The Erotic Life

Sometimes, it’s nothing more than a foot in the snow, bare in its desire to feel.



From there, it’s the warm caress of spring air on a nearly thawed nipple and the feeling of forest duff on the knees.


Eroticism begets eroticism; feeling breeds feeling.






Everything excites the senses: bread dough, cool fish, firm sand, falling leaves, wet moss, mushrooms, morning coffee, vibrant flowers, muted hillsides, deep waters, the tongue of a cat, the music of verse, and the whispering comfort of her sleeping breath.

One Woman

She wanted to make a statement. It was all about the liberation of women from the servitude of male-dominated society. She was appalled by the bovine complacency of her mother. She was not going to follow in those timid, subservient, footsteps. No man would tell her to have supper waiting at 6 o'clock. She wasn't going to wear nylons around the house while she vacuumed the carpets. And...to hell with sucking dicks on demand. She would show women what it was like to be free.

The party was large, the house enormous. Glass walls, stone floors, spacious balconies, waterfalls, statuettes, all overlooking the silent and flickering lights of distant Los Angeles. Glitterati, illuminati, charlatans, intelligentsia, fakers, posers, artists, writers, social climbers: all the cutting edge of the city were there. Middle-aged men in sports jackets, accompanied by their clinging second wives and surreptitious girlfriends in mid-thigh dresses and spiked heels, stood in small groups, martinis in hand. Laughter, loud and affectatious, blew through the thick haze of incense, marijuana, cigarette and cigar smoke. The Doors, Yes, Jimi Hendrix and the Moody Blues blared through the hi-fi stereo system. Photographers circulated through the crowd, recording the social scene for the industry tabloids.

Her entrance was anticipated. Some of the guests, particularly the women, very much doubted her resolve and sincerity. Aside from that, they did not know how they felt about what was billed to occur. Her closest friends, however, harbored no doubt; of course she would go through with it. She circulated through the crowd, the thin soft silk of her shift caressing her flowing curves, accentuating her nipples and the gently flex of her dancer's buttocks. Unlike the other woman in the place, she was barefooted, her painted toes like drops of blood on the cool stone floor. Her hair was long and loose; no hairspray or bobby pins or other unnecessary confinement. The men, and the women, were captivated by her feral loveliness and boldness. She felt their fingers grazing her as she moved from room to room. As the time drew near, the small tightness in her belly grew, along with the slickness between her legs. She would do this for all women. She would show them a better path to travel. Their men would view them in a different light, a strong and honest light.



She walked out onto a balcony and looked out over the city. She imagined the noises that were being made in the bedrooms below, the raw slamming sloppy sounds of copulation in infinite ways. She imagined sperm flying, pumping, flowing, and the deep feelings of gut-wrenching orgasms in uncounted women. The buzz of the party went on, unabated. The sultry liquid warmth of southern California air held her in its embrace as she slipped, unnoticed, out of her dress and stood naked in the night. The moment was upon her. She turned.

Tentatively, but with quiet resolve, she stode back into the light and noise of the party. The music stopped, conversation subsided. She settled onto the mattress that had been placed in the center of the room. This was her stage for her performance. She looked around and smiled, then lay back and spread her legs. The exposure was exquisite, excitement coursed through her body. The energy of a hundred sets of eyes fell upon her, the lust that permeated the space surrounding her. Eyes closed, she began a slow stroking of her engorged clitoris, sliding her fingers through the spongy thick labia that already shone with her juice. She teased herself and her quiet audience, running her hands over her twisting body, licking her fingers, tugging on her tight breasts. She knew she was turning everyone on. The room was filled with static electricity and her soft moans.

When the time came to unleash her passion, she raised her hips into the air in invitation. She thought of cocks driving into her, one after the other, all of them thick and hard and new. The fingers of one hand drew the cum out of her pussy and spread it across her skin, over and over, as the tension within her increased with each knowing flick of her clit. Again and again, her soaked fingers pumped into her exhibited hole; again and again, the imaginary cocks drove into her.

The circle of her silent admirers sipped on their drinks, trying to appear controlled in their passion. Women squeezed their legs together in supression; men shifted from side to side, feeling the uncomfortable pleasure of their cocks filling the confines of their dress slacks. The subtle, maddening, pungent scent of sex made each nostril flare and each heartbeat quicken.




When she came, it was with the sharp and wailing release of every woman filled with happy freedom. Her legs flew in a St. Vitus dance of uncontrollable, jerk-off, spasm. She was a puppet at the hands of a mad puppeteer. There were no thoughts in her mind. She was electric sizzling nerve, an animal with no consciousness of itself, a wriggling worm in a wet and violent storm of sensation. Women gasped and giggled, nervously, wishing. Their men subconsciously moved their hips, thrusting ever so slightly into imaginary pussy.





As she finally settled into the dampness of the mattress, regaining herself, the crowd released its tension with exclamations of approval and wild clapping. She had done it; she had demonstrated the beauty, the unparalleled beauty, the awesome liberating beauty of the truly sexual female. Her world would never be the same, and the photograph of her ecstasy changed the lives of women for all time.

Mittens

“God, put that thing away,” she said, as she flipped the sheets over his still rigid cock. He lay there, a tent poking toward the ceiling, while she caught her breath. After about six bouts of flailing arms and legs, and howling into the walls and pillows, she’d had enough. Or, so he thought.

