David Charles Cain's Blog

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(photo by me, of my wife)

The New Ending

by David Cain

Bill Tyler sat sadly nursing a beer when the sound of a woman’s voice, slightly intoxicated and very excited, erupted behind him.

“Billy Tyler!” she squealed, “Is that really you, Billy?”

Bill turned his head to get a glimpse at the woman who had ID’d him. He was greeted by a mane of red hair and a pretty smile.

“Sure is.”

“I’m Megan Stoltz!”

“Okay.”

“I was friends with your sister, Linda, maybe eleven years ago.”

“Well …”

“You wouldn’t know me, I mean, we weren’t ever introduced or anything.”

“That would explain things.”

“How is Linda?” she asked, taking a seat opposite Bill.

“She’s in Florida.”

“Sounds like Linda. We spent that summer hanging out at the beach. Linda loved the beach.”

“Hence Florida.”

“Exactly.”

“Can I tell you a story about us?”

“Sure.”

“I mean a story about you and me.”

“Us?”

“It’s crazy and I’ve never told anyone else.” She looked around, suddenly aware of who else might be listening. “Let’s move to a booth. Is that okay? This is kind of a personal story.”

“Sure,” said Bill, a bit intrigued and developing an attraction to this slightly crazed and yet delightful woman.

“Over here,” she said, sitting again opposite Bill. Leaning forward so she could speak softly, her breasts presented a deep and luxurious cleavage. Bill began to enjoy the encounter.

“It was summer and you were back from school. I knew who you were but you didn’t know me. Your parents were out of town and I had spent the day at the beach with Linda. You were working at that BBQ joint, I think. You were never around.”

“Sounds right.”

“Linda had way too much to drink, especially after spending all day in the sun, and she crashed out early. I don’t know why, but I was wide awake, sitting in Linda’s room, watching her snore. I don’t even know what I did, watched some television, did and redid my nails. I think I picked up one of Linda’s romance novels and skimmed through it, looking for the sex scenes. My ‘boyfriend’ was in France and I was unfulfilled. I mean horny.”

Bill’s eyes opened wide, surprised by her candor. Megan blushed.

“What can I say? I was horny and there was nothing I could do about it.”

“Sure,” Bill said, slightly out of breath.

“It was like one thirty when you came home. I thought maybe it was your parents but they weren’t supposed to be home. I didn’t really think about you living there, so I was curious and a little scared. You made noises, you know, getting stuff from the kitchen and then you turned on the television. I was relieved when you did that, because I figured there was no way a prowler would turn on the television. Then I remembered Linda telling me you were home. So I decided to check it out.”

“Your house had stairs from the upstairs bedrooms along the back wall of the family room. So I’m creeping like a little kid along those stairs until I get a view of you sitting on the recliner, eating a sandwich and watching television. You looked dreamy, kicked back and relaxing. I sighed and you looked around as if you heard me but I was in the dark and so you went back to your sandwich.”

“So you were spying on me.”

“Exactly. I couldn’t help it. You were this hot older guy and I was a horny young woman. I didn’t have the nerve to just walk down and get into your business, so I just hid on the stairs and watched you.”

Bill smiled. “Creepy.”

“Yeah. After you finished eating, you pulled a joint out of your wallet and lit up. I was so shocked, not because I had anything against weed, but smoking right there in your parents’ family room, that was bold.”

“They were out of town.”

“Still, I couldn’t believe it. Then you went over to a cabinet, reached deep inside and pulled out a video tape.”

“Uh oh.”

“Popped in an old video porn and sat back to suck on your doobie. This girl’s mind was blown.”

“I can imagine.”

“People get naked on the television and I’m crouched on the stairs in my t-shirt and panties. You’re just kicked back, getting high. Part of me was dying to walk down, take a hit from you and start a conversation. But with the porno rolling, I didn’t dare.”

“Too bad.”

“Too bad, indeed. You sat the roach down and tugged your pants open. Now there are people screwing on television and I’m staring at this huge erection.”

“Whoa.”

“I’d never seen anything like it,” said Megan, almost whispering. “I was mesmerized, staring hard at your big dick. I was awestruck and holding my breath. Then you started stroking it. My fingers instinctively moved down to my panties, which were completely soaked by this point.”

“Really.”

“I was matching your rhythm stroke for stroke, rubbing myself in tempo with you. It was a strange, kinky kind of sex.”

“You should have …”

“Of course I should have, but I just sat there watching and fingering. Thinking about it but unable to move.”

“Too bad.”

“Then this scene comes on the porn. It was bad eighties porn. Two women invited over some male strippers and they all got down. One of the stripper dudes goes into a bedroom where the younger sister of one of the women is hiding in the closet. She’s a real skinny chick, probably twenty something but with pigtails so she looks like a younger sister. She’s naked and wants to get it on.”

“Wild.”

“So I’m hiding on the stairs, watching you watching this chick hiding and watching the porn guy. It was surreal. Almost cool, in a weird way.”

“I can see that.”

“Except the chick is totally coked up. Talking twelve miles a minute. Dancing around in this horrible unrhythmic way. She couldn’t stop moving, couldn’t stand still, but all of her movements are jerky, spastic, weirdly ugly.”

“Coke and sex don’t mix.”

“No they don’t and she proved it. And the film was from the eighties, so there was no Viagra to help the guy out. He is totally unaroused by her spastic actions. She’s grabbing him and pulling at him and talking filth and shaking her butt and he’s as soft as a baby bunny. Everything she tried to do to get him hard had the opposite effect on him. It was the saddest porn scene ever.”

“I think I remember that scene.”

“So I’m playing with myself watching you play with yourself and this coked-up chick is being a complete buzz-kill. Slowly and surely, just like the guy in the film, your sweet dick was going soft. The guy on the screen is struggling with frustration. Your hand stops moving. I slow down. The scene goes on and on.”

“Oh no.”

“Damn right. You fall asleep.”

“What did you do?”

“I went back to Linda’s room and played with myself until I passed out.”

“Trip.”

“In the morning, you were gone, probably in your bed. Linda and I went to the beach again and that was the last time I saw you.”

“Wow.”

“I’d say so. So I’ve always thought that, in a way, we had a kind of sex.”

“I guess we did.”

“So here’s my thought. We already did it, but it wasn’t very good. So I say, let’s do it again.”

“I’ve got some porn videos and a closet you can hide in.”

“Perfect,” said Megan. “This story needs a new ending.”

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(photo by me, of my wife)

Reason Not the Need

by David Cain

“I know what you need,” Alyssa had said with a smirk. Stephanie shoved a linen dress that clung to her damp arm. Some loose metal hangers rattled.

“This is too absurd,” muttered Stephanie. “I don’t need anything. I can’t believe I’m doing this.” A warm silence surrounded her. “My memo is already overdue, and I need to get started on the filings.” Her stomach churned slightly, consumed by the clash of worries and nervous anticipation . “I don’t have time for this,” she growled. The muscles in her back ached slightly.

The muffled bang of a closing door downstairs broke the silence. Stephanie’s heartbeat began to thump. A heady wave of nervous excitement shook her and she crouched a little lower. Her view of the bedroom seemed at once too good. Stephanie pulled the long linen dress back against her, taking some comfort in the way it clung to her. The heel of one of Alyssa’s pumps bit into Stephanie’s bottom. She reached down awkwardly to move the shoe when the bedroom door swung open. Stephanie froze as the heat of sudden excitement poured through her.

“Come in,” Alyssa said sweetly. Tom moved into view. Alyssa sat down on her bed. Turning slightly to face the closet, Alyssa winked at the spy within.

“Do you know Tom Stromboli?” Alyssa had asked. “The big guy who works on the loading dock?”

“You mean Bull? Sure. I went to high school with him.”

“Ever go out with him?”

“Bull? Be serious. He’s a big dope. No.”

“There are other reasons to go out with a guy, besides big brains.”

“Bull? He’s a nice guy, but Alyssa? You’ve gone out with him?”

“I prefer to stay in with him. He’s got what you need.”

Stephanie felt faint. Alyssa tried to keep from giggling. Tom walked around the room curiously before he stopped to look at some mementos on a tall white shelf. Alyssa spread her legs slightly, showing Stephanie the white panties beneath her denim skirt. Stephanie blushed. Alyssa licked her lips provocatively and softly rubbed the fabric between her tan thighs. Stephanie shifted slightly, barely rattling a metal hanger with her motion. Tom turned round.

“Come here,” said Alyssa invitingly. Tom smiled and moved toward the young woman seated on the bed. “You’ve got something I need,” she said as she reached for the zipper on his jeans.

It was the ripping sound of the long zipper that filled Stephanie’s pussy with juice. A shudder went through her, digging the pump hard against her bottom. Tom’s jeans went slack in the back and with a hard yank, Alyssa pulled them down to his knees. Stephanie pinched the tingling nipple of her left boob and bit her lip to keep a moan from erupting. White briefs hugged his muscular butt. Alyssa pulled the white cotton underpants half- way down his strong thighs.

“Oh, my,” Stephanie whimpered. Alyssa’s hands grasped each cheek of Tom’s hefty butt and rhythmically pulled his pelvis toward her hungry mouth.

“Why do you think they call him Bull?” Alyssa had asked.

“I don’t know. Strom-bull-i. Hard-headed or something to do with football.”

“I don’t think so,” Alyssa had said with a knowing grin, “unless that’s why they called him Bull instead of Horse.”

“What?”

“Maybe they made up the name in the shower after the football game.”

“Oh, my.”

“You ever seen a bull?”

“Really?”

“He’s got what you need.”

Stephanie desperately wanted to see the famous cock Alyssa had in her mouth. She craned her neck, trying to catch a glimpse but as she was truly afraid to move, Stephanie could only imagine.

“How big could it be?” she wondered. From the sound of Alyssa’s slurping and muffled moans, it was clearly large enough to strain Alyssa’s jaw.

“Really, he has an awesome cock,” Alyssa had said. “Take a ride on that monster and I guarantee that you’ll forget every last one of your friggin’ troubles. I’ll fix you up with him.”

