theremainingwords

[theremainingwords]

These Writers

These writers have a different bone in them, not a funny bone, nor a wish bone, more of a feeling bone. A mineralized tissue that gives them some heightened sense of awarness, some connection to everything in their aethear no matter how minute. Things that the rest of us overlook, things we don’t see or hear or smell. It’s not that we have made some decision to ignore these details they just simply don’t exist, they are absorbed as part of larger picture, a feeling an emotion that we chose to indulge rather than dissect, to try and understand.

We all recall the magic of a first kiss although most of us settle to be moved into a warm smile from a few gossamer vignettes and dusty butterflies although these writers recall how autumns silver moon was waxing, how her floral auburn hair laid languid on the shoulders of the borrowed sweater of her sister and how hopeless promises were whispered over trembling lips. Yeah these writers are a different bunch yet its this bone, this sense that is never more acute when they are in love or in the golden glow of intimacy.

They met innocently enough. Like the highs and lows on the tide of a new moon sometimes these writers exhaust themselves. The same way the bays and marshes flood in earnest they too are drained wholly. They need to find a way to replenish, to restock. In some fashion they immerse themselves in creative things, in order to find inspiration. Some read, some paint, some escape to the woods or the sea, he always enjoyed the performing arts. When his words finally bored him, felt one dimensional, he would seek out these charming little actors guilds and hatbox theater productions. He always was amazed at the transformation from gym teacher to Hamlet or grocery clerk, banker to Estragon or Scrooge. She was part of such an ensemble.

It was a Saturday matinee, the moon was waning and it was late summer. He found himself in the back of a small chapel turned playhouse with a dozen or so parents and suporters and friends, some with a single flower anxious for a small town bravo. She sat patiently at the back of the makeshift stage with a few other actors, crimson hair the only thing more distracting than her eyes. As he took in the set and its hand painted backdrop and borrowed costumes and dusty props their eyes seem to meet more often than not. Was she in character rehearsing lines in her head and looking right through him or was there some sudden captivation as if they were both seeing fireflies for the first time? It wasnt until he looked down at the little program filled with greyscale ads for gas stations and diners and churches being nervously and capricously twisted and rolled that he realized this was tangible.

The production slowly dissolved into his fascination with her smiles, the way she emoted about the worn wood floor and the anticipation of her next bit part. Before long he was brought back into himself with sudden applause and bows and the tossing of roadstand roses. He stood and applauded although he heard no sound, he could not take his eyes off her. There were rounds of applause for the perfomers and the audience and the venue and then some announcements about upcoming performances and invitations to meet the cast, his interest brusquely piqued. He had to talk with her, learn her name, anything. 

They would share dinner weeks later, they discussed movies and books and plays and aspirations and first kisses and promises made in the dark. They fell into this silver kind of love that was as innocent and as complicated as that. It was one of these nights that this passion finally eroded all of their inhibitions, giggles turned serious and soft kisses filled spines with mercury.

This is where these writers are at home, all of this watching and listening and learning finally shines. As it is in writing it is in intimacy, a writer is only as good as he has felt and can make others feel. There is a connection that forms between writer and reader, something invisible. He found himself in and out of his story as he kissed her, leaving a silver trail of pecks ands piques. It was the most intimate of these things that he adored, eroding insecurities and unraveling fears. Anyone could take. That was easy. Lazy. He never understood the notion. The selfishness involved. It was never about self to him. He knew himself and it bored him. He wanted to learn about her. So he would find her. He sought those places where she came apart. Cleaved. And by now she was anxious to be understood. She offered up her story in reckless fashion and he devoured her. 

He timed his pressure with her breathing as if she was reading to him, telling her story. Her hips reading aloud, acting out these parts, these scenes the way she rehearsed on stage. He gazed up from his vantage beneath her and took a viusal deep breath. Closing his eyes he was never more acute, finding himself in tune. His head took him to all the lovers that she had flippantly dismissed at dinner. He knew there was a seriousness in each one of them that she would never admit. He was desperate to learn from them, in this moment it was the only way to overcome, to leave her better than he found her, to somehow make her forget all of the others. He flipped through pages with each ebb and flow, each wave that crashed over her washed away another chapter, crumpling paper, yellowing pages. It was not until a crystal air moved about the room that he knew he had reached a fresh stark page with which he could spill his ink. 