He looped his left arm around her shoulders and hauled her in, cradling her head against his chest. He stroked her hair and kissed her perspiring forehead, listening to the gradual slowing of her breathing. Her left leg draped across him and he could feel her belly against his side, expanding, contracting, easing, relaxing. “I’ll go make some coffee,” he said softly, and eased away from her to walk down the hallway and into the kitchen.

No sooner had he left her side than she reached to the light stand, next to the bed and grabbed the vibrator and dildo. Beneath the cocoon-warm comforter, she shoved the dildo deep into her still-pulsing hole and pumped to the rhythm of his last performance. With the vibrator on her almond-sized clit, she brought herself to yet another orgasm before he could return. Sheepishly, she smiled as he entered the room. He knew what she had been up to, gauging by the flurry of activity under the blankets as she tried to hide the toys. He smiled and settled in beside her, kissing her neck and fondling her greedy nipples.

“Are you a horny girl,” he asked, in a taunting tone. She nodded her head and spread her legs as his hand ran down to sample the juiciness of her crotch. “Hmmmm…..let’s see,” he teased, as his fingers unleashed a barrage of flicks and rubs and runs across her labia and clit. Immediately, her breath was drawn away and her head spun, as the spasms started to build inside of her thighs. As the tension approached the snapping point, he stopped. “Wait! I have an idea!” And he scurried into the bathroom, leaving her buzzing.

When he returned, grinning wickedly, one hand was behind his back. “Close your eyes,” he ordered. “And spread those legs,” he ordered again. She did as she was told. It didn’t take long for her to realize that the sensuously curved object that he slid into her was the handle of her hairbrush. After that, it was the carrot, then the handle to the screwdriver, then the cool bratwurst, then the summer sausage, then the hammer grip. Every new tool, a new sensation. She lurched and bucked in orgasm, over and over, until he ran out of ideas. Then, she had ideas of her own and she started roaming the house, looking for things to insert into her seeping crotch.









He reclined in bed and watched, as fruit and vegetables and tools and utensils competed to finish the job that he, obviously, could not finish. It was, he determined, humanly impossible to satisfy this woman. Finally, after what seemed like hours and dozens of orgasmic feats, he pinned her to the bed. “Stay,” he ordered. “I have one more thing for you.” He left the room and returned a few moments later, with another wicked grin on his face and a hand behind his back. “Close your eyes,” he ordered. She did as he was told. He sat on her chest, his hot balls resting between her breasts.

“When I was a kid,” he started, “we had a kitten that just couldn’t keep out of trouble. The little bastard would claw all of the furniture and rip electric cords out of sockets and tear bags of rice open and, generally, make a big mess. My mom decided to knit some kitten mittens and tie them onto the little kitten’s feet, so it wouldn’t hurt itself and everything else.”

He reached out and placed a thick leather mitten over each of her hands.



“There, now you have your kitten mittens,” he said. Then, he slid his still rigid cock down the length of her belly and impaled her pussy.

Making Soup

“Cooking is an act of love,” he said, as he stood naked in the kitchen, chopping the vegetables that would go into the chicken noodle soup.

She loved watching him, in the soft glare of the overhead lights, his shoulders moving from side to side, in rhythm with the knife. From time to time, he’d peer over the rims of his glasses, a smirk on his face. He knew, just by looking at the position of her body and the rising of her chest, that she was wet.

The chopping of carrots and onions and celery and broccoli took some time. She tried to read the paper as she listened to the methodical clack of the knife blade against the wooden cutting board. Her eyes tracked the same sentence, over and over. Her mind absorbed none of it. She simply wanted to fuck him.

He continued, “Some people look at cooking as drudgery. I just don’t understand that. I absolutely LOVE cooking for other people and, especially, for people I love. I’m doing something for them and making them feel good. What could be better?”

He looked up from the cutting board and caught her legs apart in his gaze. Scooping the vegetables into a bowl, he cleaned off the cutting board and moved it aside. “Come here, a second,” he said.

She walked toward him, taking him in; his long strong legs, his broad chest, his naked feet, his slightly arching cock. When she was close enough, he reached out and grabbed her hair in one hand, while the other reached around to fondle her ass. He kissed her, long and deep, savoring her breath and her spit and the full buoyancy of her lips. Then, he bent low, draped his arms beneath her ass and lifted her onto the kitchen counter.

Her pussy was his. It fell open like a flower in morning dew, waiting for the warmth of his mouth. She watched as he fell to his knees and opened his mouth and took all of her inside. On the stove, the steam of boiling chicken rose into the air. She was back in her grandmother’s kitchen, smelling the comfort of home, the musty cook books, the crisp tang of garden-fresh vegetables. She closed her eyes and imagined floating in a bowl of warm egg noodles, squishing them between her legs, feeling them squirm across her nipples. His tongue and lips were incessant, insistent, maddening. Her legs draped over his muscular shoulders and she leaned back as the hot soup within her rose to the surface. She wanted to cook for him, feed him, flood his face with her love.




After her pot had boiled over, and the heat had been turned to simmer, he held her panting body against him. “Cooking is an act of love,” he whispered.