“No way. He’s a brute. I’m not going to let myself be mauled by a big oaf.”

“Tom? He’s a sweetheart. He fucks like a steel-driving man, but he’ll never think a bad thought about you.”

“I can’t.” Stephanie just couldn’t imagine giving herself to Bull. “I won’t.”

“Honey, I’m telling you, this is what you need.”

“I don’t need anything.”

“If you saw this dick of his, you’d need it.”

That was when Alyssa proposed the plan. Stephanie couldn’t believe she had agreed. The sharp pump heel bit hard into her ass.

“Mmmph,” groaned Alyssa, holding Bull’s cock in her mouth as she twisted them around to sit him down on the bed. Stephanie caught a few thick inches of his shaft in the transition, rising out of the thick nest of black pubic hair before it disappeared between Alyssa’s wide stretched lips.

“Oooh,” murmured Stephanie, but then it seemed Bull’s lust-filled eyes were upon her and she shrank in a fit of heat behind the long linen dress. Bull threw his head back, consumed in the bobbing of Alyssa’s head over his lap. Peeking out from the behind the fabric curtain that shrouded her, Stephanie could see nothing but the back of Alyssa’s thighs and the rhythmic motion of her head.

Alyssa squirmed with arousal. Bull grunted, obviously pleased with the attention he was receiving from Alyssa’s eager tongue. Stephanie’s tits ached and a trickle of wetness quickly drenched her cotton shorts. Alyssa reached back to lift her denim skirt to her waist, offering Stephanie a view of her white-pantied bottom. Stephanie felt a deep blush warm her face. Absorbed in the rhythm, Alyssa caught the elastic of her satin panties with both thumbs and gently tugged, pulling the undergarment over the creamy bulb of her ass until the slick lips of her aroused pussy met Stephanie’s embarrassed stare.

Stephanie held her breath, gazing at the naked sex of her friend. The roll of panties halted at mid-thigh. A tender finger emerged from between Alyssa’s thighs to tease the crease of her wet cunt. Stephanie shuddered, amazed at how excited she had become. A hand crept down with a tinkle of hangers to rub the damp crotch of her shorts. Alyssa lifted her head to look at Bull and moan.

“I think,” said Alyssa, reaching over to the bedside table and pulling open a drawer, “we need to . . . .” She extracted a thin silver package and tore it open with her teeth. She pulled the prophylactic from it’s wrapping and with a glance back at Stephanie, moved aside.

Alyssa held Bull’s cock in both hands, nearly covering the entire length of the member. The rubber slowly descended the shaft. As the bulbous head rose above Alyssa’s fist, Stephanie gasped. The shiny thick rod grew up from her hand, like a fat mushroom in a time-lapse film. And grew and grew and grew. The sheath reached its limit before Alyssa ran out of cock. Her hand flat around the root, she waggled the hefty pole, twisting to face the closet and tickling Bull’s dick with a mischievous tongue.

Stephanie’s jaw dropped in astonishment. She had never seen anything like it. Her muscles tensed. Her pussy quivered. She leaned forward, mesmerized and wanting.

All at once, she lost her balance and to catch herself, she shifted suddenly. The hangers banged like an alarm.

“Hey,” Bull said, jumping up off the bed. Stephanie shrank for a moment, but when he moved toward the closet, his thick cock aimed like a lance, she jumped out of her hiding place.

“Bull,” she said in a frightened voice. “I’m sorry.”

“Look at her shorts,” said Alyssa with a laugh. “Look how wet she is.”

“I am,” said Stephanie, her voice low and sultry in confession. Bull smiled, kindly.

“I know you,” he said. “Do you want me, too?”

“Please,” answered Stephanie, “can I?” She knelt down before him, and kissed the shiny knob of his rubbered cock.

“Yeah,” said Bull, smiling. Alyssa moved behind Stephanie and pulled down the drenched shorts. Stephanie shivered at the gust of cool air on her overheated cunt and let the big cock go into her mouth. Alyssa pushed a finger inside Stephanie.

“She’s so hot, Bull.” groaned Alyssa. “You should fuck her.”

“Oh, my,” said Stephanie. Bull removed his dick from her mouth and Alyssa steered her to lean over the edge of the bed. Bull took his place behind Stephanie and gently eased his thick cock into her enflamed pussy. “Oh, yes,” she squealed. Bull began to rock into her hard. “Oh, fuck.”

Alyssa jumped onto the bed and nestled her aroused pussy in front of Stephanie’s moaning mouth. Stephanie opened her eyes and in utter abandon touched Alyssa’s pink clit with her outstretched tongue.

“Oh, fuck me,” Stephanie said in the throb of staccato beats. “You were right, Alyssa. This is what I need.”

Danny’s Girl

by David Cain

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(photo by me, of my wife)

I lived with Danny for a year. He needed a roommate and I needed a room and I could afford the rent. After about ten months, I took a job on the other side of town, so I left. I could still pack my stuff in the trunk and back seat of my car, so moving wasn’t a big deal. I lived in six places in five years. My roots didn’t go very deep.

Danny was a great roommate. I hardly ever saw him. The place was clean. There was usually food in the kitchen. He had a big-ass television in the living room and another one in his bedroom, which was the one he watched. Some of my roommates have drunk copious quantities of beer, but Danny didn’t. Instead, he dated the way other guys drank. So when he was home, he was in the bedroom. They were pretty women, each one seemingly prettier than the last. None stayed for more than two weeks, the next one arriving a few days before the last one was leaving. Danny’s love life was in complete contrast to my own. I didn’t mind. As I said, I only rarely saw him.

Occasionally, I would hear them, moaning through the walls. It is an odd circumstance, to meet a woman a few minutes after listening to her elongated squealing orgasm. I didn’t have my ear pressed to the door or anything like that. Some of Danny’s ladies were loud. I assumed Danny knew his way around a bedroom. It was a busy place.

I, lacking feminine companions of any kind, was in the midst of a long period of nothing more satisfying than arousing thoughts and self-knowing manipulations. Masturbation is a second-rate ecstasy, but vastly superior to a bad relationship. I wasn’t ready to spend time getting to know anyone and I hadn’t any interest in finding strangers to hook up for a quick genital rub.

The computer in my room, supplied with a serious dose of bandwidth, provided me with all the visual and aural stimulation a perverted imagination like mine need to get past the build up of testosterone that inevitably overpowered my mind. I hardly felt any reason to leave my room. Why dress? Why shower? Being a hermit has never been so easy.

The living room, however, had a large sofa, a recliner, a giant television, a bar and access to the kitchen. I had never even seen Danny go into the living room, so the privacy was almost equal to my room. I couldn’t lock the living room door but no one ever opened it. After six months or so, I grew comfortable with my dominion over the living room. I lounged in the recliner in my boxers, munching and drinking and watching cable porn.

So it was, late one Saturday night. A ten minute squeal-fest erupted from Danny’s room while I was watching a basketball game, followed by the sound of a shower and finally Danny’s signature snore. The man could make some terrible snorting noises when he slept. Fortunately, our place was big enough to keep that sound confined to places close to his room.

The woman, I knew, was pretty. She had been in and out of the place for just over a week, long enough for me to see her but without the chance to make her acquaintance. There was something musical about her orgasmic squeals. It was enough to get my imagination working and I soon switch from the Lakers to some soft core, a gentle parade of big boobs and round asses. I stroked my cock thoughtfully.

She crept in silently. I didn’t hear the click of the bedroom door. I didn’t hear the shuffle of feet along the floor. I didn’t hear her breathing. I didn’t see her slip into the room. All my attention was focused on the images before me, playing imaginary scenes of seduction in my head.

She shifted on the sofa, a gentle rustle of thick springs and cotton. I jumped inside and turned to discover the source of the sound, my eyes wide in panic as I suddenly discerned the shape of another human being nearby, my turgid cock immediately shrouded in the folds of my terry-cloth robe. She smiled meekly.

“Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, no, that’s all right. I just didn’t … ”

“I couldn’t sleep and Danny’s snoring horrible in there.”

“Yeah,” I said. “He does that.”

She sat nestled on the sofa, bundled within an oversized robe, probably Danny’s, damp hair fallen to shroud most of her face.

“What are we watching?” she asked.

“Beats me,” I replied, looking back at the television. “Some tits and ass.”

“Sweet,” she said.

I stared mesmerized by the jiggling colors of the quick edit light source, confused by the scene. Who was this woman? Why was she here, sitting in the dark, watching big young ladies strip off their garments and stretch sensuously? Did she want something? Did she want me?

I turned to look at her, again. She watched the video until she noticed my look and smiled. I smiled back. Then I noticed the robe had parted slightly. I could see the fleshy swell of her breast beneath the soft dark cloth of her robe. I turned my gaze back to the television impulsively, not knowing what else to do.

I knew, at times, the stories were true and this seemed to be following the pattern. But I was man enough of the world to know that a roommate doesn’t fuck his roommate’s woman. Sure, for moral reasons, but so much more for practical reasons. Sex can make people crazy. Never live with crazy.

If she jumped in my chair, I wouldn’t have stopped her. I am practical but I’m not made of stone, either. I simply wouldn’t do anything to advance the situation. That was, I felt, sufficiently respectful. I wouldn’t fuck my roommate’s girl, but of course I would let her fuck me.

All of this, I considered in a visionless abstract. I looked at the naked women on TV but I didn’t see them. I turned slightly to check my near neighbor, who seemed mesmerized by the images on the screen. The robe had parted slightly more, exposing the first arc of the deep ring that formed her bulging breast’s nipple. Her hand rose to cover her exposure, I thought but instead she pinched her rosy tip and widened the breach of dark terry cloth.

I returned my gaze to the television, afraid to be caught staring. As the maidens cavorted in a fountain, I suddenly realized that looking at the framed photograph on the shelf beside the television, I could see my companion reflected. Both breasts were exposed and she tickled them playfully.

My cock had maneuvered out of the robe that had only loosely covered my thickened erection. My hand came close, but every touch seemed electric, like a burning fire of arousal, so excited I had become by this unexpected scene. It throbbed uncontrollably, with every breath, with every erotic thought, which I could not escape. I checked the picture frame. She stared in it, at me. At it. She held her breath and sighed.

