Bicycle Pump in Moonlight - Cover

Bicycle Pump in Moonlight

by Mat Twassel

Copyright© 2021 by Mat Twassel

Flash Sex Story: Sammy and Donna do the dishes and explore that age old question: pornography versus erotica.

Caution: This Flash Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Fiction   .

Sammy and Donna are doing the dinner dishes. While Sammy washes, Donna masturbates him. She stands behind Sammy, her left hand resting on his tummy, her right hand gripping his penis inside his unbuckled and unzipped trousers. Languidly, Sammy’s hand circles the rim of a dinner plate in sync to the slow stroke of Donna’s fingers. Sammy has been washing the same plate for several minutes now. They have been discussing the difference between erotica and pornography. Donna says, “It’s like the difference between moonlight and a bicycle pump.” Sammy chuckles.

“This is erotica,” Donna says, and she stops her stroking to give Sammy’s penis the gentlest squeeze. Then she stills her hand, moving only her middle finger—slow, tiny motions upon the silky skin. “Like moonlight kissing bashful mushrooms,” she whispers. “Kissing them until they’re big and bold.”

“Oh,” says Sammy, half moan, half sigh.

“If it were pornography,” Donna continues, “we’d have to see the bicycle pump. We’d have to see your hot, greedy cock.” Donna constricts her fist just beneath the engorged head. She squeezes harder, rhythmically. Milking. Pumping. “We’d have to see your hard, hot cock getting greedier and greedier. Filling up with fuck juice. Getting fuller and fuller. So full it’s about to burst.” In silence, Donna squeezes for a few more seconds, and then she stops. “So what do you think? Erotica or pornography?” Her middle finger makes those slow, tiny motions.

“I don’t know,” Sammy says. “I just want you to make me come.”

“Men!” Donna exclaims in mock disgust. She quickens the movements of her hand. She makes Sammy come.

Afterwards, Donna swirls some of the spilled semen in Sam’s belly hair. The dishwater drains down the sink. The last of it goes with a throaty gurgle. A wooden stirring spoon lies flat on the enamel bottom of the basin; a few bubbles of soap froth cling to the spoon’s handle and rest in the shallow curve of its shell.

“That was nice,” says Donna. “Maybe tomorrow we can go for a bike ride.”

“Yes,” Sammy agrees. “In the moonlight.”


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