He came to me with a margarita. He was brown and tall, with short hair and a very tidy pair of swim trunks that could have doubled for underwear or stripper props. His hips were narrow, the bones cradling the muscles of his walnut-colored stomach. His shoulders were the sort that might carry the carcass of an antelope across the arid grasslands for a week, without complaint. I met him that morning, in the breakfast nook, off the pool. The sun was three fingers above the horizon and we were the first to stir.
“Coffee?” he asked.
I was alone. The morning Wall Street was before me. The air was warm and humid, even at 8:00 a.m. This was, after all, Jamaica.
I reached for the margarita and looked him up and down. “No thanks, this will do.”
I took a sip and slowly licked the salt off my lips, then looked back down at the paper. The Dow Jones had taken a dip due to some bullshit statement from the Fed. Some idiots in some frumpy little third world dive had taken some hostages. A minor internet upstart was overvalued. Some actor I’d never heard of had died at age 99. The humidity was soaking into my skin. My red toenails were glistening, my sarong was lying next to the beach chair. The margarita was almost gone when “cabana boy” walked over to see if I wanted a refresher. Conscientious fellow that he was, he carried a mister filled with cool water.
“Would you enjoy some coolness, miss?” he asked. A bead of sweat was running down his cocao chest. I set the paper to the side and took off my glasses. My feet fell to the sides of the lounger. “Sure, hon,” I replied. I closed my eyes and reveled in the fine mist that my morning slave sprayed all over my naked body. Beads of water coated my breasts and tummy and thighs and delightful labia. When I was coated in sparkling liquid, Mr. Cabana asked if I’d like a refill on the margarita. It took me a moment to regain my grasp on reality. When I opened my eyes, my gaze instinctively fell on the fullness of his trunks. Not daring to look into his eyes, I answered, “Sure, hon.”
The rising sun, the rising heat, the rising desire, the rising fantasies…I lost interest in that damned paper and the rest of the world. I just sighed and sank deeper into the lounge chair, waiting for Adonis to come back with my drink. After all, I was at this place to let go of the rest of my life. Twenty years behind a desk, staring out high rise office windows at life, had left me thirsty for a different and more basic reality. I’d had my shot at men in silk suits and patent leather shoes. I’d actually had a few shoot in and all over me. It was fun, but it wasn’t what I wanted. After all, a hard dick is not always an adventure. I owned my own business, back in the states. Here, I wanted someone to own my business, and I didn’t really care how they did it.
Before my little buddy returned with my second drink of the morning, Cece and her very nice-looking companion padded across the flag stones bordering the pool and settled in next to me. Cece was dark-skinned and small. Her companion was milky white and leggy, with tits that were natural and showing a little use. Still, those nipples stood tall and proud. I had met Cece the evening before, in the piano bar. She was young and adventurous and had booked a flight to Jamaica after her bonehead boyfriend had fucked some high-schooler in a drunken stupor. Cece had a score to settle, and wanted photos to prove it. She apparently found someone to assist her. Her name was Mica and she had an added benefit in her ability to speak French.
“Did ya get any?” she asked, nonchalantly, gazing out across the smooth water of the bay through her oversized sunglasses. Her left hand traced Mica’s right thigh as she spoke. Mica was available.
“Naw,” I replied, but I’m workin’ on it. Just then, Mr. Booty headed my way with the drink I’d ordered. His thighs were remarkable. Long and sinewy, I imagined that they could drive rivets through steel girders. And that stomach…I really didn’t care whether he was making beans and had no health care benefits. That stomach could bounce a cement block dropped from the top of my condo.
“Here you are, miss,” he said, politely, while trying to keep his gaze on my eyes.
I reached for the margarita. “What’s your name?” I asked.
“Antoine,” he replied, confidently.
I doubted that he was stupid enough to give me his real name, but I played along. “So, Antoine,” I purred, “where does a woman, like me, find a perfect beast like you?”
If a Jamaican can visibly blush, Antoine did. While he was formulating his young male testosterone answer, I spread my legs and reached over to run my fingernails down Cece’s right shoulder. She giggled.
Antoine regained his confidence and announced, “We have a competition, this afternoon, down on the beach. You should be a part of that.”
“Oh,” I said, “and what sort of competition is that?”
Antoine took a moment before replying. His smile was intoxicating. It took over his whole face. I thought the bulge in his pants looked a bit larger.
“Miss…you will do quite well.” He looked at Cece and Mica and ran his thumbs under the waistband of his trunks. “I think you may win,” he said, glancing back my way. “The competition starts at three.” Then, turning back toward my neighbors, he asked, “Ladies, may I get you something from the bar?”
Mica asked for scotch on the rocks, not a bad call for breakfast. Cece doubled the order. Mr. Hotstuff turned to retrieve the drinks.
“I think you’re meat, baby,” Cece said, looking at me with a Cheshire grin. She spread her legs a bit to allow my roving hand to explore her oiled and warming skin.
