet because the bangs and pops of the firecrackers drowned us out.

The Doctor lived with his parents and a large family so he always came to my small house. We holed up for hours, days when we could, naked, sweating under the mosquito net. Drinking scalding hot ginger chai with such a bite it made my nipples tingle. Cooling off with slices of fresh, sweet mango, smearing the sticky juice on each others’ bodies and licking it off.

I’d had affairs like this before and I knew it was a bad idea to get attached but I was falling hard for The Doctor. For Christmas I was going to surprise him by telling him I’d extended my contract in the village for another few months, followed by a permanent position in nearby Mumbai so the affair could continue.

I planned a small Christmas Eve party for my Indian coworkers and the small number of expats around. I did my best to create the cookies and hot cocoa from my childhood. Christmas music flowed from the small, tinny speakers connected to my phone.

That night I felt unusually warm but I wrote it off as my small house being too crowded combined with having drunk a little more gin than usual. It wasn’t until The Doctor commented that I didn’t look well that I realized I’d had a headache for several hours. The last thing I remember is the music pounding loudly in my ears as I fainted into The Doctor’s arms.

I woke up in an unfamiliar bed, sweating under a crisp white sheet, blinded by bright sunlight. I heard a familiar male voice speaking hushed English with an unfamiliar female voice. Through the mosquito net I could make out other beds. My whole body ached. I closed my eyes. The voices came closer.

“Ms. Johnson, are you awake?” It was The Doctor’s voice, but why was he so formal? My eyes fluttered open. The Doctor stood over my bed. A pretty blond woman who I’d never seen before stood next to him.

His voice always soothing. “You have malaria. You’ve been in hospital here for three days.”

I raised my head and opened my mouth, but too weak to make a sound.

“Shhh, don’t try to speak,” he said. “Let me introduce my wife,” he continued, indicating the blonde next to him. “She arrived from London last night.”

I sank back into my pillow, allowing the fever and aches to swallow me, preferable to the feeling of pain in my heart.

It’s Christmas Eve again. I’m in Mumbai, staring at the malaria pill in my palm. I’ve had to take one every week. I always gag on it. I haven’t spoken to The Doctor since I was released from the clinic, fully recovered. From the malaria, at least.

I hope it’s not too late for this particular prompt from Exhibit A’s AWESOME CHRISTMAS EROTICA meme.