They loved. He sank into her and she into him. It was a beginning and an end yet it was between lovers. It was a connection between souls that have known eachother since before the first tides and when it overcame them they both collapsed into this chemical tempest. Him atop her they melted into one. They might have laid there for days in and out of consciousness, lost in hungover breathing. Coming back into himself, learning colors again, reconciling time and space he mustered a few languid muscles into action and found himself at her side. 

She remarked at his passion as her fingers explored his chest. In this glow she was intrigued as to what stirred him, from what well did he drink. In the light of day there is a reluctance to explain the words of night, out of context they lose their luster, become tarnished. He allayed with some notion about when he closed his eyes he saw things differently, more intently. This robbing of senses seemed to heighten the others. She wondered if this thing could be summoned. She reached for her silk top that had been discarded in the heat of the moment, slid it behind his head and blocked his light with a delicate knot. He smiled, she implored. Her voice, her insistence seemed to hang in the air. 

And even as he began to describe in stark detail the things that filled his head in those moments he was concerned at how they could be perceived. How with one misplaced verb or adjective he could upset the entire thing. He worked calculatingly. He told of how he approached her as a well written book, a novel and how the words just seemed to flow. He told her how with each twist and turn he was desperate to learn. How he loved to taste each chapter. It was at this moment he felt her move, the bed shuddered. He struggled to reconcile where she was in the room, had she left? The sentiment to overwhelming? He wanted to tear the blindfold from his eyes, flood his rods and cones with white light when he felt her heat above him. Her floral sex filled his senses. She was straddling him now. Lowering her sex onto his mouth as he pontificated of prepositions and pentameter and prose. 

“Did you know I too enjoy writing my dear?” her voice splintering the silence. She sank onto him and his mouth tore through her pages, “I am anxious to share with you my latest chapter”.

These writers.

[theremainingwords]

The Right Train

All he could think about was getting out of wet oxfords and drowning a few ice cubes in warm bourbon. The sidewalk was silvered with a cold rain and everyone walked with such purpose and intent, ‘sheep’ he thought to himself before turning his foul spirit on the weathermen who allayed his galoshes. The thought of them dry and warm in the front hall made him chuckle to himself as he squished persistently onward.

It had been years since he had ridden on a train, the novelty having far worn off during trips back and forth  into the city for college classes a decade earlier. It was a different sort of hurry back then, a little less serious, unlike his company on this street. Higher learning aside it was a blown head gasket that brought him into the sea of mass transit. As he navigated through an awkward portico of terraced umbrellas he wondered if he might have gone by his stop, a cold air momentarily ruffled the colorful patchwork of temporary canopies and he saw his off ramp. Just another block. Tucking his paper tightly under his arm he pictured himself taking the hand off in a bowl game and following his left guard as he parted this ugly, moist defensive line into the end zone where they would high five eachother on the platform.

As he approached he realized that it all looked as it did ten years ago save a few coats of paint and some updated ‘No Smoking’ signage. Even just a few weeks ago there would have been a cavalcade of coeds languidly laying in the grass in the autumn sun pontificating while waiting for the right train to shudder to a halt. There would always be someone with a guitar plucking out a love song to a faraway lover or swooning the next. He hoped they knew to savor those moments because in a flash they would find themselves with a blown head gasket and wet oxfords.

He had made good time despite the weather and found a dry corner through the grumbles and sighs. As he surveyed his freight hopping compatriots he thought how odd it was that you could be surrounded by so many people and yet feel so alone? Blue screens and wires and buzzing and humming pockets and purses had taken the place of pleasantries and conversation. What other worlds were they visiting, what magic was behind those little windows that left them incapable of a ‘hello’ or a ‘pardon me’ much less talk about the weather. There was always a camraderie in besmearching the weather men although nobody today was up for commiserating. Popping his collar he sunk into his own world and thought about his bourbon.

