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.