I decided to force some issues. “Hey Mica, let’s see who’s meat.” I leaned over and kissed Cece and plunged my hand into her crotch. Mica ran her hands over Cece’s breasts and stomach. Nothin’ like hot sun, warm skin, oil, the smell of the ocean and booze to get a morning off to a great start. By the time the scotch showed up on the scene, Cece was spread wide with her arms thrown up over her head. She gazed through her sunglasses at Antoine and came like a bronco, coating my hand with her juice. Antoine waited, patiently, until she settled into her lounge chair, then offered her scotch. The outlines of his long cock were readily visible and he took evident pleasure in showing them off as he handed Cece and Mica their refreshments.
“You will all do quite well, this afternoon,” he said with a broad ivory smile.
I use photos, sometimes, to help illustrate the sexual emotions I'm trying to evoke in my writing. Sometimes, they add to the artistic expression. Sometimes, they detract. But, when it comes down to it, the pictures really exist inside of each one of us. Eroticism is in the mind, after all. And the photos in our minds are often more vivid and more meaningful and more fulfilling. So, here's a photograph in my mind...
The place is buzzing. It's on a dry and dusty playa. Dance music is blaring. Costumed people, half-costumed people, naked and half-naked people are grinding to the beat. The place is sweaty and dirty. It reeks of horomones and pheromones and herbal smoke. The room of dancers is below us. We watch from a balcony, rubbing our skins together. She wears a short skirt and dusty boots. My hands cup her naked breasts. The beat, the heat, the animal odor, the love...it's as thick as tapioca pudding and as warm as summer honey. When I slide the skirt off, over her gyrating hips, she allows it without a break in the movement of her sensual body. When I press my cock into her, we dance.
“You couldn’t hit that hole if it was on your forehead,” she said, cradling the cue stick in the crook of her elbow. He grinned, widely, and took aim at the 4-ball at the far end of the table. Her trash talk was fun, but distracting. Or, maybe, it was knowing that she wore nothing under that paper-thin tube dress that was interrupting his concentration.
He drew his cue back and sent the cue ball rolling. It was off line, and the four caromed off the cushion, inches from the pocket. She giggled as she saw the frustration etched on his face. She took a sip of Maker’s and fondled a breast until the nipple hardened. “I guess it’s my turn,” she said, smugly.
Tuesday nights, at the Golden Globe Tavern, was usually pretty slow. Billy and Daisy picked Tuesday as their weekly pool tournament night. The Golden Globe, or “GiGi” as the regulars called it, was a sleazy little neighborhood hangout that hid all of its filth and flaws in dim, windowless, light. With faux Persian carpeting over concrete, band poster-covered dark wood walls, ceiling-mounted stereo speakers and four regulation pool tables, the GiGi had survived decades of dry rot, carpenter ants, spilled beer, puke and human debauchery. Billy and Daisy knew most of the clientele and had befriended the staff. It was their kind of place.
Daisy sauntered up to the table. She was ahead in the 8-ball tournament, with one win out of the usual 9-game match. In this game, Billy had two balls on the table and she had four. The Budweiser pool lamp glared down on the stained and ragged green felt of the table. Daisy stood against the table, eyeing the arrangement of the balls, chalking up her stick. Her breasts jutted into the bright light. The Stones’ “Start Me Up” blasted through the speakers and the clinking of glassware behind the bar.
Billy stood on the other side of the table, glass in hand. Daisy decided to start her run with the 11-ball in the side pocket. It was a straight-in shot, no slop. She flashed a grin at Billy and bent at the waist. The weight of her tits pushed the slight fabric of her dress away from her chest and Billy stared into the naked tunnel of her cleavage as she took a bead on the cue ball. She snapped the cue ball against the 11, drove the 11 home and stopped the cue ball dead, all lined up for the next shot.
Daisy moved around to the end of the table, bent over and tapped a gentle push down the slate to the 14-ball. In it dropped. Tie game.
Daisy stood and slinked up to Billy. She pressed her soft body into his and kissed him. He reached around to grab her ass and pull her closer. “You’re so fucking hot,” he growled. “Wanna fuck?”
Daisy suddenly felt a familiar jolt in her abdomen, followed by a damp warmth between her legs. “Tell ya what, pool boy,” she purred, “you win, you call.”
“You’re totally on, bitch,” Billy said, grabbing Daisy’s pussy. “What if you win?”
“Oh, you’ll see.”
Daisy’s next shot rammed the 9-ball home. After that, the 13 skirted by the 8-ball and left a nice little side pocket shot for the second win. Billy just had to watch the game run away from him. “Rack’em, pool boy!” Daisy ordered, as she stood back away from the table. “That’s two, zip, baby.”
Billy scooped the balls into the rack. “You’re goin’ down, bitch,” he said.
Daisy lined up for the break. She had a smirk on her face as she bent over the cue ball. “Yeah, I know.”