The train finally appeared out of the fog and with a series of groans and screeches it shook the platform stage. It would at least be heated and provide protection from the elements. Chaos ensued as the doors flung open, a telltale of civilization, a crumbling expose in this brief dichotomy. Wanting nothing to do with jostling and medieval-esque melee he waited patiently for civilty to regain its grasp and walked simply into the steel carapace. He did not anticpipate being able to find a seat although he tunneled the best he could to find at least an unimposing position.

Walking the aisle towards the back of the car he was met with cold stone faces, as if they had been riding these trains forever and he was intruding, some secret club that he was not invited. A few steps further, appearing out from under an extended arm hanging from a grab rail he was halted by a female passenger in the window seat. She had a ruddiness in this sea of soggy ghosts, a flush despite the cold. There was an older woman in the aisle seat staring straight ahead and clutching a purse in her lap, she grumbled something as he posted up next to her, water from the brim of his hat finding her disapproval. The commotion was enough that the girl looked up at him and smiled with summers azure eyes, it immediatley warmed him although was short lived as she adjusted in her seat and went back to her phone while the remaining eyes of coal worked on the back of his neck.

The train lurched to life and rythmically the crowd swayed in unison from the inertia. The ties began to groan and settle into crushed stone as we moved down the line. A few patented announcements which he could not hear, something about terminals and upcoming construction and he found his mind going back to the girl as they bounced and swayed down the tracks.

She was wearing a plaid skirt, long opaque legs emerged from the hem line settling into low heeled brown leather boots, surely German or Romanian. She was turned toward the window and he could see a delicate chemise top reflected in the window with every flickering light as they rolled through crossings. She was working fervently on her phone, must have been some argument or heated discussion with someone as she had a difficult time keeping still, she moved in her seat as if it was electrified. He tried staring forward with the rest of the zombies although he could not look away from this striking creature. 

Approaching the next stop the older lady began to assemble her belongings and zip and button flaps and folds, she was getting off. He surveyed the competition and positioned himself in such a manner to be able to slide into the seat the moment her round rear end left the seat. The only flaw in his plan was a slovenly looking fellow slightly forward of him. If the old lady stood up and turned to pick up her bag he would have no chance - his only hope was that she just stood up and walked forward. 

The speaker came to life and announced; NEXT STOP BRAN CASTLE ROAD and a few other people had begun to notice the signifigance of the old ladies departure and the potential of an open seat although it was too late for them, there was only one spot and he was determined to find himself next to her. The next sequence of events happened so fast, so calculated it would have left army planners in awe. The moment the train applied its brakes the briny crowd leaned forward, Mr. Slovenly made his move although it was premature, she was only moving with the braking, he knew he messed up. She stood and he grabbed her bag, handing it to her in a manner that moved her into Mr. Slovenly’s path - she grasped the bag in a huff and walked right into Mr. Slovenly, a varsity high school basketball pick move that made all those wind sprints worthwhile. He plopped himself down in the seat and settled in for a little gloating while Mr. Slovenly grumbled.

With 6 stops ahead if him he knew he might just have a fleeeting chance at talking to her, maybe getting the name of her perfume yet there wasn’t much beyond whatever was captivating her on her phone. Her delicate fingers worked in such precision pounding out missives after every little buzz. After a series of successive buzzes she let out a little giggle matched with a squirm. He began to feel a heat, he loossened his collar thinking he might be finally warming up but that wasnt it, it was her. She wasn’t in some argument she was being seduced, her lover, her husband a new suitor it did not matter. It was unmistakable now, he knew there was no chance of extracting her from this trance, she was on fire. With each successive buzz she would shift in her seat, words from somewhere were moving her hips, her spine, her breath, her head. This train held no match to the tempest in her, the aching inside, she was desperate while the buzzing phone added to her buzzing. He thought about the lucky prick on the other end of the phone, what magic he was capable to have her melting out here in public. He was envious. As this dance continued she became more animated, tossing her firey red hair back with a twist of her neck. Her feet never stopped moving as she crossed and uncrossed her legs. She was trying to unleash this thing right here although she must have known that their would be no privacy for such an event. No escaping those eyes of coal. 