Cooking Lessons

I didn’t know how I got there, lying in pools of cum. I vaguely remembered cocks, so many cocks. Hands moving, balls, hollering, clapping, laughing. When I thought about it, I could sort of recall the feel of lukewarm cum as it rained down upon me from above. It just kept flying through the air, seemingly for hours. I fell asleep. When I woke, I was lying on the linoleum floor in the kitchen, my hands tied over my head. I moved my legs and they slid in cum. Slick and cool, the cum pooled beneath my ass and behind my neck. I looked at my naked body and it was streaked in dried and crusted jism. I was marinated in the juices of men. Sunlight was just warming the walls of the kitchen. The soft twitter of morning birds accentuated the silence.

He walked out and smiled at me. “Would you like some coffee?” he asked, as if it was nothing out of the ordinary to see me bathed and naked on his kitchen floor. I shook my head affirmatively. He was still naked and I watched his legs and ass as he walked around me, filling the coffee maker with water and scooping the grounds into the filter. He turned the maker on, then knelt down beside me and kissed my encrusted lips. His hands ran over my body, spreading the last of the pooled cum all over me. It felt silky and smooth, a thick viscous icing. My nostrils flared like a mare in heat as the pungent, clover-sweet, smell of mingled sperm wafted through the air. I was confused, but dizzy with desire.

The memories of the evening slowly came back to me. He had asked me to be the waitress at his annual stag party. I was the only woman. I was to remain naked at all times, and serve the men drinks and hors d’oeuvres, while they played pool, smoked cigars and drank whiskey. There were, at least, ten of them, but I couldn’t remember the exact number. By the end of the evening, it seemed as though more men had showed up. All I really knew for sure is that I was now lying tied up and naked on his floor, covered with dried and drying cum, and loving every minute of it.

When the coffee was done, he untied me and helped me off the floor. We sat across from each other, at the table, and sipped on the strong black elixir. I ran my fingers through my hair; tried to, anyway. It was wadded and caked in dried cum. I ran my hands over my body and felt the talcum softness of millions and millions of dehydrated cells packed into the pores of my skin. It was like the feel of baby powder on a soft baby’s butt. We didn’t talk; didn’t need to. I smiled a lot; so did he. Finally, he spoke.

“Let’s pack up and head to the spot,” he said, a devilish grin flashing across his face. My stomach immediately tightened and the Kegel’s I’d been practicing involuntarily kicked into action.

“OK,” I mumbled, “but I’d better go take a shower.”

“Oh, no you don’t!” he said, rather adamantly. “You’re going just like THAT. You’ve been marinating, all night. It’s time we cooked you up for dinner.”

I sat and drank my coffee, while he gathered up towels and toys and the cooler. After arranging all of the goods for our outing, he cooked me breakfast, all the time keeping my coffee cup filled. He treated me, as he had always treated me, with love and respect and warmth. I so loved this man.

After breakfast, we put on enough clothing to get to the car, then took it off. The day was going to be a hot one. By 10:00 am, the mercury was already hitting 75 degrees. And where we were headed, it would be a skillet by noon. The windows were down, and we’d traded our cups of coffee in and replaced them with cups of chilled white wine. The warming summer air that swirled through the car, blew the scent of my marinated body around us like incense.




“You were awesome, baby,” he finally said, about 50 miles into our journey.

“Oh, really?” I asked, coyly. “How so?” (I really did not remember much)

“You must have had about 20 orgasms,” he stated, rather matter-of-factly, an approving grin lighting up his face.

“I did not!” I blurted, not quite believing it, and certainly not remembering it.

“Don’t you remember the kitchen counter?” he asked, incredulously.

“Nope.”

“Oh my god! You were fucking amazing!” he crowed

I didn’t know how to respond. My mind was racing. What the fuck had I done? I decided to not ask; at least, not just then. Instead, I bent over and took his excited cock in my mouth and tasted him, lazily, while he drove. Between the musk of his crotch and the intoxication perfume of my sperm-coated skin, I was going a bit crazy with desire. Whatever it was I had done, the night before, I wanted more of it.

The miles seemed to pass, quickly. Before long, we pulled into our usual parking spot and threw on our skimpy clothing. He picked up the cooler and the duffel bag, I picked up the towels, and we were off. We walked to our secret spot in the sun, a delightful precipice that overlooks the Columbia River Gorge. Nestled in the craggy, volcanic, hoodoos is a flat bed. That is where I unfurled our towels.




We stripped and settled onto our towels, under the blazing sun. He reached into his duffel and brought out a bottle of olive oil (extra virgin, of course). He poured the oil, liberally, over my splayed and welcoming body. The mingling aroma of high desert dust and sage, olive oil and cum made me tingle to the core. The liquid of my desire pooled inside of me, waiting for his entry. The entry didn’t happen. He teased me, incessantly, there in the baking sun. My nipples sizzled in the sun, my pussy fried. I had marinated, all night, and now I was cooking. I was his meal, the thing he ate over and over and over, until there was nothing but bone and marrow, quivering like a naked nerve in the searing sun. When he was sated, had filled his stomach with the succulent juices of my meaty crotch, he stood over me and hollered into the open-air kitchen, as his cum spewed out in long spicy streams and coated me, once again.