“Is there anything harder?” She asked.

I sat stunned as the words poured unbelieved into my consciousness. What?

She laughed. “I mean, is there any harder porn on your cable?”

“Sure,” I replied, reaching for the remote. “Plenty of porn.”

“Good,” she said with a soft moan. “I need some cock. I mean, tits and ass are great, but a girl needs to see some dicks to get off.”

“Works for me,” I said. “I usually don’t watch soft core.”

“Me neither,” she said, barely audibly.

Her feet found the floor and the robe fell to her sides, exposing her naked legs and stomach below her full breasts. Her eyes stared fixated on the sex looming large on the screen. My eyes stared at her, the living naked woman caressing herself a few feet away. My hand found my dick and began a slow serious stroke, drinking the visions of arousal in gulps.

“Wow,” she said, her hand thrust into her cunt. I looked up to find she was staring at me, at mine.

“Wow,” I repeated, unable to speak except in harmony. She began to twist and writhe on the sofa, adding perspective to my view, her gaze transfixed on the thickness rising from my lap.

“Hold on,” she said, jumping up suddenly and dashing back to Danny’s bedroom. I opened my eyes wide and breathed slowly, trying to understand what had happened. Pitter patter click. Click pitter patter. She returned, her robe reclosed and leapt back to the place she had left on the sofa. I sat up and draped my robe back over my erection.

“None of that,” she said. “Please let me see.” Opening her robe, she drew a vibrator from the pocket and initiated a low hum. “Watching isn’t cheating.”

“I’m sure it depends who you ask,” I said, for no reason. My cock stood at attention, independently presenting her with the view that she wanted. As my member throbbed, she groaned and began the stifled serenade of her orgasms. I knew she kept her moans soft so that Danny wouldn’t hear over the steady buzz saw of his snores. We could tell ourselves this was good and hurting no one, but we both knew Danny wouldn’t see it that way.

Her labia glistened wetly. Her muscles spasmed erratically. She stared and smiled wantonly. I stroked my cock and watched her thrust, buzz and crumple. My orgasm sprinkled my chest. She laughed as she fell to the floor.

“Good night,” she said, picking herself up and heading toward the bedroom. The door clicked open and shut and voices rumbled gently as I fell asleep in the chair.

Danny didn’t bring her back again. He found some other woman to bounce with. A few months later, I moved out and across town.

I have a dream that some day I’ll encounter Danny’s girl out and about in the world. We share a knowing look as we pass in the night. And maybe this time, I’ll think to remember to ask Danny’s girl for her name.

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The Pizza Girl

by David Cain

A Fantasy in Slices

“Hey there,” the pizza girl said, “David?”

The question mark is part of the flirtatious game we play, this lovely pizza girl and I. For about six months, at least once a week, I drop by to pick up a pizza for the family. Usually she gives me a big pepperoni pizza, although every so often, I manage to sneak a supreme. The kids aren’t entirely ready for the full blown pizza experience, but on well chosen occasions, they’ll bear the excesses of flavor for my sake.

The pizza girl knows my name. I can hear it in her voice when I call to make my order, see it in the bright smile she gives as I enter the tiny shop. The pizza girl knows my name but pretends she doesn’t. On the other hand, I don’t know her name. I’m too shy to ask. When I imagine talking to her, I call her “beautiful.”

“Hey, beautiful,” I imagine myself saying, “how’s the pizza business?”

“It sucks,” she’d reply with an infectious grin. Sometimes I imagine the conversation will be easy.

I picked up five pizzas on Halloween, feeding a party of kids before they assaulted the streets on their annual candy begging mission. I arrived a bit early. The pizza girl wore low slung jeans and her pizza t-shirt tied up to expose her smooth midriff. I licked my lips as she checked the pizza progress, turning her back as I feasted my eyes on the delicious vision of her behind.

“It sucks working on Halloween,” she said, after telling me I’d have to wait another ten minutes. “I’d rather go out and get fucked up.” My mind reeled with responses to that opening, so many witty rejoinders assaulting me that I found myself unable to speak. That’s my usual technique – smile and imagine all the things I might say. It’s not an effective style, generally, although my apparently handsome visage tends to carry the amused silence better than we might expect.

“I love your costume,” I imagined myself saying. The pizza girl blushed.

In most instances, the pizza business is too busy for me to manage more than a few words with her before another customer calls. I don’t worry, for our demand for pizza is incessant. I will soon return for another brief tete-a-tete.

“You seem tense,” she’d say. I love to imagine it will be easy.

“Was that your wife who called?” she asked, last time I picked up a pizza.

“Sure was.” I’m not one to deny the obvious.

“She doesn’t like picking up the pizzas?”

“I guess she doesn’t,” I replied, once more at a loss for anything witty to say.

“Or maybe you just like coming up here?”

“Yes, I do.” I am a self-proclaimed master of dialogue, yet profoundly unable to actually say anything clever on the spot.

“Have a nice evening,” she says.

“You seem tense,” I might reply.

“I am so tense,” she replies.

“You need a massage,” I observe, confident of the fact that, in fact, everyone always needs a massage.

“Oh, I do,” she replies, her dark eyes aflame.

“I have a table and very strong hands.”

“Do you?”

“Give me an hour and I’ll relieve some of that tension.” My voice had dropped to a smoldering whisper. I am so seductive in my fantasies.

The pizza girl has very long black hair, down past her shoulder blades, silky straight and flirtatiously alive. I imagine brushing my hand through her hair, drifting down along the smooth curves of her satin latte skin. Perhaps twenty in age, giving or taking a few years, the pizza girl sounds coarse and abrupt with the rest of the Spanish-speaking pizza crew, but energetic and delicately warm with me. I know she thinks about me. I can hear it in the way her voice changes for me.

“That’ll be eight sixty-five.” As I hand her the ten, I’m watching her breasts move gently beneath the pizza t-shirt she always wears. Full, voluminous boobs jiggle slightly with the energy of her excitement. I blindly imagine the dark nipples beneath the cloth, catch vague hints of the hardness that develops under my gaze.

“I love your titties,” I imagine myself saying, suddenly crude for the sake of acceleration.

“Come back at ten,” she might say with a laugh. “I’ll introduce you.” My cock stirs, anxious to participate in the proposed soiree. Don’t worry, big fella, we won’t forget you.

As she takes the change from the cash register, her hand stretches forth. My hand reaches toward her and she lays the bills and silver into my palm, gracefully touching my hand with hers, lingering in the connection for as long as pizza decorum will permit. Our eyes meet. Her nipples harden perceptibly. I want to speak.

“Thank you,” is all I can bring myself to say.

The pizza guys always seem to be watching, curious, amused or jealous. Since I don’t speak their language, I have no clue. The pizza girl doesn’t do anything overt to express her feelings for me, so I assume she doesn’t want them to know anything. Maybe she does. I can only imagine.

“Don’t tell me you weren’t coming on to him, slut pizza girl.”

“So what if I was. Mind your own business.”

Suppose we meet for a cup of coffee, a dish of ice cream, a bottle of beer. She wanted to get “fucked up,” so perhaps the beer is what she’d prefer. We might share a twig, put the daze in our lust-enflamed eyes. I brush the hair back from her face, caressing in a moment the soft flesh of her browned cheek. She kisses me. I enfold a breast in my left hand, squeezing the heavy flesh and teasing her thick nipple. She takes my rigid cock in hand, slips the stiffness between her sultry lips. I kneel behind her, hands grasping her young round ass, riding our hunger home.

“Do you want some Parmesan or peppers?” she asked.

“Sure.”

Fumbling with the pizza box, she graces me with garnishments. I smile wantonly, wishing I could dare to ask her name.

“Have a nice evening,” she said. I could feel her wish to be part of that imagined time.

“I will,” I replied. “You, too, beautiful.”

(photo by me, of my wife)

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Bad Sex

by David Cain

Ben looked up from his book, a thick black Penguin with age tinted pages. The silver bus, a dusty behemoth with black tinted windows and a guttural engine, pulled into the small station drive.

“There she is,” said a man to his wife. Ben turned to look at the couple, the only other people waiting for the bus. The silver-haired man looked at his watch and then pulled their tickets from his jacket pocket. The wife, a small, tight-lipped woman, held a big orange bag with a hug in her lap. “C’mon, Beth,” said the man, rising. The woman stood slowly, trembling slightly.

Ben closed his book and pushed it into his jean pocket. Diesel fumes belched into the stale summer air as the driver shut off the engine. Ben coughed and stood up, stretching his long limbs high toward the pale blue sky. The sun blazed over the gas station building across the street, starting the early morning with a bright stroke of heat. The driver, a sturdy serious looking man in a blue cotton shirt, opened the door of the bus with a pneumatic rush and stepped out. The couple stood waiting at the bottom.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” the driver said. “We’ll be leaving in about ten minutes.” Clipboard in hand, he walked into the station. Ben watched the driver pour a cup of coffee before he leaned over the counter to speak with the big red-headed woman. Ben walked down toward the street, away from the thick blue-grey cloud of hovering smoke.

“I’m going to be in that trap long enough,” he said, squinting as the sunshine bit his eyes. “No reason to rush in.” The grey-haired man helped Beth mount the steps into the bus. Ben looked down the long empty road. “Damn,” he said. “I’ll be glad to get out of here.”

“All right,” the driver said loudly. Ben turned to see him wave. Walking back up the drive, he pulled the old book from his back pocket and clutched it familiarly. The tall silver bus roared to life. Ben lifted a foot up on the black rubber mat as the machine shuddered. “Ready to roll?” asked the driver with a smile.

“Let’s lose this place,” said Ben, climbing into the dark, cool cabin. “Next stop, Paradise.” The driver chuckled and closed the door behind him.

The couple sat in the third row back on the right, behind the driver, close enough to see the road and far enough to have some privacy. Ben nodded to the man as he passed and kept moving down the aisle until he reached the very back. Plopping down on the bluish-grey seat, Ben leaned back and ceremoniously opened his book. At least, he thought, there would be plenty of time to read.