His endeavor changed, he knew he could not leave her here writhing, he knew that ache and he grinned deviously at the thought. He knew she was going to need some measure of privacy. He shifted in his seat and took his coat off. Snapped the rain off in the aisle and turned to her, covering her fevered lap with his thick wool overcoat. He reached up and cracked the window above her head letting in all the sounds of the driving rain and the street and the thunder of the tracks. He then produced the paper and with a skilled snap held it wide open shielding her from prying eyes. 

It didnt take her long to realize what he was doing, she settled in and found a ryhtmn as the world flew by under their feet. He could feel her moving, finding an edge, building a crescendo, talented fingers under cotton and denier applying just the right touch, a conductor yielding a baton. He knew she was close, he could feel the heat, she reached out from under his coat and squeezed his leg and it was like a pulsing of static electricity. She whimpered and he would cough to provide cover and this went on for what felt like minutes, she finally let go of his thigh and began to come back into herself in quickend breaths. 

With her soul calmed he folded up the paper and reached up and closed the window. He pulled his coat up over her languid body as she slowly recovered. He stared straight ahead with a smile and an ache now growing in his loins. 

A few more stops went by and she sat up in her seat, checked the time and felt around for all her belongings. When the train finally ground to a halt she stood up, he went to stand to allow her out and she stepped over him, for a moment straddled his thigh with a nyloned leg. She smilled at him and lifted herself over his legs...she hung there for a moment before producing those delicate fingers from her coat and touched them to his lips. He inhaled dramatically filling his head with her floral sex. She mouthed the words ‘thank you’ and with that she was gone. 

He sat there in a trance trying to process everything that just happened, her scent still hanging in the air, thankful for a blown head gasket and finding the right train.

[theremainingwords]

There are some orgasms that remain in your subconscious all day, just beneath the surface, just when the lascivious images begin to fade there is a warm tingle at the base of your neck.

This morning I found my cock stubbornly desperate for attention. I closed my eyes in the warm shower and slipped away under the water on my neck. A spike in temperature with a nudge of the faucet raises the awareness of my skin and my hands begin to attend to my now pulsing cock.

You were spilled out on the bed on your back, breasts slipping out from under the sheer black teddy leaving little to the imagination, I was looking up from under you, my tongue, my face buried in your salty sex, exploring tense skin with my tongue, meeting your quickened breaths with steady, consistent pressure only breaking to devour you. My cock strained against the cold steel of the cage you had skillfully adorned upon me and the discomfort begins to become arousing. Before closing my eyes in an effort to focus, a visual deep breath I gaze up over your flushing skin to see him playing with the key lying between your freckled breasts.

His thickening ebony cock lay clumsily on your wet chin as you try and feed him into your hungry mouth between the ebb and flow of my growing waves. His thick head finally disappears past red lips and your suckling, your breathing is synced with grinding hips. The image firmly in my head I close my eyes and get back to work. You see he is telling me to make sure you are nice and wet for him, his voice deep and deliberate and out of place in our little world. ‘See this black cock cucky, this will be the largest cock that has ever been inside your wife, you don’t want it to hurt her do you? Make sure she is ready, make sure she is wet, make sure she is hungry’ he says. ‘She is almost there cucky, those lips that kiss you goodnight are telling me she is ready, are you ready?’ Muffled moans fill the aether of the room as you cum from somewhere deep inside, his cock throbbing in your mouth has broken the dam and flooded my mouth, silvered my face with warm honey.       

In the face of external stimuli dreams and fantasies sometimes breach into chaos, synapses transcend space and time. There was a rush of movement and I found myself sitting across from the two of you, he was now on his back, veiny engorged cock standing straight up impossibly into the air, you turned away from me, deftly and confidently you toss a torn black stockinged leg up and over his frame and settle in over his cock. I felt myself coming back into the shower, a crescendo poised for one tense moment, you slowly lower your tingling sex, impaling yourself onto his cock my head fioods with the sights and sounds and aromas of that moment. As I watched his cock slowly disappeared inside your married womb I came in throbs and pulses and thrusts and uncontrolled tics, over and over it felt like it would never stop.

