Disciple #FlashFiction #Spirituality #Sex

“Uh—oh—oh—uh—uh—uh, uh, uh—ah—yes, oh, yes, uh—aaah!”

“You all right, honey?”

“Oh...oh, yeah, I’m fantastic. Just need a bit of time to recover. Thanks, Miriam. That was sensational—as always. You’re still the best, after all this time.”

“That’s sweet of you, Sh’muel. We each serve according to our separate gifts.”

“He say that?”

“More or less.”

“You knew him, didn’t you.”

“Very well. Intimately, you might say.”

“So...what was he like? Putting aside the hype and all? How did it feel when you were with him?”

“Cherished. Beloved. Enveloped in warm, nurturing light.”

“You were special to him.”

“Everyone felt that way, Sh'muel. That was his gift. Total, unconditional love. Perfect compassion. It didn’t matter who you were, what you did for a living, what country you came from or what gods you worshiped. What so-called sins you had committed. He loved us all. We couldn’t help loving him back.”

“Even Judas Iscariot?”

“Of course. Poor Judas might have loved him more than anyone. Most of us were too selfish to fulfill the master’s will. We wanted to keep him alive, with us, so we could continue to bask in his incredible light. Even if that undermined his ultimate purpose.” 

 

“It must have been hard to let him go.”

“Torture. I wept non-stop for two weeks. It felt like my heart had been torn from my body, leaving nothing but a vacant, echoing gap. I wanted to kill myself, to tell you the truth, but I knew he wouldn’t approve. It took a long time before I understood that he really wasn’t gone at all. That his light could never be extinguished—unless I allowed it to be.”

“I’m—um—kind of surprised you went back to your old profession. Afterwards, I mean.”

“His mother never liked me. She never felt I was good enough for her precious Yeshua. I don’t blame her. We all have our flaws, our blind spots. Anyway, I didn’t feel comfortable with the direction the disciples were taking. Celibacy just doesn’t suit me.”

“I’m grateful for that!”

“I’ll bet you are, you old goat!”

“So, tell me Miriam—what about the sex? Was it different? Better than with an ordinary man?”

“You want me to kiss and tell? Naughty boy! I keep your secrets—I’ll certainly keep his. But I will say this—he was as lusty and eager as anyone else. Not the pale, emasculated, passionless figure that some of the communities worship these days. He was flesh and blood, full of juice and joy.”

“So what do you think? Was he really the Messiah?”

“You know, Sh'muel, I don’t really care. All I know is that everyone he touched was changed for the better. His love kindled ours. We wanted to please him, honor him, and so we tried, in our own poor imperfect way, to be like him. Each according to our gifts. Speaking of which...”

“Mmm—oh, that feels so good!”

“Looks like you’re ready for another round.”

“Oh—ah—oh, God, I’d love to, but until next month’s harvest, I don’t have the shekels to spare.”

“It’s on the house, honey. Because you’re such a loyal customer and such a sweet guy.”

“Ooh—oh, Miriam! You’re a saint... What can I do in return? Can I give one of next spring’s lambs?”

“Just feel my love, Sh'muel. Feel it, and pass it on.”

Review Tuesday: Thong of Thongs - #Humor #Jewish #ReviewTuesday

Thong of Thongs: 69 Sexy Jewish Stories by Kitty Knish

Deep Desires Press, 2019

I’m Jewish, I write erotica, and I have a fatal attraction to puns. How could I resist a volume with this title and this author? Furthermore, like most temptations, I’m glad I succumbed to this one. Thong of Thongs might not be great literature, but it’s clever, literate, often funny, and occasionally, somewhat to my surprise given the book’s blurb, emotionally moving.

But let me share the blurb, just so you know what you’re getting into:

Thong of Thongs is the lovely Kitty Knish's debut collection of 69 sexy Jewish stories, showcasing Jewish humor at its finest. Equal parts kosher and dirty, romantic and raunchy fun.

Adam, Eve and the trouser snake; streaking at a kibbutz; Freud’s introduction to submission; these are only a few of the hilariously scandalous tales found inside. Laugh your tuckus off as the Chosen People enjoy their bondage with a side of bagels and lox.

*WARNING*: While there is something in this collection for everyone, not every story is for everyone, so please approach this book with an open mind before you unzip your pants. No kvetching here, you’ve been warned!

Actually, the blurb made me worry almost as much as it made me laugh. What if the stories were in terrible taste? Would they inspire accusations of anti-semitism? Of course, taste depends on the reader. I wasn’t bothered, but I’m probably more broad-minded than most, so if you’re easily offended by the intentional use of racial and religious stereotypes for the sake of humor, give this book a wide berth.