Suddenly, the preceding evening all came back to me.

Last Bite

Her breathing slowed, her legs relaxed, her eyelids slowly opened and she stared at the ceiling while the rigid extension of his passion slid in, then out of her, in strong rhythm.
When she regained her composure and the authority that she wanted, she pulled away from him, leaving his glistening tool waving and thrusting into the air. She rolled off of the table and stood beside him. She grabbed his cock and squeezed it, tightly. “Get on the table,” she ordered. “I’m gonna make you squirt big time.”

He sat on the edge of the table; she took her place in his chair. “Don’t eat that last scallop until I tell you,” she said, as she licked the head of his cum-soaked tool. He leaned back and watched. She looked into his eyes as she played her tongue around the ridged helmet and stabbed into his tiny hole. She circled his ball sac with her small fingers and pulled his balls down until he almost felt pain, then gulped the length of him into her throat. He threw his head back and groaned. The muscles in his stomach and inner thighs tightened. He felt the tension of building liquid in the labyrinthine tubules that carried his offering into the base of his cannon.

She popped his straining cock and held it in her hand. Pumping it, slowly, she licked the middle finger of her other hand and placed it, firmly, against the opening of his tight rectum. She smiled up into his face and slid inside of him. Feeling the small bulge against the soft, smooth, skin of this interior of him, she rubbed it in small circles, coaxing it, making it bigger. He was filling; she could feel it. Keeping up the maddeningly lazy stroke of her hands, she took the tip of him, again, into her lips and sucked. She squirmed in the chair as she tasted the beginning of his slow seeping juice. It tasted soft and sweet and a little musky. It coated her tongue and lips. She lapped at it like a kitten before a bowl of warm milk.



Suddenly, she pulled back and gazed at the rise and fall of her lover’s strong chest. She took that bone hard pecker in her hand and started a strong, tight-fisted, pistoning. Still massaging his inner gland, she watched and listened as he approached the delicious end of her torture. His eyes started to roll, and his neck muscles strained, as he felt the burning cum rise inside of him in a fierce stream.

Licking the end of his engorged head, she commanded, “Eat and watch!” He put the last scallop in his mouth and started to chew, while bellowing, as streams of white jizz blasted across her face and into her hair and down across her breasts. She was laughing and licking and drinking and rubbing him all over her cheeks and chin as he took his last, choking, swallow, then fell back onto the table.

And, Then

She took the plate and placed it behind her, then moved toward him, to the edge of the table. “Now, fuck me,” she ordered, spreading her legs further.

She reached behind her and grabbed a scallop and handed it to him. He untied his pajama bottoms and let them fall to the floor as he stood and placed the helmet of his cock against the opening that pulsed and smacked and licked him in. He placed the ball of white meat against his lips and eased into her.

“Don’t finish, until I do,” she purred.

She watched him, watched each tiny nibble and the flexing of his jaws as he savored the tender flesh. With each grinding, tearing, shearing movement of his teeth, he thrust into her. Small bite, after small bite, after small bite. He measured his meal with the rhythm of her breathing and the meeting push of her hips. She watched, her eyes open. She watched the flex of his stomach, the smirk on his lips, the oceanic depth of his gaze. She watched the length of him withdraw, then disappear into her. He ate and she sucked him into her, then released him until she could take it no more.

Suddenly, the tension inside of her released like the tectonic plates of the earth. One edge slid under another and the waves of energy exploded, flooding the coastlines of her pussy in one huge deluge. She threw her head back, violently, and threw her breasts into the air as he took one last gulp of seafood and rammed into her body with full force.

The Hike

What is with you, on this hike
Is what you will see:
Bullet holes of autumn leaves
Lifeless heads of oak galls
Broken bones of ancient trees.
Unleash the grip and enter
Open-palmed, unsheltered eyed
And naked hope unfolds
Rebirthing in the scattered flesh
Multiplied and Gorgon-like
Spreading like noxiousness
In fields of the damned to take
Over the path you chose
Not to take, the red flowers
Being
simply
what they are.

License

It was not until he said to search
That she did, without the labor
Of doubting what he’d said
Thinking that the coldness
In the rooms was expected
Of the servitude of her marriage
That the unwashed dish bore
Testament, the folded shirt
A shameful story forever told.

In a sudden breath, after
The punch of daily worry
Was swept into the blast
She stood on the remainder
Of life’s edge, outstretched
In the flooding warmth her feet
Barely touching earth
Heart barely touching.

The Next Bite

He chewed that last bite, savoring all that she had offered. “Take a drink,” she said. “Then, lick my clit.”

He sipped the champagne, eyeing the feast that was, literally, spread before him. The tender light of the candle glowed off her naked crotch. He was led toward the light, like a moth. His lips and tongue touched the fire and came back for more. She was ambrosia, addiction, lust, greed. Her body was his.

She wanted torture. She wanted to be led down a long path of discovery, to burst out of a deep mountain tunnel into the light of a secret valley. When the muscles of her inner thighs tightened, she directed him to take a bite of the second scallop. He did as he was told, tasting her as he tasted the sweet meat of the ocean. She watched the muscles of his jaw as he chewed, watched the dimples in his cheeks, the movement of his lips, the piercing gaze of his dark eyes. When he swallowed that first bite, she moved a little closer toward him. “Make me cum,” she ordered.