The yellow light of the bathroom began to bring things back into focus, my breath catching up with my heart rate. The hot water washing away the physical remnants I was left in the flush of a ceaseless hunger.    

[theremainingwords]

The rain pounded at the sill outside the small conference room. Turning his head towards this dappled porthole he imagined being outside walking by and seeing the reds and green and blues from the projected spreadsheets and charts spilling onto the wet leaves while animated figures in cheap ties pointed passionately to numbers and graphs. It was 4:28, how much longer could this last?

‘To summarize…’ is the last thing he heard when he sat up and began to think about being home. With the weather there would no lawn mowing or raking yet visions of a cold beer and his recliner were washed away like rain on those leaves. When he got home, instead of peace and solitude he would walk into a flurry of activity as his wife had convinced him to go out to dinner with friends.

On his ride home he considered faking ill, maybe the salad dressing from lunch was off. Bad coffee creamer, it could be anything, the beginning of a cold. What had been going around? Melting briefly into the rhythm of the wipers he realized there was no getting out of it. This was a college friend of Katherine’s who wanted to introduce her fiance. It would be a shitty move, he knew how much it meant to her and it had been planned for months. Inches under his feet the wet pavement raced by while he focused on what to order for dinner and how nice a dry martini would taste.

When he walked in he caught a glimpse of Katherine almost like a shadow, an apparition darting in and out of rooms in the hall. He smiled at the thought of being haunted by such a delicious, stockinged spirit yielding a hair dryer.

‘Welcome home, now get in the shower or we will be late!’

With one last attempt he mustered a feeble cough and cleared his throat. ‘You know honey….’

‘Don’t even think about it! Your clothes are on the bed, get your ass in the shower.’

Leaving his soggy dunnage at the door, tips of shoes dug at leather heels finally uncovering stocking feet. Her words, threats he knew she would see through eventually, played in his head as he grabbed a beer and headed for the shower.

Immersed, he felt better yet the white noise of the hot water could not drown out the sounds of her in and out of drawers looking for rouge and hibiscus creams and stark eyeliners and it made him smile, the beer loosening his spine.

Parting the steam he emerged from the bathroom, he was startled to see her waiting patiently for him, a devious smile in place of the earlier chaos.

‘What?’

‘Oh nothing,’ as her eyes moved over his frame, ‘everything is on the bed.’

Intrigued he dropped his towel, snatched up his beer and headed to the bedroom.

A little buffet of clothes was neatly laid out on the bed. At first he didn’t see it, he reached for the starched white shirt and something fell to the floor. She was now in the doorway, fully dressed, heels coming to a resounding finish on the hardwood, arms crossed, she watched him.

For a moment he felt around in the dark under the bed. By the expression on his face she knew when his fingers found it and moreso when his head resolved what it was.

A few months earlier it had come in the mail, nondescript almost innocent yet attempts to implement the device had proven fruitless for a variety of reasons. Chastity took more effort than either one of them had imagined. They both loved the idea of it yet success had proven elusive and even frustrating.

The cold, hard plastic cage in his hand he chuckled at the thought of previous attempts although quite aroused that his beautiful wife was devious enough to consider this. He was ready to forget the notion when he saw a new found conviction in her smile.

Moving towards him she blocked the light from the hallway and for the first time he knew this was different. He sat down on the bed as she confidently, walked to him, definitely. She was already wearing the innocent gold key on a chain around her neck and it played languidly in her perfumed cleavage.

The trouble with this entire arrangement was that he always became so aroused physics in itself would not allow for the confines of his cage. They had tried sneak attacks and long boring conversations about baseball although frantic, swelling corpuscles were never any match.

‘Ok, I’ll play along.’ he said laying back on the bed.

She deftly moved into position gathering up the integral pieces that would finally yield power.

A silk stockinged knee spread his legs and balanced her on the edge of the bed where she lingered for a moment, almost trying to recall instruction.

His cock was rock hard and his head was spinning when the ice stole his breath. His instinct was to sit although she allayed. The ice began to melt instantly and was enough to clear his head of anything lascivious. Drop after cold drop ran down his shrinking shaft over his delicate skin onto the bed.