Speaking of taste: this is a collection of flash fiction – very short stories, rarely more than a page – and flash fiction is definitely not to everyone’s taste. In fact, given her obvious authorial skill, I’d like to see what Ms. Knish could do with a longer work. At the same time, it takes a special talent compress characters, setting, plot, conflict and resolution into a mere 500-800 words. Kitty Knish does this very well.

As promised by the blurb, the stories cover a wide range of topics, with diverse styles. I’m not sure it’s quite right to call the stories “Jewish”. Many are based on Old Testament tales, with an erotic or kinky twist: Adam and Eve, Daniel in the lion’s den, David and Goliath, the Ten Commandments, Sodom and Gomorrah and so on. Others are riffs on quotations from well-known Jewish individuals, many of them authors: Allen Ginsburg, Arthur Miller, Joseph Heller, Karl Marx, Harry Houdini, and of course Sigmund Freud. I’m sure I missed at least some of the allusions; this is not a book for the poorly educated!

One problem with a book that has a large number of very short pieces is that it’s difficult to hang on to the ones you enjoyed most. Looking back over the table of contents (which is worth a chuckle on its own), I have some trouble figuring out which ones made an impression. I do remember “Let Me Set the Obscene”, a tour-de-force written in Allen Ginsburg’s style, lamenting the death of obscenity. “Smoke ‘Em If You’ve Got ‘Em” is the Freud piece, inspired by the famous “just a cigar” quote. That one starts off this way:

Let me tell you about this one client of mine. He’s a Cognitive Behavioral Therapist into cock and ball torture. A CBT into CBT; you can’t make this stuff up. We have a routine where I meet him at his office to find him lying on the leather chaise longue in the buff with his hands folded neatly over his potbelly. He’s an old German man with a white beard and glasses. He keeps the glasses on because he wants to see everything I do to him.

“The Shocking Adventures of Jewish Lightning” is a delightfully over-the-top spoof of super-hero tales. “Cum-22” offers a thorny, horny dilemma: a man who can’t come until the woman sucking him swallows, a woman who can’t swallow unless he comes. “The Naked and the Dread” provides a wry but surprisingly insightful portrait of Norman Mailer. “The Last Fisting of Dutch Shultz” is a mobster tale with the emphasis on “tail”.

Two stories I particularly enjoyed were “Jojo and the Amazing Technicolor Strap-On” and “The Hebrew Girl”.

The former is wistfully erotic, a fantasy with an edge of magic. It begins:

God speaks to people through dreams, and in Jojo’s case it was a wet dream.

The latter is a brief but powerful evocation of the pain of gender dysphoria.

The emotional punch packed by these two pieces makes me fairly confident that Kitty Knish is more than just a clever yenta milking us for cheap laughs. Who knows what she could do if she decided to write a novel?

I’d love to find out.

Happy Birthday, Elvis -- #flashfiction #eroticfantasy #ElvisPresley

Today would have been Elvis Presley’s 85^th birthday. After all that time, the King still holds our imagination and inspires our fantasies. Here’s a bit of flash fiction in his honor.

Return of the King

By Lisabet Sarai

“Why so sad, little lady?”

That voice. Sable velvet, liquid sunshine, peach-blossom honey flowing sweet and slow through my tired limbs. I knew that voice.

I glanced up from the dregs of my fourth double bourbon. He perched beside me – lean thighs, cowboy boots, black pompadour. Dark lashes framed heavy-lidded eyes. His pouty lips curved into a kind smile.

“Some people see pink elephants.” I shook my head. The room spun. “Me? Dead rock and roll idols.”

Dead and gone. Tears blurred my already wavering vision. Everything good passes away.

“Hey, don’t cry!” His fingertips grazed my cheek. He raised my face to his. I could drown in those soulful eyes. “It’s a new year, a new decade. Let me buy you a drink. Cheer you up.”

“I don’t need—” I began.

He shifted on his stool, those famous hips swiveling. “Jack? Couple of root beers, please.”

“You need a bit of lovin’, pretty lady.” He leaned closer, till those boyish lips brushed mine. I smelled mint on his breath.

Heat rippled through me. I was moist as a Memphis night. I was twenty two instead of sixty.

“C’mon, baby.” Who could resist that voice? “My truck’s outside.”

Flasher Sunday: Faded Red Flannel - #Flasher #BrokenHeart #Chemistry

Faded Plaid Flannel

He’d left it behind when he moved out. Guess the old bathrobe became too ratty even for his casual tastes. She can’t look at it without seeing his wiry frame wrapped in the faded plaid flannel, crouched over his poetry at the kitchen table. Vodka on one side, smoldering cigarette on the other, close enough to touch, a million miles away.