Her clit stood rigid against its hood, engorged with senses. When his tongue made contact, she moaned and threw her head back. She thought of water and sun and touch. She fantasized of hard cocks surrounding her, brushing up against her like fish. She felt the rain of cum upon her opened body, and heard the pulsing cries of man after man. His tongue on her was even, relentless, insistent. It forced the air in her lungs out of her. It forced the gripping spasms of her vagina to push and suck and push and suck and push and suck, until she erupted.




There were bruises on the inside of her knees when she stopped flailing. Her stomach lurked with every post-coital slurp across the head of her shameless clit. He backed off to allow her to breathe, and marveled at her beauty; all the sensuous curves and angles of her nakedness, made him hard against the silk. He rubbed the head of his cock, gently. His balls were moving, positioning, getting ready.

“You may finish that one,” she offered. He did.

Celebration

The round, plump, oval offerings of flesh sat before him. Lightly seared on the outside, but tender and sweet on the inside, they rested in a pool of lemon and clarified butter, a single sprig of watercress inviting his mouth. To the side, a tall glass of champagne, dry and bubbly, fizzing about the contours of a single strawberry. She had given him four scallops, one for each orgasm to come. He sat there in silk pajama bottoms, a plate of delicacy before him, a single candle lighting the room, waiting. She entered naked and walked behind him. Bending down, she whispered in his ear, “I have waited fifteen years for this. Please do what I say.”




She circled around and crawled up onto the table top. The flickering light of the candle licked her auburn skin, reflecting off her like dusky mountain light in a pan of gold flakes. She draped her legs over opposite sides of the table, opening her sex to him like another seafood entrée. “Take a sip of your drink, my love,” she ordered in a voice sultry, yet insistent. He did, as he watched her lean back and start rubbing her olive-oiled clit. His impulse was to follow the champagne with a nice bite of scallop, but she had other plans. When he reached for his fork, she stopped him.

“Rub my pussy with one of those,” she purred. “I want to add some special sauce.”

He did as he was directed, picking up a mound of buttery flesh and rubbing its warmth across her swelling clit and down into the opening into her well. He coated his meal with her offering. She threw her head back, her hair falling nearly to the table behind her. Her smooth belly rose and fell in the candlelight; her nipples pointed toward the ceiling. He withdrew the morsel from her and was about to pop it into his mouth when she looked into his eyes and directed, “Take a small bite.”



He did. She ran her fingers across her butter, lemon, garlic coated labia and masturbated in front of him as he chewed the soft meat of the scallop, tasting her. “Please, do that again,” she said, leaning back. He did as he was told. “Take another bite,” she commanded, as her breathing became more ragged and her hand wanted to travel across her pussy more insistently. He took another bite. The scallop was slathered with her. Her fingers dove into her body, emerging and diving, emerging and thrusting, emerging and pounding. “Do it again,” she commanded.

She arched back onto her elbows. He rubbed her clit with what remained of the first quarter of his supper. Her knees clenched the edges of the table and her toes curled as she yelled out in orgasm, washing his food with her cum.

“You can eat that, now,” she said, after the waves of her pleasure subsided. He did.

Human Sexuality 101: The Tongue & The Clit

The tongue is composed of skeletal muscle covered by a mucous membrane. It is studded with receptors called taste buds. The four basic or primary tastes are sweet, sour, bitter and salty. Salty and sweet tastes are detected by taste buds at the tip of the tongue.

The clitoris is a small mass of erectile tissue that projects into a region of the vulva known as the vestibule. It rests like a little secret between the legs of my lover. It enlarges during sexual arousal. It gets so hard that it resembles one of her nipples. It wants to be suckled by the small child that is my mouth.

The labia majora (major lips) are two elongated folds of skin that encircle and partially conceal the labia minora (minor lips) and structures of the vestibule, like the clitoris. Fluid secreting glands provide secretions into the inner surface of the labia majora and lubricate them. The fluid is a cornucopia of flavors. Fruit and seaweed, chocolate and cinnamon, blood and cum.



When the skeletal muscle of the tongue contacts the major lips, minor lips, vestibule or clitoris, the fluid secreting glands wash the mucous membrane of the tongue with sweet and salty flavors. The taste buds convert chemicals to electric energy which flows to the brain and induces the production of dopamine, a neurohormone. Dopamine is associated with the “pleasure system” of the brain, providing feelings of enjoyment. It motivates a person to perform certain activities. Dopamine is the brain’s way of rewarding the tongue for licking the clit. It motivates me to drive my lover to heights of ecstasy, to make her legs shake and flail, to makes her buttocks clench, to make her yell like a female wolf in heat.




And this, my children, is our science lecture for today.

Tree Whore

“You aren’t even wet,” he said, as he slapped her clit. She recoiled in pain, her legs shaking.

“Yes, I am!” she whimpered.

He slapped her harder. “No! You’re not even wet.”

She buckled, then stood and concentrated. She wanted to be wet. She wanted to pour. She squeezed her insides, trying to make the cum stream out of her. She didn’t know it, but streams of liquid already dribbled down the insides of both legs.