The cue ball crashed into the rack and balls scattered all over the table. It was a good break, but nothing went down. “Open table,” Daisy announced. She walked over to her whiskey and took a sip. “See if you can get it in the hole, stud,” she pimped. She kicked off her pumps and wiggled her toes as she watched Billy go to work. The whiskey was making her nice and warm, inside. In between shots, Billy glanced over her way. She hooked a finger under the hem of her dress and pulled it up until Billy could get a good view of her naked pussy. She giggled and took another draw on her whiskey. “Get busy,” she said.
Billy did as told and ran the table. One after another, the stripes disappeared off the felt. As Billy bent into the last shot at the 8-ball, Daisy came up behind him and reached between his legs. At first, Billy was distracted. Then, as Daisy rolled his nuts in her hand, he drove the 8-ball home and won the game.
“Wow,” Daisy said, stepping back. “That was some concentration!”
“Rack’em, pool girl!” Billy ordered. He walked over to the table where his drink sat and reclined in the chair. After Daisy had racked up the balls, good and tight, he commanded, “Come over here.” Reaching into the front of his unzipped jeans, he pulled out his cock. “See if you know what to do with this,” he taunted.
Daisy looked around the bar, nervously. No one seemed to be paying much attention. She padded over to Billy and bent over him, sucking his dick into her mouth. Bending over that far, made her dress pull up high over her bare ass. Billy slid a wet finger into her pussy. He pumped in and out of her a couple of times, then pushed her away, tucking his semi-turgid stick back into his pants. “Guess I’d better shoot,” he said with a sly grin. “I’m comin’ back.”
Billy stood up and started to move toward the table. Daisy grabbed the crotch of his pants and planted a big kiss on his mouth. “God, I want that,” she growled.
“Don’t worry, you little slut, you’re gonna get it.”
“Step away, little girl…I got work to do.”
Billy walked up to the table, aimed the cue ball and smashed it into the lead ball. A good break, balls scattered evenly across the green. But, again, nothing went in. Daisy’s turn. She assessed the sequence and stepped up to the task. She rolled the top of her dress down until her breasts popped out, then bent over the table. This got the attention of a few of the patrons, and they called out, egging her on. That’s the reaction she was hoping for. The 1-ball was Daisy’s first victim. Down it went and the cue ball banked off the cushion, in place for the next shot at the 6-ball. Daisy took steady aim, but missed. She rose up and walked over to her whiskey, feeling bold and a little drunk. In the shadowy lighting of the bar, she could sit back in her chair and play with herself while she watched her man circle the pool table like a cat.
By the time Billy had emptied the table of about three of the stripes, Daisy was all worked up. She was slow in getting out of her chair to go take the next shot. Her dress was down around her waist, but she was comfortably oblivious to how she looked as she bent over to take a shot at the 6-ball again. Billy was more than happy to stand behind Daisy and admire her wet clam as her dress rode up over the curves of her ass. The 6-ball rolled into the corner pocket and Daisy stood up.
“Take it off!” someone shouted from across the bar. It took a couple seconds for the plea to sink into Daisy’s consciousness. Once it registered, however, Daisy was quite happy to comply. Off the dress came, and Daisy stood naked in the bar, pool stick in hand, a wickedly delicious grin on her face.
“Like that?” she shouted back. A cheer went up from the bar, accompanied by a smattering of enthusiastic applause. Daisy returned to the game. The 2-ball was next. Daisy took her time, bending over the table, aiming the cue ball. Her ass gleamed in the harsh light of the pool table lamp. Her brain was swimming with excitement. The 2-ball missed the mark and Daisy returned to her chair.
Not to be outdone by his companion, Billy removed his shirt. His taut muscles and thinly-haired chest rippled beneath the light. Daisy’s legs instinctively splayed as she watched him circle the table, making shot after shot. Finally, Billy had the stripes off the table, and was zeroing in on the final shot of the game. “Take it off!” a female hollered from the bar. Billy backed away from the table and peered out toward the bar. Apparently, he and Daisy had become the center of attention at that point. All eyes were on him as he set his pool cue on the table, unbuckled his belt ceremoniously, and stripped his pants off. Hoots and hollers filled the GiGi as he swung his cock in his hand, pumped his hips for the benefit of the crowd, then stepped back up to the table.
He was about to make the shot, when Daisy called out from the sidelines, “You couldn’t hit that hole if it was on your forehead.”
Billy looked over and started laughing. “Watch and learn,” he shot back.
Bam! The 8-ball in the side pocket wrapped up game number four. “Tied up,” Billy announced, as he turned and leaned his bare ass against the table. “Rack’em, pool girl!” Fuck Pool!