‘Damn baby, that’s a little extreme.’ he implored.

Fearing a break in the trance she didn’t say a word, she moved with deliberation and conviction. His cock was filling the cage and they were closer than they had ever been. She squeezed the ice and more of him disappeared into confines. She was stealing his sexuality, controlling his pleasure with each lessening throb. Veins reacting to the frozen stimuli, a chemical, undeniable reaction.

In one final squeeze the pin found its home the shackle found its way through the pin, the lock hanging momentarily undone. Successful she stood up and admired her work. A little uneasy he found himself lost in her intoxicating eyes, swimming. She leaned forward and supported herself on the bed, leaning into him she kissed his trembling lips and elicited a deep moan.

‘Do you recall all of the things we talked about doing while you were locked up?’

Her soft hand tracing a line down his chest, over his quivering stomach, finding the cold lock laying proudly in place.

‘Do you remember when you said you wanted to watch me fuck another man while you were locked up?’

He moved under her weight, her perfume made him dizzy and he felt his cock trying desperately to shed its new bounds. He tried to speak although only remembered burying his nose in her hair and inhaling, desperately. His hips had begun to instinctively grind on her hips, her heat,  although he felt nothing but cold, hard plastic. She had done it, she controlled him.

‘Well darling, tonight is the night.’ - CLICK

.....to be continued.

[theremainingwords]

Something felt different. How many times had he crossed that threshold a thousand, ten thousand, tonight something was wrong. In the dark he felt for the light switch, he flashed to those old B movies with the monster close behind, he made a note to invest in one of those smartphone whole house remote control thingies splashed all over late night TV. Snap. Golden light filled the hall and gave him a measure of solace. Setting his briefcase down, he slipped his phone onto the table and he noticed that her keys were missing. As he shuffled through the usual ads and flyers, the daily bevy of bills were nonexistent. A slippery uneasiness moved his feet. Childhood fear began to wash over him as he boldly stepped into the shadows of the unlit living room. Despite the foreboding in his head the scene appeared unchanged, nothing out of place, even her awful couch pillows staring back at him, unmolested. ‘I must be losing my mind’ he mumbled shaking his head skeptically about his own sanity. In a cloud of quiet utterances poking self deprecating holes in his entire psyche he took the three steps into the kitchen. His blood froze at the sight of him sitting patiently at the kitchen table. Almost stoic. Glass of bourbon melting ice. His good stuff too. ‘WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU? HOW DID YOU GET IN HERE?!?!’ he was startled at his own courage. He flashed to his phone on the hall table or the loaded 9mm in his nightstand poised for just this intrusion, ‘...which could i get to first?’ ‘Look’ the dark voice started ‘relax, I’m not some common thug here to rob you or steal your tv,this bourbon on the other hand...’ ‘Then what the fuck do you want?’ ‘We need to talk. It’s your wife.’ ‘My wife? What have you done to her? Where is she? I swear I will fucking kill you if you have touched one hair on her head’ ‘You might want to sit down’ kicking the chair from under the table. ‘She is the one who asked me to drop by’. Dizzy from the adrenaline his words sounded like some foreign language whose diction and phrasing and pentameter were confounding. He reached for the bourbon in front of the stranger and drained its icy warmth. ‘My wife? What do you mean she asked you? How the fuck do you know my wife?’ He threw himself heavily into the unoccupied chair. The stranger stood up and stirred the shadows of the humble dining room, he reappeared with a heavy crystal tumbler that matched its soiled mate on the table and the bottle of bourbon. Warm golden bourbon splashed into the silver crystal anxious to be savored. The depth of which meeting approval he slid the heavy glass across the hardwood table stopping perfectly, he took a long swallow from the bottle. ‘Your wife sent me to tell you, it’s over, you and her.’ ‘Are you out of your fucking mind? I demand to know who the fuck you are!’ He started to look for identifying features the way they tell you in those see something, say something public announcements. He pictured filling out the police report. He was tall, black, 6-2 maybe 6-3 it was hard to tell in the shadows. His motions were deliberate, effortless so clearly he was in shape maybe an athlete and that bottle of bourbon looked small in heavy fingers. ‘Who I am?’ laughing at some vision in his head he said ‘...well I’m the one fucking your wife.’ ‘Absurd! My wife loves me, sure we’ve had some problems, hell who doesn’t after twenty five years of marriage but I’m pretty sure she is not fucking YOU, hell she hasn’t fucked me in six months!’ he sneered at the notion taking a new found confident swallow of his bourbon. ‘See that’s just it, can’t you see it, Jesus she said you would deny anything was wrong. She told me all about your marriage, from the beginning, all the gory details. She also told me about how you always talked about bringing another man into the bedroom. How you encouraged her to explore her sexuality, show off her confidence, dress for the man you want not the man you have.’ laughing at that last part, ‘It appears you may have gotten more than you bargained for with that hot little wife of yours.’ How could he know these intimate things. Things only they talked about in their heat, late at night or hungover. Little vignettes of forbidden lust. He could hear her playful laugh as they acted them out in a tangle of sheets. Jesus was he telling the truth? Was he really fucking her? His beautiful, delicate wife? He imagined what her soft skin would look like under his heavy dark fingers, had he explored her ticklish lower back or stumbled on the passion she unleashed when you kissed her neck, the lobes of her warm ears? He squirmed a little in his chair trying to hide the fact that he was growing impossibly aroused. ‘She was right’ he interrupted, ‘look at you right now. Completely turned on by the thought of me fucking your wife. Would you like me to tell you how I fuck her? How in the beginning she struggled to accommodate my thick dark cock. How much she loves to feel its weight over her married, you may kiss the bride, lips. My favorite part are her words. Like she has rehearsed them, been saying them for years. How she tells me to fuck her like her husband is watching...yeah you trained her well man.’ His head was swimming in the visions, he felt disconnected, he could see himself desperately, disgustingly struggling with unheralded swelling in his pants and the throbbing in his head. He was weak, distilled from the emotions and the bourbon. ‘Look for what it’s worth buddy I’m sorry that it turned out this way and I’m sorry Stacey didn’t have the guts to tell you in person.’ ‘Stacey?’ delicate life breathed back into his soul ‘My wife's name is Heather!’ ‘What?’ reaching into his pocket he pulled out a crumbled up corner of paper ‘Isn’t this 162 Sycamore?’ ‘No, this is 162 Seymour.’ ‘Oh shit…’