Ben quickly lost himself in the tale of old Russia as the dusty American plains rolled past the tinted windows. The heat of the day slowly infected the faintly cooled cabin of the bus until Ben could feel his t-shirt begin to cling to his chest. He sat up and looked out the window. Flat fields stretched out for miles, broken only by the rhythmic cycle of three oil pumps and a thin line of oaks near the white farm house. The dusty plume of an unseen pickup, hidden by the silver shimmers of wheat, traced a intersecting course toward the highway. Ben shifted to the left and opened his Turgenev.

Twenty pages more had gone by when the bus stopped. Ben looked out the window to see the small station, very like the one they had just left. A sign above the door read, “Rotenburg”. Ben smiled, imagining the abuse such a name would incur. A dozen passengers began to embark. Ben opened his book and stared intently at the yellowed pages. More than anything, he feared the companionship of some talkative yokel during the next three hundred miles. Ben exuded anti-social vibes.

Ben didn’t dare look up, but he could sense the presence of someone nearby, and felt them sit down across the aisle. Sneaking a peek up the bus, Ben relaxed slightly. Everyone had taken a seat. The bus bounced over a curb as the angry engine growled and Ben stared again into the old tale of the disrespectful son.

Miles drifted by and the chatters of quiet conversation began to drone in Ben’s ears. The words seemed to stop and linger as his thoughts faded into a lethargic descent toward sleep. Ben closed his eyes and let the cool pause comfort him. The bus jumped as it changed lanes to pass, and Ben could feel the stiffness growing in his back. Ben shook his head vigorously and stretched.

She sat across the aisle, scribbling in a notebook perched upon her thigh. Ben stopped and stared for a brief moment at the pretty girl. Thick, fine hair of a pale brown that flirted with being blonde hung down past her shoulders. A bony knee pushed out of a tattered hole in her faded jeans. Her dark painted lips seemed to recite something as she wrote. She hunched over her work, shrouding her chest between her thin bare tanned arms, cast in a dull pink t-shirt with a faded tiny bow at the end of her short sleeve.

Ben looked back into his book, holding it so that the title would be visible to the girl across the aisle. He didn’t want to talk to her as much as he wanted her to admire his literary choice. She popped a bubble. Ben looked up. She looked the other way, stretching. Full breasts, firm and round as ripe citrus, pressed forward, clad tightly in dull pink. Ben’s eye’s widened and focused. The circular impression of underlying nipples in the cotton of her shirt sparked a burst of fire in Ben’s blood. She turned back and Ben buried himself in his book.

Ben couldn’t read a single word of Fathers and Sons. It might as well have been written in Russian. He peeked back across the aisle, unable to contain himself. The nipple of her right breast seemed like a shadow under the faded t-shirt. Ben looked back at the book. His heartbeat pounded in his ear. He looked back over, to see the profile of her breast as it jiggled in the steady gentle bounce of the bus ride.

“Magnificent,” he thought, his gaze enchanted by the vision.

“Good book?” she asked, smiling. Ben jumped slightly.

“All right,” he said.

“I can’t read in a bus,” she said.

“Yeah,” Ben said, turning over the book to look at the cover. “Usually I can, but I can’t seem to concentrate today. Probably should have brought something lighter.”

“I just can’t,” she said. “It gives me a headache.”

“I’ve heard people say that,” Ben said. “I don’t have any trouble.”

“You’re lucky,” she said. “Reading would be a good way to kill this ride.”

“Yeah. But you can write?”

“Well, the bouncing ruins my handwriting.”

“I’ll bet,” said Ben, smiling.

“Besides,” she said. “I just jot down words. It’s not really writing.”

“Sounds like writing.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I guess so.”

“My name’s Ben,” he said, reaching across the aisle.

“Kathy,” she replied, grabbing her purse and scooting over. “Do you mind?” she asked.

“Come on over,” he said, pushing over toward the window.

“Going anywhere?” Kathy asked.

“Yeah,” said Ben. “I have a friend in Des Moines.”

“Hey, me too,” she said. “I guess this is a good time for visiting.”

“Long overdue,” said Ben.

“You know what I think,” said Kathy in a hushed voice. “Long bus rides remind me of bad sex.”

“Really,” said Ben, flushed and eager. “I can’t say I ever made that comparison. How do you mean?” His eyes cast a glance down, to see Kathy’s nipples tighten.

“Well,” she said, laughing. “It’s a bouncy ride which seems to last forever. It makes my butt sore

and I feel lucky just to get it over with.”

“The scenery is dull and it makes me sweat,” Ben added.

“The noises are awful,” Kathy added. Ben laughed.

“I guess you’re right,” he said. “The bus to Des Moines is a lousy lay.”

“But good company can almost make it worth while.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Ben. “I guess we do what we have to and enjoy what we can.”

“I like that,” said Kathy.

“You have a lot of bad sex?”

“More than I want to remember. You?”

“Hell,” said Ben. “All I can remember.”

“Why do we do it?”

“Bad sex is better, on the average, than no sex.”

“Just barely,” said Kathy.

“Besides, we can’t tell it’s bad until we get there.”

“So you leave a relationship if the sex is bad?”

“No,” said Ben, thoughtfully. “I guess I don’t always. I’m always hoping, I guess, that one of these days she’ll relax and have some fun.”

“Frigid?”

“I wouldn’t say that. Just unimaginative.”

“Wow,” said Kathy, “that’s it exactly. Boring.”

“How boring?”

“Bam, bam,” Kathy said, jerking her pelvis up with each stroke, “bam bam bam.”

“Ooh,” said Ben, “what a waste.” Kathy blushed and laughed.

“Some guys think a hard dick push is all a girl wants.”

“You want variety,” said Ben.

“Variety,” said Kathy. “Imagination.”

“I’ve had girls reject anything that even smacks of creative.”

“So stupid.”

“You know what the bored cannibal said? ‘Missionary? Again?’”

“Good one. Really? Just lay back and spread their legs?”

“You know it, sister. I have this one friend,” Ben paused. “She absolutely refused to get on top.”

“No,” said Kathy. “I love to be on top. Control the beat.”

“Yeah. I wanted to see those titties bounce.” Ben felt the sweat roll down his cheek and looked at Kathy. She turned away, shyly, and he stared as her nipples hardened beneath the damp cotton shirt.

“You like tits?” she asked in a whisper.

“I love them,” Ben said seriously. “Sometimes I think I could squeeze and suck her tits all night. Just loving them.”

“Oh,” said Kathy gently. She squirmed slightly.

“She won’t let me behind her, neither.”

“Wow,” said Kathy. “But at least guys can get blowjobs.” Ben shook his head slowly, smiling. “Jeezus,” she said. “I didn’t know there were girls like that still running around.”

“More than you’d guess. I’ve had a few who would suck my dick, but they hardly even know how to get started. Only one or two really got into it. None of them will swallow, anyway. I’d love to have a girl who would. One always spit it out. I hated that worst of all. It made me feel filthy.”

“I can’t believe it. I mean, I love giving head.

Really and truly. It’s like playing a musical instrument. You hit the right notes and . . . I love the taste.” Kathy licked her lips. “I swallow,” she said softly.

“Mmmm,” said Ben. “I would, I mean, I love to drink a girl’s juice. The taste of a hot pussy is one of the best things I know. And I’ve known girls who wouldn’t let my tongue near them.” Kathy struck Ben on the arm.

“You’re lying,” she said with a laugh.

“No, I’m not,” said Ben, rubbing his bicep. “She will not let me lick her. She tells me it’s just gross.” He mocked her shrill voice.

“Wow,” said Kathy. “I’ve had head once, I mean real make me squeal head. He left me. I’ve regretted that one ever since.”

“Yeah, good sex is hard to find.”

“Damn hard,” agreed Kathy.

“It’s not just the dull ones, either. Some chicks are just a little weird, you know lots of leather and rubber and shit.”

“I’ve known some creepy guys,” said Kathy. “Although I don’t mind a little spanking and tying, you know, if I really know the guy.”

“I understand,” said Ben. “I don’t think that’s weird. I’ve done a little spanking myself.”

“What bugs me is the power games.”

“Like?”

“Well, some guys seem more interested in being the guy that fucks me. You know, showy stuff, dominating stuff.”

“I had one girlfriend who always wanted to do it in public. You know, at picnics behind the bushes, or at ball games or in the theater. Once she gave me a blow job at a restaurant, getting under the table.”

“No shit?” asked Kathy, her nipples tight, the aroma of her musk permeating the bus.

“It was wild. I think the waiter knew, but he kept cool. She was a trip.”

“I’ll bet. Imaginative.”

“Definitely imaginative.”

The bus rolled rapidly down the long, even highway until it reached the outskirts of Des Moines.

“Look, Kathy,” said Ben. “Do you think maybe you would want to get together, you know, while we’re in town?”

“It’s probably not a good idea,” said Kathy. “I mean, I came to see this friend of mine for the week, and I don’t think I’ll be able to get away.”

“Yeah,” said Ben. “I guess that’s true. Still, I’ve really enjoyed our talk. We should really get together sometime.”

“Are you taking the bus next Saturday?” she asked.

“Sunday.”

“Change buses and go back on Saturday,” Kathy suggested. Ben smiled.

“I’ll try.”

The bus pulled into the station, a slightly larger replica of the others. Ben looked out the window. Standing on the platform, he saw Susan standing patiently in a soft white frock. He smiled quietly. It had been so long since he had seen her, and Ben tried to feel enthusiastic. Kathy leaned over him, pushing a firm breast softly against his cheek. Ben kissed the supple cotton.

“Ooh,” said Kathy. A tall, muscular boy with sandy blonde hair stood waiting in a white t-shirt and jeans. Kathy leaned back into her seat. She opened her notebook and ripped out a page. Scribbling furiously, she handed the paper to Ben.

“I’ll be at my uncle’s place,” she explained. “Call me in the morning and we’ll see what we can manage.” Kathy put her hand on Ben’s lap and squeezed his stiff prick. He kissed her. Kathy shook her head. “I don’t know how much bad sex I can stand. Call me.”