Daisy got up out of her chair and walked, seductively, over to Billy, fell to her knees and gulped his cock deep into her throat. A cheer went up from the bar. The Eagles “Take It To The Limit” blared over the speakers. Daisy held Billy’s cock in her throat and looked into his eyes, the corners of her mouth upturned in a shit-eatin’ grin. He started to harden, filling her mouth with hot meat until she had to back off. People with beers in hand started moving into place around the pool tables, watching from the shadows as Daisy started to work Billy’s stick from head to root. Billy leaned back, his stomach tight, his ass clenched. Daisy’s hungry saliva dripped off his balls onto the faux Persian carpet. When Billy’s pecker was like the wood of a pool cue, Daisy rose up and, clutching his nuts in her hand, ordered, “Fuck me!”
“Let’s see if I can hit that hole,” Billy said. He grabbed Daisy, and spun around behind her and, in one deft move, grabbed her hair and pushed her over the table and impaled her from behind. His cock slammed into her, and the excited onlookers shouted their approval. Daisy’s tits were squashed on the green felt and she drooled onto the table while Billy’s long strokes drove his balls against her labia, slapping again and again until Daisy’s ass squeezed her first orgasm out of her throat. A chant went up from the room. “Fuck her! Fuck her! Fuck her! Fuck her!” Billy rammed into Daisy like a machine. Joan Jett was cranking out “I Love Rock & Roll” on the Bose speakers. Daisy came in screams, her cum running down the insides of her legs. Billy slapped Daisy’s ass cheeks until they glowed in the spotlight. He drove his long, straight, strokes with backspin, right-hand English, left-hand English, sending the balls back to the whole until he couldn’t take it any more. He pulled out and, to the roaring approval of the GiGi patrons, spewed his talcum sperm all over Daisy’s ass. When the last dribble dropped off the tip of his cock and into Daisy’s crack, Billy bent over Daisy’s heaving body and he whispered in her ear, “Fuck pool.”
It wasn’t too long after his surgery that he was able to use his cock again. It was painful, at first, and he closed his eyes, tightly, when the thin juice of his balls flowed out of him in spasmodic dribbles. After the initial novelty of the post-prostate experience, he began to settle into the disconcerting change in his orgasmic feelings. Instead of blasting quantities of thick, white, jism into space, his dick just leaked clear and sticky stuff while he ground his hips in rhythm to a deeply gripping, muscular, series of contractions. It was, as he was told, more female-like. Over time, as the clarity of the memory of his pre-surgery orgasmic sensations waned, he began to enjoy the depth of his transformation. One thing, in particular, was exciting. He found that by rapidly rubbing his frenulum, he could trigger an orgasm in the most covert manner. He quickly learned that he could secretly cum, under the table at meetings, or on the plane, or in the back seat of cars. Other than a moment of silence, and a flush of the skin on his face, there were no outward indications of what was going on in his pants. It was delightful, having this option. After all, the volume of his ejaculate was not so much that it would soak through the fabric of what he was wearing. But, the intensity of his orgasm was tremendously satisfying. He quickly became addicted to the feeling and the depraved excitement of it all. He was a newly-born pervert, and it was such a gratifying feeling to have beaten death and be left with the means to experience such naughty joy. He squirted into his pants at work, behind his desk. He did it in bathrooms and bars. He imagined that his sensual situation was akin to that of a woman with a dildo implanted in her pussy, vibrating constantly. Unfortunately, as time progressed and the sensitivity of the nerves impacted by surgery regained a level of homeostasis, the frenulum became less sensitive, returning to where it had been before the cancer. He needed more stimulation and the urgency disappeared. It was a grand time, however, that post-surgery insanity. And it taught him a valuable lesson: when life gives your lemons the inability to make juice, make the most of the rinds. After all, there’s reason their shavings are called “zest.”
Squish. Up between the toes. Squish. And, all around, blaring sun and distant snow and whispering air. “Squish.” What an evocative word and sound and feeling! Does it awaken something primal, that soft sound? Squish is the sound of birth. It’s the sound of shit. The sound of tender lips on a milky breast. The sound of fruit and a deep pussy. Squish.
We found this spot, this living slimy glorious spot, on the spinning globe in the spinning solar system in the spinning galaxy in the spinning universe. “Squish,” it said. It spoke to our feet and legs and hands and slipping, sliding, spinning bodies. We flew across it and into it. Squishing into the creases and crevasses and hollows and pores of our bodies, the mud brought the life of prehistory to life, once more. And we laughed the joy of remembrance into the air of all ancestors. Squish.
In one small spark, this was set into motion; the skating and slithering essence of being. And we saw it and grabbed onto it. “Squish.” The sound of the beginning and the end, and all things sacred in between.
“What’s all this shit about Microsoft Word,” she said somewhat peevishly. It was not really a question; it was a statement about her ignorance. “I have Microsoft Works!”
He laughed. “Microsoft Works is, like, SO archaic,” he countered, in his characteristic metrosexual affectation. If she hadn’t just had her lights fucked into oblivion by him, she would’ve sworn he was gay. Not that there would be anything wrong with that. She imagined that even gay guys might need a tight pussy, from time to time. After all, they liked assholes. At that moment, she was peering at him as if he was an asshole.