He had led her to the tree. It was a perfect tree, straight and sunlit. It was “her” tree he said, as he ran his hands along the rough bark. He tied her to it, hands behind her, ankles spread. Her back and buttocks pressed into the trunk as he wound the scarf around her head, blocking her sight.

He stood back and admired her. Her auburn hair stirred, gently, in the mountain air. The sun flowed across her tanned breasts like olive oil. Her smoothly-shaved pussy arched away from her flat stomach, standing like a golden hill at the end of a flat plain. Her legs, strong and muscular, tensed and released in anticipation. She gasped when he touched her with his hand. He ran it, from her slightly parted lips to her thigh. Then he reached into his bag and pulled out the clamps. First, the left nipple, then the right. The clamps were tight and painful. She took a deep breath, then groaned. He kissed her.




The sun poured over her, the wind “shushed” in the soft needles overhead. The bottoms of her feet rested in pine duff. Every once in awhile, an ant scurried across the top of a foot. Her nipples ached, her pussy drew all of her attention. It was the center of everything. She secretly hoped someone was crouching in the weeds, watching her. She secretly hoped men were stroking their cocks in the bushes. She was leaking without being touched.

He took out the soft flogger and whipped her with it. The leather stung her thighs, then her stomach, then her pussy. With each strike, she lurched. With each strike, she wanted more. With each strike, her knees became weaker, her breathing shallower. Harder and harder the blows came, until her stomach was red and tight. Then, he stopped and licked her nipples, tenderly, circling around the clamps. He reached between her legs.

“You aren’t even wet,” he said, as he slapped her clit. She recoiled in pain, her legs shaking.

“Yes, I am!” she whimpered.

He slapped her harder. “No! You’re not even wet.”

He reached into her sopped crotch. The cum coated his fingers. Her clit was huge, as hard and insistent as his cock. He rubbed it slowly, spreading her delirious liquor all over its rigid head. With one hand, he masturbated her. With the other, he pulled on the chain of the nipple clamp, stretching her nipples to the breaking point. Her toes dug into the earth, her ass ground into the tree, her fingers clenched. He sensed all of this and increased the tempo of his rubbing, his maddening rubbing.

He felt the head of her clit erupt from its hood. This is where he focused his attention. He pulled on the clamps and pressed his flicking fingers into her, harder, harder, harder. When the clamps snapped off of her nut-hard nipple, she came, screaming. Her legs buckled and she slid down the trunk of the tree, scraping her back against the ragged bark. Her legs shook involuntarily. Spasms wracked her abdomen and ass and thighs. She envisioned the men in the bushes squirting their loads into the air. She remembered his cock in her throat. She wanted to be seen like this, her shining pussy thrust shamelessly into the forest air.

Speed

She liked speed, the movement of body through space. The faster, the better. The wilder, the wetter. Put her in a convertible and she was a rocket. On a bike, she screamed. But, it wasn’t ‘til she met Billy that she really appreciated speed; the really slow kind, the roll across the open space kind, the no-care-even-with-your-eyes-closed kind.

They’d gone to the desert, the salt flats, the playa, the dried-out lake bed, to search for lizards and dust devils. The windows were open, the air was hot and dry. She sprawled out naked on the passenger side, bottle of whiskey in hand. He chased the wisps of dust around while burying his left hand in the crease between her legs.




He stopped the car and got out. She didn’t know what he was doing, but she got out, too. “Go ahead, run,” he said. He had the camera on “video.” She ran across the desert, giggling, arms outstretched and flapping in the warm wind. She ran, then twirled, laughing. She was a sprite, a fairy, an angel. He could do nothing but smile behind the camera lens, knowing that the spirit he was capturing was timeless. Her exuberance and joy flew into the depth of his soul. Even without the wonders of technology, he would remember this moment forever.

“Let’s go,” he said. “I think I see a dust devil!”

He climbed into the driver’s seat and she plopped in beside him, huffing from the frolic. He started the truck and pointed it to the north, toward the far side of the vacant horizon. He put the transmission on cruise control and ordered her to the top of the truck, through the sunroof. She climbed up and out and rode on top, the air flowing through her mud-caked desert hair. Her nipples stood in the sun like antennae, soaking in the radiation like lightning rods. He stood in the driver’s seat as the truck rolled across the playa without a driver, and dove between her legs. She leaned back, feeling the rush of wind across her body and the flicking of his tongue on her clit.




The speed was perfect. Her body, moving through space, came in waves on the top of the truck. She closed her eyes, unafraid of the unknown, and let it rip.

Playa Porch

They climbed the steps and on to the porch. The moon was full and the wind blew dust through their hair. The porch was no ordinary porch; the house to which it was attached no ordinary house. The house was a museum, a memento, a showpiece, a slice in time. It was dark-paneled and decorated with aging photographs and rickety tables and pieces of the nineteenth century. The porch was a dish-shaped extension, filled with throw pillows, lined with wind-whipped blankets, open to the stars and moon. They had explored this place earlier in the week. It seemed to suit their desires. On this night, as expected, it was vacant.

They were naked in the warm playa air, except for shoes worn to protect the feet from the caustic dust of the lakebed. He went first, leading the way up the stairs and onto the porch. She followed, the dampness between her legs building. He sat down; she sat beside him. He turned to kiss her. She spread her legs to his hand. The slick folds opened and his fingers easily found their mark. She groaned into his open mouth as he touched her clit. She leaned against his shoulder as the tension built inside of her, draining all energy from every other part of her body. He rubbed her, grabbed her, flicked her, slid across her, driving her, driving her, driving her.