Ben folded the paper and pushed it between the pages of his old Penguin. He followed Kathy, watching the smooth circles of her bottom as she walked down the aisle. As he reached the doorway, the blast of July heat steamed in. Ben took a quick glance at his book and caught a glimpse of the scrap of white paper hidden within. He nonchalantly pushed the paperback into his pocket, confident. There wasn’t a chance unimaginative Susan would ever read between the lines.

[image error]

(photo by me, of my wife)

Wizardry

by David Cain

“Please come out with us, Daniel. It will be fun for you, I promise.”

“Not tonight,” Daniel said calmly.

“Why not?”

“I have plans, Elise. Maybe some other night.”

“What plans? You haven’t been out in almost two years.”

“I go out.”

“Haunting used bookstores isn’t going out. Besides, we’re just going out for a drink and then to the Avalon Theater. You like plays, remember?”

“I have plans tonight.”

“With whom, Daniel? A date with a book? A woman?”

“Yes. I mean no.”

“It isn’t healthy, Daniel. You’re getting a reputation as a real crank. People are talking about you. My friends are always talking about you. People always ask me when you’re going to start dating again. Just go out with us tonight.”

“You’re sounding like Mom, Elise. Some other time.”

“I’m going to come over.”

“Fine. But not tonight.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I love you, Daniel. I worry about you.”

“I love you, too, Sis.” Daniel hung up the receiver with a sigh. The idea that people were talking about him disturbed him slightly. Daniel didn’t consider himself a crank. The thought that Elise and Jim and Karen were going to talk about him irked him deeply. They didn’t understand what he was up to. No one could possibly understand. “Tonight,” he said to himself, “tonight has to work.”

The sun receded finally beneath the crest of pine trees and the huge space of Daniel’s study filled with creeping shadows, the dull orange glow of a distant sunset giving a ruddy tone to the pale wooden floors. Daniel rubbed his brow. A sense of possession stole over him. He began to pace, walking slowly toward the twenty foot windows that faced the bloody sky, and turning to walk back toward the blazing fireplace at the far end of the hall.

“Two years?,” he asked himself. “Two years, and when will it end?”

Daniel’s boots marked an even interval of time as his walk led him to the deepening night and back to the blossoming flames. A sinister wind stole through slight cracks in the upper reaches of the grand room with a howl. His heart began to thump when his resolve broke down and he stole a lateral glance at the long shelves of books covering the study’s northern wall.

“Once again,” he muttered in surrender. “The last time, again.”

Still trying to resist the allure, Daniel’s dark eyes fixed on a book standing alone behind his desk, an outcast from its mortal brethren, shimmering unnaturally in the nocturnal gloom. “Five hundred times,” he mused as his feet slowly drifted off the well-trod path and toward the dark shelves. “At least five hundred times. This has to end.”

Although the last gasp of Daniel’s resolve had been exhausted so many times before, the same shudder that had rippled through him on the very first night struck him again. The ritual was well defined, but the thrill was far from gone. Tonight, he thought and not for the first time, will be different. Even without the hope that gripped him on this night, there was no bravado in his thought. Every night had been different.

As he touched the ancient leather spine of the tall book, Daniel shook. It had been a week since he had opened the pages, an arduous week of incredible self-control since he had read the mystic words. It was the longest stretch of abstinence that Daniel had endured since he found the book in the tiny bookstore in East Berlin. There had been nights when he read the page three times in six hours. Resistance had been inconceivable, until he had a reason to hold back. Tonight would be the payoff. Daniel spoke a Latin prayer.

The old grandfather clock struck a sweet tone and Daniel nearly dropped the book in fright. Adrenaline poured through his ragged heart and he collapsed into the chair behind his desk. “Good,” Daniel said when he recovered his senses. “Tonight will take every ounce of my emotion. Blow storm!” he yelled.

The book fell open at a touch, directly to the page Daniel sought. It seemed his whole life had become contained in the words stretched across that single piece of parchment. At first glimpse, the words seemed to burn and writhe. Daniel knew he was tangling with ultimate darkness, an evil beyond any human conception. Still he continued. He couldn’t care for good and evil. He could only care for love.

Some nights he had to make a decision before he began, but not on this night. A single name possessed him, ached within him. His eye caught the first word of the incantation. Daniel braced himself, like a patient preparing for the undoped touch that would begin the cut of a scalpel.

“Katrina,” he said, giving in to the passion. “Come to me.” Strange words followed and the spell was begun.

A flame rose from the center of the study, a tiny flicker of orange and a dazzle of white sparks. The fire slowly grew until the heat touched Daniel’s face and called forth a wash of sweat. Smoke poured from the flashes, choking him cruelly. The root of the bonfire spread until ten feet of Persian rug seemed to be feeding the conflagration, flames shooting up as though it consumed a middle-aged pine. The last word left Daniel’s lips and he closed his eyes and turned away from the fierce blast of infernal fire.

A crackle tore through the roar and a cool breeze suddenly caressed Daniel’s burning body. He opened his eyes. A vision of white light nearly blinded him, but still he stared, knowing what sight awaited him. The light dimmed and the spirit Katrina stood before him. Daniel wanted to cry.

Every time she was conjured, Katrina appeared differently. On that night, her long golden hair was tied in ponytails, reminding him of a sweet girl he had met when he was young, a simple cowgirl at a country dance, hoping for a little dance and romance. Daniel had often wondered how much of Katrina’s form came from within him, but there could be no answer. She was always like someone, and yet like no one he had ever known. Katrina was whoever she was. Daniel could know no more.

“It’s you,” she said with a smile. Her voice echoed with the sound of crystal bells and young birds.

“It’s me,” Daniel replied, his heart bursting with longing.

“I’m glad,” she said.

“Do others conjure you?” Daniel asked, surprised by a thought he had never considered.

“Sometimes.”

“It had never occurred to me,” Daniel said, frowning. “When was the last time?”

“I have no sense of time,” Katrina said. “I don’t know.”

“Do you . . . ?”

“They’re foul, twisted men, used to abusing power. I hate them.”

“And me?”

“I long for you, Daniel. You draw me to you.”

“I think of nothing else.”

“I can feel your devotion. It makes me live.”

“My life is in trouble. I have an idea. I need you.”

“What can we do?”

Daniel walked around the desk to where the apparition seemed to stand. Her lean body seemed fashioned of fog, a translucent shimmer in the form of a lovely woman. A silver gown hung from her shoulders. A worried look streamed in beauty.

“I believe we can set you free.” Daniel reached out to touch Katrina. His hand passed through her arm, as though he had grabbed a puff of smoke.

“I’m frightened,” Katrina said. She wanted to cry but no tears would come from her ghostly eyes.

“Trust me,” Daniel said.

“What will you do?”

“Have you noticed,” said Daniel, aching to touch the sad woman he loved so deeply, “that there are times when you seem to take substance.”

“Not really,” Katrina said softly.

“There have been nights,” Daniel confessed reluctantly, “when I have conjured other spirits. I haven’t always known . . . ”

“You’ve conjured other women?” Katrina said.

“Sometimes. Some evil spirits.”

“Were they beautiful?”

“Yes. Not like you, dear Katrina, but in their own wicked way. They seem to know something, or at least believe in it. They have tried to arouse me, to make me want them. And it seems to me that the more that I do want them, the more substantial they become.”

“You wanted them?”

“Lust is a powerful emotion. But I also feared them, and I don’t think lust is enough. I don’t know, but it has always fallen short. When the moment comes that my desire for them subsides, they quickly fade away. It is the nature of lust to dissolve in satisfaction. Love is different, stronger.”

“I see. So if I make you want me, I will be alive.”

“I don’t know. Maybe there is no threshold. But the substance they take is strong – some have even been able to touch me. I believe there could be some way.”

“They’ve touched you?”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. Don’t be sorry. If I could only touch you, for just a moment, I could forgive everything.”

“I know you, Katrina. I love you as deeply as a man could ever love a woman. I love the sparkle in your eyes and the curve of your flesh. Rouse my emotion, make me want you.”

“How?” Katrina asked, blushing as only a ghost can blush.

“Do you dance?” Daniel asked.

“I think I can.”

“Then dance for me,” Daniel said, leaning back against the mahogany desk and smiling. “What do the foul, twisted men ask from you?”

“They ask me to dance,” said Katrina. Fire seemed to spark in her pale eyes, a desperate hunger that began to move her hips, a lick over her grey lips. “I must do as I am asked.”

“I can’t bear to imagine you in the clutches of some other man,” said Daniel angrily, furious, ready to strike out at any man who would dare intrude.

“They’re handsome men,” said Katrina, picking up her skirt to reveal the smooth lines of her lean legs. Daniel felt his heart begin the throb furiously. “Do you like me?”

“Beautiful,” he replied, tingling with excitement.

“Can I take this off?” she asked with a coy smile.

“Please,” whimpered Daniel, his gaze fixed on her.

“It isn’t hot,” Katrina said as she lifted the robe up. Her wide hips gyrated slowly as she left them bare. Katrina turned to show him her creamy full bottom, a hint of form without color, like an old French postcard of a girl reason tells us has been long since dead. Daniel burned with desire, his attention caught by the swells and valleys of her shadowy body.

“I want you,” she growled as the robe fell to the floor. Full breasts bobbled slightly as though excited by his heavy breath.

“I want you,” he replied, reaching down involuntarily to scratch the tenseness of his loins.

“No,” she said sharply, ceasing her dance.

“What?” he asked, pained.

“Don’t touch.” Her head nodded toward his swollen crotch. “Don’t release your desire.”

“Yes,” he said, wondering if he could really restrain himself. “You’re right.”

“I’ll do the touching,” Katrina said, placing a finger at the shimmering crest between her thighs. “So hot for you.”

“Yes.”

“My boobs, too. Do you want to taste my nipples?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve always loved you, with all my heart. You make me hungry.”

“Yes.”

“My pussy’s so swollen, so moist, so fiery.”

“Yes.”

“My ass?”

“Yes.”

“I can almost feel your hands on my shoulders, your kiss on my lips.”

“Yes.”