She sat naked, in front of her Gateway 831GM, and tried to find this “Word” thing in her programs. Her pussy was still wet and dripping cum onto the chair. “See,” she blurted, after perusing the list of programs on her hard drive, I don’t have “Microsoft Word!”
He bent down next to her ear, and whispered, “If you suck my cock, I’ll find it for you.”
What had brought them to this point in their post-coital reverie, was a somewhat off-topic comment by Billy that she might have more time to fuck if she’d learn to use a car, instead of a horse and buggy. He had been trying to get her to use Word for a few months, so that she could more easily send her erotica to online publishers. She was rather pig-headed, however, and stuck with her old way of doing things, even though it took twice as long to accomplish things that way. He couldn’t help it; they had been screwing the afternoon away, and she had just had her zillionth orgasm. She, clearly, was enjoying herself. So, as she was catching her breath after another gut-wrencher, he poked her again with his admonition to change her computer skills. She had had enough. She jumped out of bed and ran to her computer, leaving his flagging dick waving in the air.
She turned in her chair and gulped the length of him into her throat. True to his word, Billy reached over her shoulder and scrolled the programs until he found “Microsoft Office Word.” He right-clicked, put the shortcut on the desktop, and drove his cock into her. As she gagged, he crowed, “There ya go.”
She couldn’t believe how fast that happened. She snapped her head away and gazed at her desktop. “How the fuck did you DO that!” she exclaimed.
“It was right there, in black and white,” he said, grinning. “Microsoft Office Word.”
“Huh? I saw that, but I thought it was for office use!” she said, defensively.
“Well…where’s your office?” he said, wagging his saliva-coated pecker in her face.
“Goddam it!” she whined. She waited a moment, to allow her embarrassment to subside, then licked the end of his cock. “OK, so I’m stupid,” she pouted. Then, looking up with her kitten-cute eyes, she mumbled between licks, “Where’s YOUR office?”
Without missing a beat, he returned with, “Up your sweet ass.”
Just another boat ride…not! We rolled up to the launch and I backed the boat into the water. The others parked up in the lot and started carrying coolers down to the dock. The men did most of the carrying, of course. The girls, in varying states of undress, were great to look at. They stood on the dock…all three of them…waiting to pile into the boat. After drinking whiskey along the way to the lake, they were already rollin’. Gina, of course, was catching looks from the moment she piled out of our truck. She decided, at the last moment, to throw on one of my old white oxfords. Buttoned, strategically, just above her navel, it revealed just enough tit and pussy, when she walked down onto the dock, to get any observant male’s attention in both heads. And there were a few of them, mostly party folks out for a hot day on the lake. A few old-timers were not quite sure what they were seeing.
I tethered the boat to the dock and the guys started dropping the goodies into the boat. The women were already in, giggling and sort of pretending to help out. Janie had a suit on that was so small the fabric could have made a potholder. Like Gina, Bobby was nearly naked. She donned a sheer beach robe and a pair of flip-flops. After unloading the truck, I parked it up in the lot and walked across the steaming asphalt to the dock. It was only 10:00 am, and the day was going to be a hot one.
The plan was to head out over the lake, to a bay where there was a three-day Labor Day party. Bands on the beach, flotillas in the lake. Women, music, water, sun…what could be better? The trip to the beach would take about an hour. As I turned the bow around and headed out on the glassy water, the women took the cue and stripped. Gina took her favorite spot on the bow, right in front of me. The scenery was, to say the least, magnificent. What, with rocky bluffs, deep azure skies, and naked pussy ahead of me, what more could I want?
In moments, I found out. I was rather focused on Gina, when I suddenly felt some nice warm breasts pressing against my back, and a pair of small hands reaching into the front of my shorts. I knew where Gina was, and I sort of could make out Bobby sucking on something hard over my left shoulder so, being capable of outstanding deduction, I surmised that Janie wanted something. Always the conscientious ship captain, however, I could do little but navigate the vessel, while Janie navigated my ship into her throat. Standing there, with my shorts around my ankles and the sun beating on my ass, while Janie was beating my balls, was quite the mid-morning experience.
Not to be diverted from the task at hand, I pulled my steely rod out of Janie’s warm mouth and handed the steering wheel to her. “Here, take the wheel, mate,” I ordered and walked to the back of the boat to grab a beer out of the cooler, my saliva-coated cock waving in the warming breeze. Janie was happy to be at the helm, and she quickly forget what she was doing moments before. Instead, she seemed quite enamored with Gina’s oiled flesh, laid out in front of her.
The sex cruise was on. I sat across from Bobby and her men, and watched as she took them both on. I didn’t even have to touch my dick; it just sort of stayed hard all by itself. After all, it’s not every day that I was treated to Bobby bobbing on the heads of two cocks while fingering herself to multiple orgasms.