She holds it to her face, breathing him in, sweat and tobacco, and underneath, that elusive musk that first hooked her. Addictive, intoxicating—in an instant she’s drunk with the astounding lust that first drew them together. Eyes closed, she relives their ecstatic frenzy, the clarity of pure connection. In bed they were one body, obscene and holy. She never cared what they did; every carnal act felt like a sacrament. The loss of him, of that glory, is a vast, black, aching wound in her chest.

He’d felt it, too. Inhaling her female perfume, he lost himself, drowned in her lushness. Scary. One reason— along with his wanderlust—that he’s gone.

Chemistry’s not the same as compatibility.

She stuffs the rag between her thighs. Eventually the flannel will smell only of her.

Harder Than It Looks - #FlashFiction #BDSM #SlaveTraining #NaturalSubmissive

Again. He doesn't even bother to verbalize the command, merely gestures, palm up, signaling me to repeat the move, for what must surely be the fiftieth time.

My fatigued quadriceps scream in protest as I roll from a kneel back onto the balls of my feet, then rise to stand before him. My calves quiver, threatening to cramp. I inhale and release the air in a long, slow stream, willing the tension away as I've been taught. The pain ebbs a bit.

There's a puddle of sweat at the small of my back, where I hold my hands clasped, pretending I'm bound. Skin adheres to sticky skin, under my arms, under my breasts. My hair is a limp mess, plastered to my forehead.

I keep my eyes down, focused on my bare feet, looking, I hope, respectful and demure. His eyes rake over my naked body, noting every defect in my posture and demeanor. I straighten my spine and elevate my rib cage, to present my eager breasts.

“Better,” he says, in that deep, rich voice that feels so much like a caress. “Except for that wobble near the end. Keep your abdominals tucked, to help you balance. Imagine that you're about to be suspended, that the rope is pulling you up, up, irresistible. You don't need to do anything at all. Let go and let the energy draw you upwards.”

I cast a sidelong glance at Sylvie and Gloria, comfortably shackled on the sofa to my left. How I envy their effortless grace! But the simple, lovely ease in their movements is all illusion – the product of long hours of training. Those of us who crave discipline love to fantasize about being natural submissives – just waiting for our fated master to recognize us and make our fantasies real. In truth, there's nothing natural about being a slave. Every gesture and pose must be learned.

Still, I suppose some of us may have more aptitude than others. At this point, exhausted and frustrated, I feel like the class dunce.

“Down,” he orders. I think of water – fluid, yielding – as I lower myself once more to my knees. Every muscle hurts. This time I manage to avoid stumbling. Back arched, taut nipples offered to tempt his fingers, I let out the breath I've been holding. The scent of my pussy wafts from out from between my spread thighs. I'm amazed to realize that I find even this agonizing repetition arousing, when he's the one controlling it.

He circles my kneeling form. I bow my head, awaiting his verdict. How I crave even the smallest nugget of his praise! He's close enough to touch, but of course I resist that temptation. Instead, I watch the way he taps his riding crop against his leg. Is he pleased? Annoyed? I know he won't strike me with the crop, no matter how much I might want that fiery kiss. No, he understands the perversity that motivates a sub like me; I might perform less well, simply to invite his punishment.

“Again,” he says. “You're trying too hard, Lisa. Let the movement flow from the inside out. Imagine the slave you'd like to be. See yourself yielding to me, and let your body follow that image.”

I drag myself back to my feet, then, at his nod, sink to the floor once more. I'm almost too tired to care. My limbs tremble. I can hardly command them to move. He's so perceptive; can't he see that I'm close to the breaking point?

“Again.”

We repeat the exercise another half dozen times. I am desperate simply to get through this trial, more difficult to bear in its way than the tightest shibari, the hardest caning. Why doesn't he stop? I'm getting worse, not better.

“Again.” The same instruction, but I think, this time, that I detect a hint of sympathy in his tone. He sees what this costs, what he's asking from me – but he doesn't hold back. “Up now. Again.”

Suddenly the truth breaks through my fog of fatigue, like afternoon sun slicing through thunderheads. This isn't about the way I move, kneel, hold myself. He's not just training my body so that I won't disgrace him when he takes his slaves out to play in public.

No, this is itself as much a surrender as opening my mouth to his cock, my ass to his fist, my mind to the products of his obscene imagination. Stand, kneel, stand, kneel – I've honored him with my devotion, promised my obedience, and now he's showing me what that means. I must trust him in all things, comply with all orders, no matter how banal or unerotic they may seem.