“I need you this way, can you touch me, do you want me?”

“Yes.”

“I grow richer and fuller. You were right. I will live.”

“Yes.”

“I will live and we’ll fuck.”

“Yes.”

“I can almost feel you. Do you want me? Do you want me?”

“Yes.”

“Come here,” Katrina said, her voice sultry and commanding. “Come kiss me.” Daniel shook in anticipation. Her body seemed almost alive, a woman’s naked flesh, aroused and drawing him near. A demonic look flashed through her eyes, lust overflowing her soft demeanor. Daniel rushed three steps forward and took the girl in his arms.

A kiss melted on his lips with the intensity of kissing a burning hot iron, yet at the same time luscious and sweet, a sudden sense of fulfillment, of holding all love in his arms.

“Lover,” Katrina moaned as she held him tight in her arms. Her body melded to his, caressing him gently as she kissed him with all her soul.

“No,” he said as convulsions exploded inside him. The woman suddenly began to fade. Her touch turned to a cool mist. “No,” he whimpered and Katrina vanished away.

Tears flowed from his dark eyes as Daniel collapsed on the floor of his midnight dark study. A dampness in his trousers echoed the tears.

“Tomorrow,” he said finally, desperate in failure. “I’ll bring her back tomorrow night. One more time, one more try.”

[image error]

(photo by me, of my wife)

Faint Praise

by David Cain

“Let me take that,” Mark said, reaching for her coat.

“Sure,” she said, putting down her guitar case and glancing at the short shelf of tattered paperbacks along the near wall. Mark tossed her wrap over the back of a tall rocking chair and putting down his black notebook, he leaned down to turn the switch of a lamp. The light glowed a pale yellow through the cloth shade. A slow rhythmic creak marked the fading reaches of black wool toward the wooden floor. “Nice place,” she said.

“Thanks. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll get us something to drink. Can I get you a beer, or a rum and Coke?” Mark glanced hopefully at his pretty companion as he started into the kitchen.

“Do you have any wine?” she asked, picking up a small indigo vase and then turning it over for a quick glance at the dusky underside. No price. She smiled at herself.

“I might. I might,” he called back from beyond the harshly lit doorway.

Strolling along the sofa, her finger trailing along the rough fabric of the flowered upholstery, she listened to the echo of her heels on hardwood. She fingered the leaf of a dry green ivy and then leaned over the table of plants to push aside a faded linen curtain, taking a quick peek at the view outside the small window.

“You’re in luck,” Mark said, carrying two fluted glasses glistening in pale pink. “I had one bottle left.” She took the wine glass and rang it gently against his. “To a beautiful performance,” he said. She blushed slightly.

“Thank you,” she said, taking a sip of the tepid wine. Her nose wrinkled slightly.

“You were really quite lovely,” Mark said, beckoning her to sit down. “I mean, it shouldn’t really matter, but it does. In this day and age, the image a performer presents is at least as important to her success as the way she sounds.” She sat down on the sofa timidly and took another sip of the wine.

“I didn’t think my set went very well,” she said.

“Nonsense. I mean the acoustics of the club are poor and I think that made you sound a little tinny, just a bit, and well, the audience was really unworthy of the music, but a real ear can sort past the situation and hear the musical qualities that hide underneath.”

“I don’t like the place,” she said, eagerly. “Jeff lets me play and at this point, that’s worth something to me, but the place is just gloomy and smoky and it all depresses me a little.”

“I know it does,” Mark said, softly touching her shoulder. “But I’ll bet we can arrange something more suitable. A good review should get the attention of, maybe Ed at the Wilderness.” Her eyes lit up at the words.

“I would love to play the Wilderness,” she said, her voice ringing with ambition and promise. He smiled and nodded.

“I know I can at least get you a spot with Jerry at Serena’s.”

“That would be all right,” she said, thinking seriously as she considered the possibilities. “I mean, I’ve played Serena’s a couple of times, but still, it’s better than the dump I did tonight.”

“Absolutely. A few good words in my column should go a long way in moving your career along.”

“I know,” she said. “They do pay attention to you. We all do. Are you really going to write up tonight’s show?” She wrinkled her nose and frowned slightly.

“I have to write about something,” Mark said, laughing. “Why not your show? You certainly entertained me. I can probably think up a few nice things to say about you.” He put his hand over hers and squeezed.

“But I can sing so much better, you know, when I’m in the right mood. I didn’t even know you were there until I was almost finished.”

“Your honesty came through. There was a magic to it all; a beautiful girl baring her soul over the clatter of dishes and the inconsiderate laughter of a bunch of sorry drunks.” Waving his arms, Mark acted out his vision of a rose blossoming in a tempest.

“It was terrible,” she said, her eyes wide in remembering. “I wanted to just pick up and go home, but I knew I had to keep singing.”

“It moved me, watching you struggle to perform under those conditions. But you rose above it and gave me a chill. I kept looking at you up there, and I knew something good was going to happen.”

“I saw you writing. It made me really curious. What were you saying about me?” She looked over at the black notebook on the table.

“Just notes, reflections, details to help me recreate the feelings you inspired.” Mark smirked, remembering his florid descriptions. “Like the way your eyes gleamed when you sang the chorus to, what was it? Riding?”

She leaned forward, excitedly. “Can I see what you wrote?” The faint outline of her nipples pressed through her tight blouse.

“Um, I’d rather not. You’ll see when I put the article together,” Mark said, taking hold of her hand. She frowned, disappointed. “It’s just that my notebook is kind of personal,” he said.

“Did you say anything mean about me?”

“No,” Mark said, playing with a loose thread in the flowered upholstery.

“Tell me the truth,” she said.

“Not at all. I just, well, I started writing about how beautiful you looked, while you were singing, and I wrote about how much I would like . . . to . . . see more of you.” Mark’s voice trailed off, suggestively.

‘How sweet,” she said. She paused, waiting for the kiss she knew would follow. Mark obliged her gently.

“I wrote that you were the most beautiful performer I had seen since, well, ever.” Mark whispered as he drew her closer, bringing her into his grasp. He fondled the swell of her breast, teasing her nipple through the fabric. She seemed to melt into his kiss, responding to his touch with a ready eagerness.

“I knew you could hear me,” she said, as Mark kissed her neck and slipped his hand under her shirt. “I could tell you were really listening.” Mark pushed the underwire up over her breast and pinched the stiffness of her nipple. She moaned softly.

“I wanted to see you perform,” Mark said as she kissed his strong jaw attentively. He pulled at her shirt, until she lifted it over her head and shook her fine whitened hair loose. “Mmm,” he said with a lascivious grin as he took a tit in his mouth and sucked as his hands slipped back behind her, and squeezed the fullness in her skirt.

“You’re so good,” she said, running her hands over his back through his shirt.

“I want you so bad,” he murmured, lifting her black skirt. She squirmed uneasily as Mark worked a finger around her panties into her the tight crevice between her thighs.

“Oh,” she said as Mark struggled to unzip his pants and push her panties down her thighs. “Wait,” she said, twisting herself slightly to let the thin fabric out from under her. She started to lean forward as he pushed his rigid prick between her pussy lips. “Oh.”

“I wanted to fuck you so bad,” he said, shoving his cock deep and she let her eyes close as he gave her an eager pounding, the sudden wild blows of impatient, anxious lust. He watched her titties bounce as he stroked steadily into her tight cunt, a stunning vision of beauty that touched his hungry core. “Incredible,” he said with a glimpse of her soft blue eyes. “Give it to me,” he demanded.

“Ooh,” she moaned almost ecstatic, “Fucking me good.”

Mark pulled his prick free and squirted his appreciation onto her pale muff, groaning in happy release. She reached down to rub the juice over her hairs, teasing her pale clitoris with a few rapid turns of her agile fingers and then sat up, pulling down her black skirt.

Mark leaned over to kiss her and then stood to zip himself back up. “You are fantastic,” he said. She pushed her arms through the straps of her bra. “Mmm,” he said, leaning over to kiss the last glimpse of her breasts. She picked up her blouse.

“I’m anxious to get started on your review,” he said, laughing. “I think I can find a few good words for you.” She picked up the wine glass and downed the warm alcohol in three long gulps.

“You’re sweet,” she said. “Just fabulous.”

“I’ll even give Jerry a call in the morning. I’ll bet we can get you onto a better stage.”

“That would be nice,” she said, standing. “I should probably go. You have some writing to do.”

“Yes,” he said, picking up her coat and walking toward the door. She picked up her guitar case and he handed her the thick wool cloak. “You are so beautiful,” he said, kissing her softly.

“You’re incredible,” she said, opening the door. “Really just incredible.”

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(photos by me, of my wife)

The Garden

by David Cain

I leaned on the long handle of my shovel and pulled a cloth from my back pocket to wipe my sweaty brow. The descending sun washed the sky in orange.

“I can’t believe this weather,” Beth said, crushing a clod of earth in her gloved hand. “Feels like we’re jumping straight into summer.”

“Not much chance of another frost,” I said. “I think we’ll be ready to start planting tomorrow.”

“I really appreciate this, Lou,” she said. I smiled at my wife, as I felt the ache in my back, the sting of torn blisters on my hands.

I always swore I would never have a garden. My grandparents were farmers. My father took a job with the electric company, but eventually converted our back yard into a vegetable garden. Half my youth, it seemed, was spent hoeing the beans and tomatoes he grew, a task I could not enjoy. I don’t like beans or tomatoes. It never seemed fair to make me work a garden producing foods I didn’t eat.

But it had been almost ten years since I had snapped my last bean when Beth asked me to help her dig a garden plot in the west end of our yard. Between my eagerness to please my wife and even a twinge of nostalgia for the peppers and strawberries I actually had enjoyed growing, I agreed to break my vow.

“No green beans,” I had insisted. Beth happily agreed to my condition. She doesn’t care for beans, either.

The unseasonably warm spring day gave us ample opportunity to prepare the ground Beth had chosen for our garden. My muscles ached with the long day’s labors, but as the sun set, the earth had been tilled. I sat down on the soft dirt, feeling it give beneath my weight. A cool breeze shook the budding branches above my head.