A few of miles out into the lake, Gina decided to join the group long enough to duck into the head. She came out from the cabin with rope in hand. “Baby, will you tie me up?” she asked, crossing her legs and wiggling. Bobby, by this time, was getting fucked, and Janie was still making believe that she was Johnny Depp. “Sure,” I said, and got up from my front row seat. Gina climbed back onto the bow and spread herself wide. I roped her up. Her ankles were tied to the railing, as were her wrists. She wasn’t going anywhere. That’s what she wanted.
After I had her tied into place, I poured oil all over her until she reflected the sun’s rays back into space, announcing her availability. I bent down to kiss her. “I want the girls,” she said, nearly pleading. I kneeled next to her and played with her splayed pussy for a bit, until the juice was coating my hand. Then, I left her.
We had a few more miles to go before reaching the scene of the party. I had to calculate things, just right. I let Gina lie there, for awhile. After taking over Janie’s position at the wheel, I was able to watch Gina’s body react to the cooling effect of the wind on her magnificent nipples. Janie, in the meantime, had joined Bobby and the sounds of good, hard, butt-fuckin’ sex filled the air. Gina, of course, could hear much of what she could not be a part of, being tied up and all. I could see her hips move every time someone had an orgasm. Then tension was building. “Billy,” she called. I ignored her. “Billy!” she called, more frantically. “BILLY!” she yelled.
I didn’t respond. I knew we had a couple of miles to go, to get to the flotilla. I told the girls to go up and attend to Gina. I supplied them with a nice big dildo that Gina and I dubbed, “Daddy.” “Go play,” I ordered. “Make her cum until she passes out!” Janie and Bobby pulled away from the business at pussy and made their way to the front of the boat.
The boys were left flopping in the air, but a couple of cold beers soon cured any disappointment they might have. Besides, they could now watch some fun shit on the bow. We compadres lined up along the windshield and watched some absolutely ball-blowin’ action. Janie and Bobby went to work on Gina like a couple of pros. No centimeter of skin went untouched. It took less than sixty-fuckin’-seconds for Gina’s back to arch into the sun and her cries of “Fuck me” to leave the earth. That was before the Daddy plunged into her. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.
Here we are, a boat load of tanned and happy campers, pulling into the flotilla. Music was blaring from the beach. Party goers were dancing, in various states of coherence and dress, on the sand and boats, and in the water. We floated in, six naked crazies, with Gina at the fore, screaming in orgasm, her pummeled crotch pointed at the crowd, and two gorgeous women on her nipples like flies on shit. Needless to say, we left a good impression that spread rapidly through the crowd. After Gina was untied, we fucked like bonobos on the engine cowling, to the cheers of the crowd. The party got better, from there.
“I don’t know about this,” she said, nervously, as he tied her hands behind her back. He worked silently, hearing her anxiety and saying nothing. It heightened the tension in her; it made him smile. He knew she wanted something like this. He also knew that she had no idea what was coming. He wasn’t going to give her a hint, either.
In the distance, the drum beat throbbed in the desert air. It came from all directions and washed over them like heartbeats. The ground seemed to move like their bare chests, breathing and beating, breathing and beating. His bare feet moved about her, softly in the dust. He tied her arms behind her, so as to make her breasts the centerpiece of her torso. They stood into the air, lovely and tender. When the bondage was complete, he kissed her. People walked by, talking, laughing, muttering, singing, silent…all in their own experience of this time. They barely noticed when he slipped the hood over her head. She stood, naked, except for her boots, and the rope that held her defenseless. Around her neck, he fastened the collar. To that, he clipped the leash. He tugged; she followed. He led her along the streets. She navigated by his silent touch and the soft shuffling of his feet. She followed until he stopped her and ran his hands over the hood, caressing her head.
Although she did not know what to expect, she expected it. She expected the lips on her nipples, there in the middle of somewhere. She expected his fingers on her clit. She expected the cum of her running down her legs as she shook and buckled in front of untold and un-numbered strangers, there in the middle of the cacophony. She expected her cries of orgasm to be soaked into the sponge around her.
She rode off, every day, about the same time. The sorrel quarter horse waited for her, anxiously. He was gelded, but he still smelled her as a female. He’d paw the ground and look toward the house, flare his nostrils and whip his tail. When the sun was high, and the air lightly dusted, the smells in the air were more acute. The sharpness of her scent was strong on those days. When the back door screen snapped shut, his breathing quickened with anticipation.
“Hey, Buddy,” she’d call out. “Let’s go for a ride.” She almost ran to him, but didn’t want to seem too obvious in her motions. Her mother might be watching, or her older brother. Her work jeans rubbed against her skin, and her brown boots scuffed through the dirt, hay chaff and pebbles of the yard as she walked with purpose toward the corral. Buddy held his head high and waited for her touch. She would open the gate, reach out and touch his face. Then, in a deft move, she’d swing onto his broad back and, clutching his mane in one hand, lead him out into the field.
