Sink Hole

After the excitement, Chrissy and Gabe made their way across the warm sand and up the wooden steps to their beach house and inside. The blood orange sun was just about to set. “It’s still beautiful,” Chrissy said, as she closed the blinds.

“Sharks aren’t the only dangers in these parts,” Gabe said calmly.

“Oh? What else is there I should be aware of?”

“Sink holes.”

“Well, I’m not worried about them,” Chrissy said. “I know you’ll protect me from any sink holes.”

“I surely would,” Gabe declared, “but who will protect me?” By this time they were both naked, on the floor, fucking. Gabe could not remember a time when Chrissy was so deeply wet. He plunged again and again, striving for a bottom he knew he’d never reach.

Spilt Milk

“It’s not the end of the world,” Hanson said.

“Yeah, but I feel so bad about it,” Gretchen replied. “Can I make it up to you? Can I suck your cock or something?”

Hanson laughed. “You can always suck my cock.”

A few minutes later, with Gretchen looking up at him, her hand stroking his shaft, her lips surrounding the head of his cock, Hanson said, “You know, you should try reversing it.”

Gretchen’s brows furled. “What do you mean?” she managed to say without fully releasing the cock from her mouth.

“You accentuate the downstroke,” Hanson explained. “That’s okay, but it’s better if you accentuate the upstroke. Like you’re trying to pull the cum up out of me.”

Gretchen seemed to frown, but she followed the instruction, and with great success, if success could be measured by the speed and force of Hanson’s climax.

“Oh, wow!” Hanson said, sometime later, when Gretchen had returned from the bathroom. “That was so great.”

“You should have told me sooner. You should have told me years ago,” Gretchen said.

“Well, now you know.”

“Yes, now I know.”

“What about you?” Hanson asked.

“What about me?”

“I mean, is there a way I should be touching you? A way that would make it even better for you.”

“You want the truth?” Gretchen said.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“The truth is ... the truth is it would be better if you didn’t touch me at all.”

“Huh?” said Hanson.

“I knew I shouldn’t have said anything,” Gretchen said quickly. “Why don’t we drop it?”

“But I don’t understand,” Hanson persisted. “You mean you don’t like me to touch you? Sexually?”

“That’s right. I don’t like it. I’ve never liked it.”

“But you come. You have orgasms. You’re not faking it. Right?”

“That’s right,” Gretchen said. “I have orgasms. But I don’t like them. It’s not a good thrill for me. Having orgasms gives me headaches.”

“Oh,” said Hanson in a small voice.

“Are you sorry you asked?”

“I’m not sure. I feel so ... so sad.”

“Well, it’s not the end of the world,” Gretchen said. “And I do like pleasing you. Sexually. So, what would you like for dinner? I could grill that grouper and whip up little salad. What do you say?”

“I’m not really all that hungry right now.”

“Oh, darling, don’t be sad. I was just teasing you. I love the way you make me come, with your fingers and toes and teeth and tongue, and especially with your big, lovely, lovable cock. Why don’t you put it in me right now and fuck my brains out?”

“Well, okay, I guess that would be all right.”

Petey the Turtle

First of all some things you might need to know:

I got the turtle at a gift shop on my honeymoon. It is carved of a light wood and flecked lightly with blue. Its shell measures about two inches in the long direction. Its head is thrust forward and upward, its feet flowing back as if in swimming, as if in striving for some distant shore or hurrying to avoid a hungry shark. At the start of this story, the turtle rests (in its perpetually swimming state) on the mantle of our fireplace. His name is Petey, after Elizabeth’s aunt’s parakeet. In addition to the turtle, I bought Elizabeth a short white peignoir knitted of silk. And I made the mistake of asking Elizabeth what she thought the turtle’s name should be. When she said,

“Petey, after my Aunt Lil’s parakeet,” I said,

“Oh, I was thinking about Fleetwood.”

“No,” said Elizabeth, “it’s Petey.”

I teach English at a state university. My wife is a poet of some reputation, but under a different name she has written a series erotic thrillers, which have done very well. She did an afternoon reading at the University some years ago; that was how we met. My job was to pick her up at the airport, introduce her at the reading, and get her back to the airport. When the blizzard struck, grounding outbound flights, I took her to my modest apartment, where she let herself be seduced—another way of saying she seduced me. We were married a year later after a courtship mostly of letters. After the honeymoon we moved into Petey’s new home.

I knew of my wife’s lesbian interests. The dialogue went something like:

“Worshiping the beauty and spirit of women: it’s a freedom I have to have.” she’d told me.

“I have to have you free,” I vowed.

“I’ll try not to make you suffer too much,” she allowed.

I did suffer. Once or sometimes twice in a year Elizabeth went off on an affair, sometimes for a few days, sometimes for a few weeks or a month. She returned refreshed in some way. Having missed her so much, I rejoiced in the reunions. In addition to five slim volumes of elegant poetry (and separated by Petey) the mantle now contains eight erotic thrillers. No, make that nine. The most recent just arrived yesterday. I have opened the carton and set one of the books in its proper place.

Coincidentally, Elizabeth is in the middle of a four week adventure in Poland with her current conquest.

Yesterday morning, only minutes after I’d put the new book above the fireplace, I received an email from her.

Darling,

Having a great time. I’m starring in a film Lud is making. She’s very creative. The working title is Wine Choices with Cunnilingus. Of course we don’t actually show the cunnilingus. Lud is very creative. I said that, didn’t I? Well, it’s true. She uses all the usual clichés, but she’s a master with the camera. For instance, there’s this delicate African violet, more pink than violet, truth be told, and the way Lud’s camera caresses it is obscene. Well, quite the opposite of obscene. Everything in extreme close-up, the soft petal skin such pure cunt you can taste it. Or the tiny raindrop shivering on the edge of a ledge. Quivering as it gathers its courage, waiting, growing, waiting, growing, and at last losing its grip and taking the delicious plunge. Immediately followed by a cascade of falling droplets. You should see them fall and splash and spatter. The slow-motion is exquisite. I’m getting wet just remembering. Oh, the wine, we don’t show that either, but Lud does have plans to shoot me opening the bottle. The cork popping out like her thumb popping from my asshole. We’ll need to use Lud’s friend Janey for that. She has nice hands. She’ll lick and suck me to orgasm, but off camera—Lud might use the sounds—and then the finish will be a close-up of my gaping asshole, and above it, my juicy, quivering cunt. Janey’s coming over this afternoon for the take. I’m so looking forward to it. Yesterday Lud and I did several dry runs. Well, not dry, as you can imagine. Shiraz. That’s the wine. At first Lud tastes more like a white—a touch of shrillness—but once she’s warmed up, once she’s worked up—Mmmm. So how are you? I’m not just asking to be polite. I think of you sometimes, you know, and hope you are well. And as I’ve told you more than once before, you should find some young thing to fuck. Maybe for your birthday tomorrow? Happy birthday, honey. Just don’t get her pregnant and don’t get diseased, okay? Signing off for now. Oh, wait. Did my book come? You can read it, of course.