“It’s too late to go to the nursery,” said Beth, looking at her watch. “Is there anything else we need to do before we plant?”

I smiled, remembering a conversation I once had with my grandfather, when I was very young. I told Beth the old farmer’s tale.

My granddad told me that when he was young, some of the old folk said that in the old country, on the night before a farmer planted his crops he would take his good lady wife into the fields and they would make love.”

“In the dirt?” Beth wrinkled her nose and gave me a wry smile.

“I guess so. It was supposed to inspire the earth, or something. Granddad said the old farmers claimed it gave them better yield, drought prevention, all sorts of good luck. Babies, too, probably.”

“Participation mystique,” said Beth.

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“Excuse me?”

“That’s what they call it. ‘Do as we do.’ She is the earth and he is the rain and new life is born of their union. Every primitive culture practiced some form of the same fertility rite.”

“More fun than spreading manure, I guess.”

“Rather,” said Beth. She sat down beside me and gave me a kiss.

“What a day!” I said. “I need a hot bath.” Beth laid her head against my chest. I plucked a twig from her golden hair. “I can’t believe I’m planting a garden of my own free will.”

“You don’t hate it, do you?” asked Beth.

“No, it feels right. I didn’t like being a farm hand, but there’s something different about doing it for yourself. Especially in doing it for you.”

“I love the idea,” said Beth. “It makes me happy.”

“I’m glad,” I said, squeezing her arm tenderly.

“Oh, my” said Beth, stretching. “We’ll sleep soundly tonight.” I laid back into the soft dirt. Beth began to unbutton her shirt.

“Do you think it matters if there’s a cloth underneath us?”

“Hmm?” I said, my eyes growing heavy.

“Do you think we have to be, I don’t know, touching the earth directly, or can I put my shirt down, to keep the dirt away from . . .” I opened my eyes suddenly. Beth smiled naughtily as she pulled her blue cotton top off her shoulders.

“Beth!” I said as she reached back to unsnap her brassiere.

“It seems right,” she said. Her creamy breasts shone in the darkness.

“What are you doing?”

“I want a fertile garden,” she said. “You promised to help me.” Beth spread her shirt on the dark soil beside us and then stood to unfasten her blue jeans.

“But what about . . . ” I hissed, looking at our neighbors’ houses, attacked by modest shame.

“Call it religious freedom. Now hush up and get your pants off.”

“Beth,” I pleaded. She pushed her jeans down and quickly sat in the center of her splayed shirt. Leaning back, she stripped her panties off.

“Come on,” she whispered, smiling. “I don’t think this works if I just masturbate. Probably ruin our crop.”

My heart pounded hard, but I managed to push my trousers down to my ankles. I tried to unknot my shoes.

“Leave them on,” said Beth, playing with herself in the dark. “Just a quickie, for good luck.” I heard a twig snap and jerked my head to look into the shadows. A bird sang a pretty note and my blood raced with fear. My dick shriveled, with little intention of participating in the fertility rite.

“I always wondered if my grandparents ever did this,” I said, letting go of my shoe string and turning to gaze on my pretty wife, lying in the garden.

“I’ll bet they did. I’ll bet all good farmers do. Now, come here,” said Beth, reaching out her arms, pale in the dim moonlight.

I gently took my place in Beth’s warm embrace and kissed her anxiously, trying to forget the world around us in the familiar touch of her sweet lips. I love her with a burning passion that pulses in each beat of my heart and with her bare thighs pressed against my hips, I soon felt the urge fertility demands. My hand touched her pale cheek, smudging it with the rich soil we had worked. I sank between her damp lips.

We made love in the dirt, oblivious to the warm spring night, pulsing with desire to live the recreation. I sucked at her breast, drove hard inside her. She moaned my name in a bouquet of wantonness. I pulled her hard against me, whispering devotions. I could feel the storm rise within me. Beth was my whole world.

As I stroked my staff within her, I felt a tear drop well within my eyes. I wanted more from Beth than she would dare to give, than she could afford, just yet. The passion raged and I spoke my pleas.

“Yes,” she said in a fit of giving, “I want to bear your child.” The words let loose a flood inside me and I came with every drop of me inside her. Beth cried with shudders of pure love.

We paused in the dim still night, covered in dirt, sobbing in each other’s arms. A wind rose up behind the trees. I kissed her dusty brow.

“I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing why.

“No,” she said. “I’m sorry that I made you wait. But when you promised me this garden, I knew the time was right. I really want this. I want to bear your child. Besides, we could use some farm hands.”

“I love you,” I said. She repeated my words. A soft drop touched my back. Another raindrop fell. “Let’s go inside before someone calls the cops.” We picked up our clothes and ran inside.

The rain fell down in torrents that night. It proved a very fertile year.

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Passing

by David Cain

“Mmm. Pretty titties.”

Theresa turned suddenly, jolted by the voice from behind. Three men sat on a green park bench, their backs turned, their heads moving in slow synchronization as they watched a woman approach. Theresa rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to the book in her lap.

“Excellent complexion,” spoke another voice in a controlled whisper, “healthy tan, slight curves. Probably a runner from the tone of her legs.”

“Look at those legs,” said the first man, rather excited. “Imagine those mammas wrapped around your waist. I do believe she needs a ride on Mr. Johnson.” He chuckled lewdly.

“Hair’s a tad dark and I think her breasts are a little flat. I like a perkier bosom.”

“Fuck, Ed, all they need’s a good suck. I’d make those boobies percolate.”

“Nice top, but I don’t like the shorts. No hug.”

“No way, Ed. You can’t tell me you care about her clothes. The whole idea is to get them off anyway.”

“The clothes she picked out to wear tells me things about her. It all goes into the calculation, Brian. She’s wearing shorts, better than pants, less than a skirt, conservative cut which subtracts from her tendency to let loose, running shoes, ankle socks with a little pink ball at the back. I think she has an athletic bra on, which would account for the flattened breasts.”

“I’d fuck her silly.”

“Eight point three,” Ed said with an air of finality.

“Fuck.”

“Tight assed bitch,” said the third man. “Look at that shit. All she thinks about is her fucking body. You can’t talk to a woman like that unless you want to conversate about shin splints and the high you get from torturing yourself for twenty miles.”

“I don’t want to talk to her,” said Brian. “I just want to fuck her.”

“All right, you’ve got a point Richard. Take her down to an seven point nine.”

“Shit. Do yourself a favor and let her run that little butt away.”

Theresa shook her head, unable to continue reading. She leaned back to feel the blaze of the sun warm her face. The leaves beyond the slope of hillside rustled with flickers of green silver.

“Out!” screamed the high pitched voice of a child.

“No way!” retorted another child. Theresa smiled and stole another glance at the three men on the bench. The young one, Brian she supposed, pushed a lock of his sandy colored hair away from his face, drawing Theresa’s attention to his forehead, gleaming beneath a receding hair line. Theresa smirked.

“By a mile!” squealed an angry child.

Theresa noticed a handsome man coming down the path, tall and lean with a full head of dark curls cascading down to his broad shoulders. She sighed as he turned off the black asphalt and sat down to lean against the thick trunk of an old oak. Theresa stared as the young man unzipped his blue satchel and withdrew a thick volume.

“Do overs!”

“No way!”

“Wow,” said Brian. Theresa turned to see. A small woman with huge breasts came bouncing over the crest of the hill. “Momma.”

“Too big,” said Ed.

“No such thing,” said Brian. “Tell me you don’t dream of sucking titties like hers. Squeeze them together and titty fuck the girl.”

“Ugh,” said Richard. “She’s a whiner.”

“I knew this one chick, Missy, with big bazooms like those and she loved having her titties fucked. Pointy nips. She always wanted me to shoot my wad on her face. Big eyes.”

“Six six.”

“With an ass like that?”

“Six five.”

“Ed, look at that ass. I’ll bet she’s a wicked witch in the sack.”

“And I’ll bet you’ve got a little dick,” said Theresa under her breath.

“She could be my ex-wife’s sister,” said Richard, disgusted. “Big hairy snatch and no imagination.”

“You’re twisted, man,” said Brian. Theresa smiled, considering the understatement.

“We pick Tad,” said a child on the field below.

“Kristen,” said another.

“Terry.”

“Chris.” Giggles erupted into rollicking laughter.

Theresa watched the man beneath the oak as he turned a page of his book, wondering what he was reading. The book was cloth bound, no dust cover, just a pale blue volume with a glimmer of gold embossing. Theresa felt her nipples tighten, deciding the book was probably fiction, hoping against spies or adventure. Horror would be all right, although she preferred something with a vampire. Maybe something classic, rich with allusion and poetry. Theresa stretched her lean legs out, ticking her bare thighs with the thick carpet of grass. A warmth flowed between her legs, watching him read.

“Mommacita,” said Brian.

“Beautiful, beautiful skirt. Look at those hips gyrate.”

“She is fucking hot. I can smell that pussy from here. I’ll bet she’s not wearing panties.”

“You’re dreaming.”

“I’m telling you. No bra, either. Look at that jiggle.”

“She’s a slut,” said Richard.

“My favorite flavor,” said Brian.

“Nine point two.”

“Twelve point twelve, with a bullet,” countered Brian.

“She could be prettier,” said Ed. “Her face, I mean.”

“You don’t fuck a face,” said Brian. “I do, but you don’t.” Brian fell off the bench, laughing. “Your wife still won’t give you a blow job?”

“Like Mags is going to change.”

“That marriage would be over, if I were you.”

“Yeah, well, there’s more to it than getting your dick licked.”

“I don’t know,” said Brian, sitting in the dirt, tossing up dust clouds with his hand. “Living with a chick is hard enough.”

“Harder than you know,” said Richard.

“Shit,” said Brian. “You just need a woman who knows how to satisfy. The rest is words and sleeping.”

“Right,” said Richard. “I’ll ask you about that in ten years, boy.”

“I’d die smiling after ten years of that twat.”

“After your ten minutes of love, she’d be off looking for another guy and you’d be snoozing in dreamland.”

“Shit.”

“Ha!” said Richard.