“Buddy, how ya doin’,” she’d purr. “Let’s go have some fun.” She’d ride him to the end of the field, out over the rise and into the swale. Once out of sight of the house, she’d stop Buddy and get off. He stood, patiently, as she took off her dusty boots and tucked them into the hollowed out trunk of the old oak. The sweat-soaked socks followed, and then the oily jeans. It only took her about a minute before she leaped naked onto Buddy’s back, grabbed his mane and “clucked” into his ears.
The warm Wyoming sun fell down her back and across her bare thighs. Her long, ropey, hair swished in the dry air in rhythm with Buddy’s lazy gait. The hair on the horse’s back tickled her between her legs. She knew what was hidden, at the far reaches of the ranch, and that only heightened the sensation. She took her time, feeling. The arches of her feet brushed the coarse fur of Buddy’s belly, his muscles seemed to flow like molten liquid under her bronzed buttocks. She felt her anxious desire building like a turning tide, flooding the inlets and deltas and estuarine flats of her shoreline. Soon, she knew, she would be the inexorable force and power of the ocean.
She didn’t know where he came from, or what his name was. Until just a few weeks ago, she’d never seen him. In this sparse and bare and all-knowing land, it was difficult to hide. But, she had found him in her hiding spot. She had discovered him on a ride such as this. He was down by the spring, lying in the moss and ferns, sleeping. Naked as she, he was like a golden god in the garden. His thighs were long and muscular, like Buddy’s. His hair was a dark, matted, mane. His solid chest appeared as a barely moving block of flesh in the dappled light of the poplar copse. She sat on Buddy and watched the expansion of his body with each breath and noticed how it made the magnificent emblem of his sex roll along the inner margins of a motionless leg. She was not afraid of this man.
When he awoke, it was calmly. She had dismounted by then, and was crouching next to him, wanting to trace the arch of his ribcage with her fingers. His eyelids fluttered and he filled his lungs with the sweetness of the fecund air. He looked at her as if she was an expected vision and, without movement or sound, he offered himself to her. To prodigious proportions his member grew, the balls drawing close to him in locked and ready position. She watched in amazement and greed and, when she could no longer contain her curiosity, she ran a tentative finger along the length of his muscle, to the expanding tip. It lurched beneath her touch like an animal. It was what she’d always wanted between her legs, and she straddled it and caressed it and buried it and drove it and fucked it, madly and repeatedly, until she fell beside him against the damp earth, a thin whiteness flowing out of her.
It was like this. Each day she would come to him. No words were spoken. He was always naked and waiting. She was always naked and wanting. The emerald glade absorbed her passionate wailing as the soft forest carpet absorbed the energy of his thrusts. When she left, she left him as she had found him, sleeping. She rode across the dusty fields, to the old oak, drew the scratchy fabric onto her still hungry skin, and trotted home, thinking of the treasure waiting for her the next day.
She rode to him, day after day, into the late summer, until the grasses rattled in the constant wind and the ground was hard to the hoof. Each day, she hid her sweat-dampened ranch clothes in the oak hollow. Each day, she rode to his waiting cock and brown hips and solid chest. Each day, her head spun into the clouds after weaving through the silent emotions of the forest. When he filled her for the last time, it was as if it was the last time. His eyes, wide and blue, searched her own and he cried out as if he was being eviscerated, his innards being poured out upon the forest floor. It was the first time she had heard his voice resonating above her own. They swam in muscular contractions and jetting sperm, thrashing in the agony of ecstatic release until she fell upon his breast, joined to him forever. When she awoke, he was sleeping as when she first came upon him in the spring. She left him that way, and never returned.
Ok, I’ll admit, I’ve had a love affair with the bottle for quite some time. Mostly, it’s wine that I like. I can drink a 450 ml bottle, hit the road, and go past “Go” with $200 bucks in my pocket and a smile on my ass. Sometimes, when I walk through the door after a long day of smacking my lips, I can almost hear that round hard honest mouth calling to me in a siren’s tone of squeals and low humming. It’s all I can do to keep from grabbing the neck of my lover and shoving that nerve sizzling liquid deep into the oceanic sinkhole of my lust. This ain’t no disco, this ain’t no foolin’ around; this is passion all bottled up until it explodes like champagne in my face. I’m a winner, a champion, the best of the heap of the love-drunk. Go ahead, shove it as deeply as you can. I’ll surround it and lap it up, like a kitten in a barn full of squirting udders.
He loved sitting on the couch, holding her small strong feet in his hands. Just sitting there, not speaking, watching the evening news, holding her feet -- that’s where things felt best. On warm summer mornings, they would sit naked together on the couch, watching Spongebob Squarepants, sipping on strong black coffee. The morning breeze flowed in through the open windows and doors and across their skins. Her small popcorn toes curled in his grasp and he could feel her distant heart pulsing against his fingers.