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As if in slow motion there was a brief moment of calm when the first golden drop met her warm flesh. He wondered how long the chemical response of synapses and currents would take to align when she inhaled desperately as if it was her last gasp of life. The silk, having stolen her sight she couldn’t be sure if this stimulant was of the icy or fiery nature…she didn’t have time to process much less react before the next drop. By the third, fourth her nose filled with the warm perfumes of bourbon. His favorite small batch from the crystal decanter, six, seven…flooding her head, recalling how it tasted on his lips. Eight, nine….by now her soft bosom was shiny with the golden potion. She knew the relationship that they had and how patiently they seduced each other in his glass….she wondered how much he might spill…ten, twelve…no eleven…damn. When his warm mouth began to trail the warm lines on her glistening skin she thought of the ice in his glass and how beautiful it was to melt.

[theremainingwords]

My neighbor has a son, 25, 26...cant hold a job, stoner type, driving beat up cars and turnes wrenches on the weekend. Had a cute, round girlfriend for awhile but she either disappeared when the dope dried up or she peered into her future with him. Since then a cadre of girls have come and gone, all unremarkable, they walk the dog with him and pretend there is more yet they all seem to wise up and fade away. The last few days have been different, playful laughs have filled the slim wood line between our lots, lingering goodbyes and early morning departures. Tonight im at the kitchen window which looks out over the skeletons and remains of his derelict projects and their she is, all hips and hair and hell, laughing playfully, hungrily. not sure he even saw it at first or maybe he did and simply knew how to kindle that fire. She shifted her weight, again and again as if trying to put out a fire with her hips, hands in her hair, laughing...it was unmistakable He was standing on the open tailgate of a truck that hasnt run in a year while she paced back and forth, finally settling under him. Her soft hands climbing his legs up to his hips under his shirt and over his stomach. he reacted, Jesus who wouldnt. He was wearing loose baggy pants, not sweatpants, but stoner, i dont give a fuck, printed pants....in one motion he pulled this beautiful thick cock seemingly from the darkness. She didnt react so she clearly has felt the weight of this beauty before, she tipped her head back and he rolled its thickness on her forehead and tangled her brown hair while she smiled and gazed up at him A car drove by or a dog barked and everything disappeared for a moment, stealthfully, but you cant stifle that kind of heat for long. within moments they resumed their positions. Fleshy cock reappeared and she devoured him in one motion, slowly releasing his growing thickness from her lips. She gazed up at him, his fingers in her hair, that cock between them and for a moment they presided over the entire world, I pulled the curtain and let them reign supreme while I made a drink.

[theremainingwords]

We lay there impossibly hungover. Hearbeats desperately pumping oxygen into swollen heads, playing back, firing synapses of the evenings events. Playful vignettes punctuated with a few cringeful. The first night in town was always the toughest although inevitable. With a pitiful sigh she moved her soft legs under the sheets, they sounded like the long strike of a match. There was a cool breeze that seemed to come out of the pines that freshened the room and felt good on fevered heads. She playfully slung a heavy arm over my chest, I could smell her heady perfume mixed with the bromine from the hot tub. It was usually mixed with sex although tired from the long trip and copius amounts of wine and spirits neither of us could have mustered the energy. Not that sleep had stolen hunger, just kicked it down the road. She began to trace growing circles on my chest with delicate fingers. In my fragile state each circumference erased years. I closed my eyes, drifted around the room. Thought about the first time I felt lace on warm thighs. How she felt underneath me, on top of me. She knew this about me. Knew the visions that she could stir, the avalanche she could inspire, the way she touched me. It was calculated. Our hosts, not less than a foot away behind drywall and studs. At best sound asleep or in the same condition.  The boys always loved to watch the girls flirt. Like the playground, just with bourbon and cigars. A few wine stained playful kisses, a hip bump or two while mixing drinks yet nothing ever went too far, edge of the seat yes but never beyond some invisible line, for whatever reason. Frustratingly. Last night was different. Maybe some chemical romance between wine and rum although I found her more in his arms than hers. Careless. Teasing. Playing. She shifted and it woke me, suddenly. There were no encumberences, just a crisp white sheet. I knew where she was going, I shifted my hips to ease access. Her fingers followed. She found me swollen, pulsing. Eager. She was either as aroused or as hungover. As she moved I snapped the random tangled sheets and pillow cases out of our way. The breeze, her mouth, the morning, the hangover and I felt like the king of the world. Her mercury hips finally led her under me, her beautiful ass in the air taking me in deep, soulful swallows.  I saw him pass by the open door, letting the dog out or closing a window on the blue light. It was upon his return trip that he caught a glimpse. She and I were rythmic, hips in sync, breathing timed, my fingers in her hair. He pretended he'd seen an ass like hers in the air a thousand times before. I stopped him with one finger, he obliged by waiting outside the doorway. I asked her if she enjoyed herself last night. She managed a yes between wet sounds. I asked her if she liked how his cock felt under denim. She responded by taking me deeper. I motioned for him. He darkened the doorway. It was electric when he first reached out and touched her soft ass. Part of her thought it was his fingers emulating like he always did in their fantasy although when she felt his thick cock pressing on her pussy she knew it was real. She hungrily pushed herself onto him and I swear his cock displaced all of the hot air in her throat. Swallowing, gasping she managed both of us. I tossed my arms behind my head while watching my wife fuck my best friend and spill her breath hungering for my cock. None of us lasted long, she came, moans stifled by the swelling cock in her mouth, he filled her with his seed and I pulsed into her hungry mouth. For a moment we all collapsed. The dog signaled that he wanted in, perfectly timed, he disappeared and she climbed back into my arms and drifted into a  chemical dream. We lay there impossibly hungover.