Suddenly, he stopped. “Stand,” he ordered. She did. “Put your hands behind your head,” he directed. She did. “Don’t move,” he commanded. She stood there, in the moon, the wind brushing her erect nipples and cooling the thick stream of liquid between her legs. He reached between her legs and rubbed her juice all over her labia and inner thighs. “Whore,” he said, as he slapped her breasts, one after another. As the momentary pain subsided, he drove his fingers deep into her pussy, rubbing her spot, making her thrust. Then, he stopped and slapped her tits, once, twice, three times in quick succession. She gasped and groaned as his hands dove between her legs again. He rose to kiss her and, as he did, his slapped her crotch. It stung and she inhaled his breath into her lungs. Then, he crouched and lashed at her throbbing clit with his tongue. She forgot his orders and lowered her hands to his head.



“Keep your hands behind your head,” he barked. He stood and struck out at her swollen pussy, slapping her again and again. She squealed in pain as he drove his tongue deep into her mouth. Then, he bent down again and licked her furiously, almost driving her over the edge. When he knew she was about ready to unleash upon him, he stopped. “Turn around,” he ordered. She did. “Bend over.” She did.

His cock entered her from behind and they fucked like beasts beneath the rutting moon. He drove into her, spewing and bellowing, as she screamed into the playa air, collapsing into a heap after the last spasm in her gut subsided. They cuddled on the porch, after that, their hands tracing the contours of their love.

Camp

He woke up next to her feet. Her small toes rested against his cheek. He could smell the alkaline dust on her ankles and the down-soft scent of his dried saliva. Instinctively, uncontrollably, his lips made their way to the smallest toe. About as big as a lima bean, it popped into his mouth. He suckled, his tongue swirling around it, dipping into the tender web of flesh between it and the next toe. Two toes entered his mouth, just as her body stirred. His hand moved along the inside of her leg, slowly. She moaned and spread her legs automatically, as if he had just touched some secret button to some secret chamber. His tongue ran along the bottoms of her toes. He took each one into his mouth, sucking each pad and joint into wet warmth. Her fingers explored the deep and puffy folds of her pussy as she lay there in the tent, listening to the sounds of the camp in its awakening. A cool current flowed through the opening of the tent and across her tingling nipples. Lazily, teasingly, she masturbated, watching his cock grow and twitch in the diffuse morning light. He continued his sucking and licking and slurping, sending electric jolts of pleasure deep into her gently thrusting crotch. The smell of fresh camp coffee and sizzling bacon wafted through the tent as she arched her back and came on her glistening fingers. He rose up on one elbow, took her hand and licked it clean. Smiling, he whispered, “Good morning.”

Madness

It doesn’t take much, sometimes. A breeze through the window flowing across his naked balls can set him off. It brings back the scene of his cum splashing across her eyelashes. The sound of a jingling dog collar out on the sidewalk will make him hard. It reminds him of the jingling of his own collar and the feel of that long, smooth, dildo pumping into him in front of her girlfriends. Sometimes, it will just be the scent of vanilla that causes his buttocks to flex, involuntarily. It recalls the sight of her pissing into the banana bread batter. The taste of onion salt makes him catch his breath. The sight of her rubbing his cock and balls with her medium rare steak, before devouring it, was almost too much. These momentary lapses keep happening, with increasing frequency. They threaten to become the central purpose of his entire existence; to relive each wad-blowing moment of his life with her. Sometimes, he thinks he must be going mad. Nothing can be so good. Just when he thinks he is back in control, she reappears, drenched in jism, quivering beneath him, bucking on top of him, swallowing him whole, clenching his squirting nuts, screaming, whipping her hair, pounding her fists, kicking her legs in all directions. Is this a curse, or a gift? Is she satan, or an angel? Is she going to kill him, or breathe life into him just to kill him again? His nostrils and his cock flare with animal lust with the sight or smell or sound of her. Her touch is almost too much, almost too incendiary, almost too painful. But, he needs her as he needs the air. This is his destiny; she is his destiny. He will close his eyes, hold out his hand and allow her to lead him where she will.

Hiccup

We’ve been like this for hours. I can’t stand it. I can’t move. Neither can she. She’s suspended above me, like a sack of potatoes. Only her hole, only that entry into another universe, only that streaming pulsar of her body is touching me. It touches me in one place. I am strapped to the bed; hips, legs, feet, arms, chest, head utterly unable to flinch or twitch or thrust. The head of my aching cock rests just inside the clenching muscles of her pussy. She hangs there, above me, dripping. When I involuntarily squeeze the muscles deep within my loins, the head of my dick expands and rubs against the inner walls of her vagina. She squeezes back. That is our conversation. The cum boils up the length of my rod until it spills out and runs out of her. Her juice leaks, like a slow spring, around the head of my cock and runs into the pool that has gathered beneath my straining balls. We are suspended like this, unable to move our hips, unable to drive into each other. She just hangs there, breathing hard, her pussy grabbing at my helplessly rigid tool. I just lie there, each heartbeat a pulse that goes right to the head of my dick. We are cumming. We have been cumming for hours. It’s just this insanely maddening slow leak of juice. My cock aches. My stomach is worn. The cum seems to be pouring out of me, even though I know it’s not. We are having a glacial orgasm. It is one, long, huge, expanding, cosmic, exploding orgasm that will re-create the world in which we live. Suddenly, she hiccups, her stomach muscles contract, she bounces in her harness, my cock spews all of the life of the universe into her and it runs, in cascading rivulets, down the length of my vomiting rod. The muscles relax, I drop out of her and fall asleep.