“Michael’s on our team,” said a child in the field.

“Then we get Jerry.”

“I’m not playing on Cindy’s team.”

“Who wants you?”

“You know what I like,” said Richard. “A woman who can just hang, you know, spend some lazy time doing nothing, like this. The women in this city are all looking for something. I’ve got to get out of this up-tight place.”

“I’m going to LA,” said Brian. “This fall, a buddy of mine is moving down there and I’m going to stay with him and find a job.”

“Worse,” said Richard.

“Wait,” said Ed. “What about that one?”

“Where?” asked Brian.

“There,” said Ed, nodding toward the south. Theresa watched as another woman came into view.

“You’re kidding me,” said Brian.

“Oh well,” said Ed. “She looked good for a moment.”

“You guys are so full of shit,” said Richard. “Like you can tell anything about a woman half a mile away.”

“The whole package includes the wrapper,” said Brian, “and if she doesn’t fire my afterburners, what’s the fucking point?”

“What is the fucking point?” asked Richard.

“Hell if I know,” said Brian, “but I have to get my rocks off.”

“Don’t get married,” said Ed. “Seven three.”

“Shit,” said Brian. “Don’t marry Mags, you mean.”

“I’m telling you. But don’t mind me. You’ll find out.”

“I know better,” said Brian. “You just have to score the right babe.”

“No such thing,” said Richard. “I knew one I thought was right, but then she married an accountant and moved to Jersey.”

“Bitch.”

“Andy was fine.”

“Accountant? Head for numbers, eh?” Brian laughed hard. “Giving head for numbers,” he sputtered.

“Yeah, yeah. I got stupid when she dumped me and I married Jackie on the rebound.”

“Did she give head?” asked Brian.

“Nope. I wouldn’t let her. Nasty woman.”

“You were stupid.”

“We all are.”

Theresa picked up her purse and dusted a few blades of grass from the red pattern embossed on the back of her thighs. She shook her head as she glanced at the men on the bench and started up the slow incline of the hill. The children below laughed happily as they kicked a red rubber ball over the dusty diamond. Theresa took slow steps toward the oak tree. Nervousness spread through her breast as she tried to feel casual. She tried to talk herself out of continuing, but something pushed her forward.

“No way!”

“It was out of bounds!’

“You’re out!”

“No way!”

“Excuse me,” Theresa said as she drew near the handsome man. He didn’t even look up. “Excuse me,” she repeated. Sultry blue eyes finally glared at her, seemingly annoyed by her intrusion.

“Hmm?”

“Do you have the time?”

“No,” he said abruptly, frowning and looking back at his book.

“Oh,” said Theresa, blushing deeply. “Sorry.” He said nothing.

Theresa made her way back to the asphalt path and deliberately walked toward the bench. “What does he know?” she asked herself. “Stiff.” The three men sat quietly, watching her. Theresa looked at the soft bubbling clouds above the distant horizon, avoiding the eyes fixed on her approach. A few crude terms drifted softly through the breeze and Theresa felt herself smile. Richard sat stiff and cocked his head sideways. Ed, a large man, his white oxford clinging to the sweaty bulge of his male breasts, seemed to be turning numbers through his head. Brian almost drooled, talking obscenely. Theresa felt each step as she walked past the three judges.

“What pretty titties.”

“Nine point seven.”

“Almost,” said Richard. “Almost worth the heartache.”

“Fuck them all,” Theresa said with a smile, strutting proudly. “Fuck them all.”

[image error]Massage

by David Cain

Another transatlantic flight, another messed-up, jet-lagged schedule.

I’d been awake for seventeen hours but it was still only six-thirty pm. The team and I shared a light dinner and a beer and everyone was obviously ready to get some sleep before we started work bright and early in the morning.

“What’s the plan,” asked Stephanie as we began the slow trudge toward the elevators.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I don’t have the energy to go out but I don’t really want to go to bed yet. I dread waking up at three am but that’s what will happen if I go down now.”

“Me, too,” she said with a yawn. “I think we should try to stay awake until at least ten pm, so we can normalize the jet lag.”

“Want to watch a movie or something?”

“Yeah, but staying awake isn’t going to be easy.”

“Let’s get some coffee and see what’s on the tube.”

“You know what, I would kill for a massage. That flight did me in.”

“I can massage, trained and everything.”

“Really?”

I held up my hands. “Twenty years of guitar gave me strong hands.”

“Well, then, your room or mine?”

“Come to my room. I think I brought some oil.”

“Okay but this has to stay professional. No hanky panky.”

“Of course. Nothing like that. Co-worker courtesy and all that.”

Stephanie looked at me with a sly grin. “So I can trust you? I’m dead serious.”

“How long have we worked together, Steph? In all those years, all those trips, have I ever done anything even slightly unprofessional? Have I ever made advances, spoke crudely, made you uncomfortable?”

“No, I guess that’s true. Okay, I’ll trust you.”

Now, honestly, I wasn’t entirely certain I could lay hands on this lovely woman without suffering serious pangs of desire but I was willing to give it a try and at least pretend I was strong enough. It was certainly worth a try. She went back to her room to freshen up and I went to my room to make preparations.

A quick, quiet rap on the door announced her arrival. I opened the door and she slipped inside, eager to remain unseen by our coworkers. Stephanie wore a thick robe and carried an armful of thick, white towels.

“So what’s to watch?”

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I found the remote control and began flipping through the channels. When a show about guys making swords came on, Stephanie stopped me. Good enough. She sat down on the second bed.

“This is weird, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Weird?” I asked as I picked up the bottle of oil and waited for her to lay down.

“Massage is almost sexual and I’ve never thought of you that way.”

“Purely professional. I need you to be ready for tomorrow and a bit of muscle rub will help clear your mind.”

“Yeah,” she said, as she pulled off her robe, revealing a tantalizing body clad in a lacy bra and panties. “I need this badly.” She laid down, her arms spread wide and her face turned to lie on a big soft pillow.

“I’ll start with your arms, focus on your neck, work down your spine and then massage your legs.”

“Perfect,” she mumbled.

“No sleeping,” I said as I picked up her left arm. “That would defeat the whole purpose.”

“Nope,” she muttered. “No chance of that.”

I set to work, plying my trade, or my avocation anyway. I started with her left hand, kneading my way past her wrist to her forearm. I tried not to look at the thin fabric stretched taut over her bottom, tried to stay true to my promise to keep things professional but at the same time, I knew I would probably never have another chance to admire her body, so I stole a few peeks, memorized the vision and kept on rubbing through her biceps and triceps. Moving to the other side, I worked my way up her right arm and finally wrapped my strong hand around her neck, squeezing and releasing the tension built up there.

Her shoulders were tense and she groaned as I dug into the meat of her muscles.

“You okay?”

“Mmmm,” she intoned. “So okay.”

Knots littered her back and I rubbed, pushed and prodded them away. Stephanie squirmed slightly as I passed the valley of the small of her back, feeling the freedom my massage gave her torso. Part of me considered pushing down past the elastic border between flesh and panty but the rest of me moved on, not wanting to stray into private territory without express invitation. I picked up her left foot and rubbed hard from toe to ball to arch to heel. Lifting her leg slightly, I found myself staring at the thin strip of cloth barely covering the space between her thighs. I averted my gaze, when I could tear myself away from the vision, and worked over strong calves and dug into meaty thighs.

I kept on, moving slowly closer to her uppermost thigh, less than an inch away from the panty barrier. Everything about me was sorely tempted to brush the fabric, to stroke the cunny within but I refrained with herculean effort and returned to start again with the right foot. I could barely swallow but I pushed forward to the very limit of her upper thigh.

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“Okay,” I said. “You want to roll over.”

“My pleasure,” she said as she turned. “You’re very good at this.”

“Strong hands,” I said as I looked over the beauty revealed by her new position.

“Would you mind,” she started with a smile. “I know I said no funny business but would you mind massaging my breasts. They need to be rubbed and I’ll bet your strong hands will give them just what I need.”

I finally swallowed. I wasn’t sure I was strong enough for this. She reached behind her and unclasped her brassiere.  Beautiful white mounds topped with tightly contracted darkened nipples fell slightly toward her sides as gravity pulled their perkiness off center.

I decided to play it cool and started with her calves, moving steadily toward her upper thighs again while trying not to stare at her breasts. I moved to the other calf and began the slow crawl past her knee and over the meaty muscle of her right thigh. Her mons pubis filled the triangle of thin cloth at her center. She spread her thighs slightly as I pulled fingers to thumb along the wide upper thigh. I felt a heat, a humidity, a developing aroma coming from her pantied crotch. I cursed under my breath.

“What?” she murmured.

“Nothing,” I said.

Soon I had my hands wrapped around her breasts, squeezing and kneading like an athletic trainer just doing his job. I decided that if I avoided her nipples, I would still be professional. She moaned with every pull and tug. I began to fear for my zipper. A few more minutes and I declared she was done.

“Wow,” she said. “You could make a living doing that.”

“I did for a while. I couldn’t hack it. Massaging someone like you is a joy. Massaging ordinary big fat pigs is not surprisingly less fun.”

“Ooh, I hadn’t thought about that.”

“All kinds of ugly.

“Well, then,” she said, sitting up, bare breasts posed more naturally and simply splendid, reflective with their thin layer of massage oil. “Your turn.”

“Really?”

“Only fair. You’re tense and I’d love to help.”

“Okay,” I said, suddenly concerned about how I was going to hide my erection. Stephanie noticed my reluctant discomfort and grinned.

“Slip those bad boys off and lie down.” She commanded. I obeyed, pressing my too hard cock into the soft bed.

Stephanie covered her hands in oil, moved behind me and suddenly yanked down my jockeys, placing both hands firmly on my ass cheeks. A hard squeeze came with laughter.

“I can’t believe you stayed so professional. I did everything I could to tempt you to cross the line but you were so strong. You certainly proved I could trust you.”

“I tried,” I said, my cock growing even more uncomfortable.

“But I made no promises. I’m no professional. Let’s get down to  nasty.”

Her massage was anything but skilled, in no way professional. But I relaxed. Boy, did I relax.