Her feet, like his, had pressed against the earth and felt its throb and buck and slow creep. They had carried her across thousands of miles of concrete, forest duff, mud, carpet, polished wood and sand. They had soaked in sun and rain, water and dust. They had pressed against flesh and flailed in the air. To him, holding her feet in his hands was like holding her past. He knew her better; he knew her secrets. When he held her ankles, or stroked the deep arch of her foot, or stabbed his fingers between her toes, he meant to keep her, forever.
February 20! Who woulda thought! The Northwestern skies were as clear and intoxicating as good vodka. In the distance, Mt. Hood etched its way like a shard of glass into the soft belly of the morning sky. The sun was low but brilliant in the damp spring haze.
“Let’s take a drive!” she said, excitedly. She nearly trembled as she said the words, as if each word had a string on it that pulled her toward the door.
I was way ahead of her on that one. “Of course, but we need to find something in the sun that is sheltered. Let’s try the Wind Mountain Trail. We’ll just go off-trail and find a nice grassy spot. Wanna fuck?”
Her eyes sparkled.
We piled into the truck. Both of us donned shorts, an optimistic gesture seeing as how the temperature was still in the 40’s. The weather reports were predicting near-60 degree temperatures, however, so we felt confident in our attire. We each took a celebratory swig of Makers Mark and headed out for Starbucks. After all, what’s a day without a mocha?
After scoring the coffee drinks, we turned on the iPod and listened to Michael Franks, Allison Krauss, Boz Skaggs, Doobie Brothers, Sade, and other sensual music as we wound along Highway 14, up the Columbia River. We talked about everything; we thought about sex. I ran my fingers along her inner thighs; she massaged my right shoulder.
We made our way to the Wind Mountain trailhead, got out of the truck and started chattering and shivering in the icy wind that tore down the Gorge. In shorts and t-shirts, we were no match for the elements, no matter the power of optimism.
“I saw a turnoff, back a ways,” I said. “Let’s give it a try. It’s lower, down by the river. Might be a little warmer down lower.”
She approved. We headed back. A few miles to the west, we turned off the highway and rolled into a nearly vacant park. One other car, three people, three dogs. The park was a large grassy expanse, surrounded by cottonwoods and alders, that led down to the Columbia River.
We traipsed across the grassy field, toward the river. The wind was still blowing, but it was warmer. The sun was still and silent and reliably warm. We held each others’ hand as if we were exploring new territory and needed the support. Mostly, though, we were thumping along with our heartbeats.
We walked to the water’s edge, a place nearly as cold as the Wind River trailhead. Whitecaps blew off of the water, sending icy spray into our faces. Clearly, not a place of nearly-naked comfort. We looked, then retreated.
On our way down to the water, I noticed a thin trail that wove through the ubiquitous blackberry vines and into a thick grove of alders. I decided to explore the trail, and followed it into the rattling branches. Deep into the grove was a mossy carpet that rolled under a bleached log. It was there that I settled, my back against the log, facing into the sun. She sat between my legs and leaned against my chest. This is where we wanted to be, like this.
How does one explain the heat between us? The camp fire, once lit, was carried for over a year. The ember never went out. Every night, it lit a new fire. New food was cooked, new stories told, new life was born. We touch and the flames explode into the sky, sending energy in every direction. My hand dove into her pants and touched her clit. He legs parted and she invited me to play. And play, we did.
We became a blur. Pants came off, shirts came off, winter white skin radiated the sun’s heat back into space. We fucked in the alders, on the moss, against the log, beneath the steady warmth of the magic orb, with the whitecaps lapping against the rocks that have washed toward the ocean from the center of the continent. Her orgasms flooded my balls and nourished the moss, my cock flooded her throat. Finally, we lay in the sun, our chests heaving our breath into each others’ lungs. The alders rattled above us, as they will in the months to come.
Although the water that wound It’s oxbowed path around The vortex of your navel Never touched where it struck Out and fell instead upon The arching need of your naked Hip it was collected By its tense containment In the joyous pool of itself Beneath a radiant moon
She took a breath and felt his liquid course through her body. It permeated her and the itchy sensation of thousands of sperm drilling through the membranes in her body nearly drove her nuts. But, she couldn’t move, stuck there on the lava rock as she was. Her holdfasts kept her in place and she could only feel. She could feel those wriggling little bastards as they searched her cavities for eggs. She could feel the tiny explosions of conception and the warm energy of cell division inside of her. It was enough to cause her swelling labia and her testicle lungs to press against the confines of her shell and open her, shamelessly. As the waves crashed about her, the cavitating bubbles of sea air exploded against her bonded skin and made her gasp, taking more of his essence and the competing essence of a thousand others into her depths. In spasmodic response, she squirted her offspring into the ocean where they flowed in fecund streams, in search of bondage and the thrill of sensual ecstasy.