The Eroticism of Green

Vibrations shy of blueness
In the thirsty blankness
Of arid lifelessness
In leaves and grasses
It is this bed of wishes
In which we lie like dishes
Waiting for delicious
Luscious richness
Thrusting in mosses
The rushing freshness
Of our budding sighs

A Distinctive Woody Shrub

“Rosemary is a distinctive woody shrub, Rosmarinus officinalis, that grows in the dry Mediterranean scrublands, with leaves so narrow and tightly rolled that they look like pine needles. It has a strong, composite scent, made up of woody, pine, floral, eucalyptus, and clove notes. In southern France and Italy it traditionally flavors grilled meats, but it can also complement sweet dishes.”
--On Food and Cooking, The Science and Lore of The Kitchen, Harold McGee.

Eating the Piney Dew
--BAK

Rosemary. Why did her parents give her that name? Rosmarinus, “dew of the sea.” Why am I eating her, now. The dangerous alleyways, the filthy brick walls where I buried my hand in her poured-on jeans and found her damp bud; I think of this when the greasy lamb passes my lips. I think of her wild black hair, framing her olive skin, ringlets across her rising breasts, pink blossoms beneath her feet. Fences, train cars, garbage bins, bridges, swings in the park, high rise windows -- our playground when we were in high school. But, her name and her flavor were of wilderness. Rosemary, my forest, my tree whore, my penetrating flower…why did she leave me?

Perhaps it was the idea of her that, in fact, drove me away from her. The scent of her drove me away, to search for the primal essence of her amongst the rocks and flowers so far from where we grew up. Pine, clear in the snows of mountains, rubbed between my fingers; clove, cinnamon, pressed into my orange-rind skin; eucalyptus, the oils swimming across my skin: the heady, delirious, intoxicating idea of her made me leave. I wanted her as I drove out of the city, and I knew I would find the totality of her and the depth of who she was in the gardens of my culinary travels.

And so, now, I am eating her again and again. Her strong scent, her tightly rolled form, her narrow body is fodder for my lips and salivating mouth. I am eating her name. I am eating Rose and I am eating Mary. I am eating both of them and all of her, a thin memory of drool running down my bare chest. I savor her bitter parts and her emerald whole, her bouquet of swirling smell and sharp strong bite. My hand reaches for her again and again, rubbing her, releasing her, releasing her pungent delicious odor. She has become me. In her leaving, in my banishment to the dark woods, I have found obsession and craving and unrelenting hunger.

Hungry? Cum into my Kitchen.

Bacon-Wrapped Shrimp
Adapted from Contessa (Naughty slut)

12 ounces of fresh, juicy, well-endowed, uncooked, shrimp (prawns)
Freshly ground black pepper, long in its hardened orbs
1 T. of fresh Rosemary (harvested naked at dawn, while the dew is glistening and licking the toes), chopped
Balsamic vinegar
10 strips of marbled bacon, cut in half-lengths, before erection
Bleu cheese, rich and acrid

Steps:

Strip naked and preheat broiler
Put Michael Franks' "Barefoot on the Beach" on the sound system
Liberally apply virgin olive oil to skin
Pour a cool glass of rosemary/lime-infused Bombay gin

Place shrimp on baking sheet and sprinkle with black pepper, balsamic vinegar and rosemary
Wrap each shrimp, individually and lovingly, with half strip of bacon and secure with sprig of rosemary
Broil for about 3 minutes on each side, while dancing
Serve, with sprinkle of bleu cheese and a smile

______________________

Rosemary is a flowering shrub that has contributed its leaves and stems to many aphrodisiac recipes. Oil from its leaves and flowers have been added to love potions and perfumes. Bouquets of rosemary, “emblematical of manly virtues,” were once presented to bridegrooms on their wedding mornings, and bridal beds are still bedecked with the flowers, in some European countries, to ensure conjugal bliss. The herb has a very old reputation for improving memory and has been used as a symbol for remembrance. Shakespeare had Ophelia present a bunch to Hamlet, to remind him of their meeting on St. Valentine’s Day.

Rosemary has been used as a love charm, in Europe, since the Middle Ages. Newly wed couples would plant a branch on their wedding day. If the branch grew, it was a good omen for the union. Placing a sprig under the pillow, at night, will ward off witches and repel nightmares.

Which….brings us to our discussion topic: What foods do you fix for a lover as a special act of love?

Thanks, ladies and gents, for stopping by for another Sunday Spice adventure, organized by Donna George Storey and Marina St. Clare

Here's the rest of the lineup!

8/16 Emerald
—poppy seeds

8/23 P.S. Haven
Haven—salt

8/30 A luxurious adieu!