He's testing me. He doesn't care how clumsy I am. As long as I honestly try to obey, I'm passing the test.

New energy ripples through my weary body. It crackles up my spine, raising me to my feet in one swift, fluid motion. I feel as though it would take very little for me to rise further, soaring and wheeling above my master and my fellow slaves, while they gazed up in wonder.

“Perfect.” He draws his fingers through my tangled locks then cradles my cheek with his palm. Unutterable joy swells my chest. “I knew you could do it, Lisa. I'll be proud to have you wearing my collar this weekend.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I think you deserve a reward for all your hard work. Maybe I'll have Gloria fuck you with her strap-on, while you eat Sylvie's cunt. And I'll whip all three of you.”

“Whatever you like, sir,” I reply, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice though I know he can smell my fresh-flowing juices. Sometimes he takes cruel delight in arousing, then denying us.

“But first - let's practice the move a few times more.”

I crumble to my knees, grateful, horny, ready to give him my last ounce of strength - if that's what he requires.

Trick or Treat! (#BDSM #FlashFiction #Halloween #freereads)

"Which would you prefer, Sarah, the cane or the feather duster?"

"Is that a trick question?"

"Why do you ask? Don't you trust me?"

"Of course I do. But you do have a way of twisting things around in unexpected directions."

"I thought you liked surprises. In any case, as your Master it's my responsibility to add a certain - ambiguity - to our interactions. To keep you on your toes."

"These ridiculous spike heels do that well enough."

"If I hear any more complaints or excuses, Sarah, I will make you very sorry. And I don't mean something you'd enjoy like a spanking or nipple clamps."

"I..."

"Sarah! Just answer my question. Now."

"Well... I choose the cane."

"Really? Why is that? You're blushing, you know. Tell me why you prefer the cane."

"Well - um - I think it will hurt more. And that it will please you more, to see me enduring that pain."

"But I asked what you wanted. Not what you think I'd want."

"Mm..."

"What was that?"

"There's no difference, Master. What I want is to please you, to fulfill your every lust, to satify your desires before you are even aware of them."

"Silly, romantic girl. You sound like a novel."

"It's the truth. I can't help it."

"So - " (Swish!) "you want the cane, do you?"

"Yes, Master."

"Last time, you remember, you couldn't sit down for two days." (Swish!)

"I remember."

"Very well. Bend over and hold on to the edge of the table. Good." (Swish!)

"Ow -- oh! Oh!!"

"You're awfully slick, Sarah. The cane slides back and forth in your pussy as though it was greased."

"Uh...ooh..."

"Spread your legs a bit more. That's right. Now I can rub the bamboo right up against your clit."

"Oh, Master! Oh...!"

"I think that talking about the pain makes you hot. But what about the pain itself?"

"Uh...ooh...I don't know."

"We should do some experiments in that area, don't you think? Oh, there's the doorbell. Some urchins come to extort their candy from us, no doubt. Get up and answer it, Sarah."

"What? Like this?"

"Naked, in high heels, with a cane wedged in your crotch? Why not?"

"Please, the neighbors are already suspicious about us. All the screams and so on. If I expose myself to their kids, they're going to report us. These days, especially, anything involving children is especially dangerous."

"Hey, you'd probably like it in prison. All those rough, nasty guards... Come on, Sarah, I'm only teasing you. Here, throw this over your head. Then go answer the door."

"But..."

"I'll give you butt! Don't argue. I swear, for someone who claims to be my slave you give me a lot of lip."

"I'm sorry, Master. But I must look like Casper with an erection."

"You do, rather. Never mind. Go give the grubby little devils what they deserve, then get back here."

"Yes, Master."

...

"So, who was it?"

"Two Darth Vaders, one Power Ranger, one Harry Potter and a most convincing Elvira, Mistress of the Dark."

"Hmm, sounds appealing. Should have invited her in."

"Master... ow!"

"Your nipples are like marbles, little Sarah. And how's that cane doing? Walk around a bit for me. Very fetching. But I think you're having a bit too much fun. Let me have it."

"Ooh...ah! Are you going to beat me now?"

"Perhaps. Would you like that?"

"Whatever you'd like, Master."

"Hmm. Is that so? So many possibilities... Go back to the table and bend over again. Thighs wide. That's right. Now, reach back and pull open your cheeks. Yes, very nice. So sensitive and vulnerable. I really should cane you, Sarah. You deserve it, for your insolence and your questions. But..." (Zip!) "I'm just too indulgent to train you properly..."

"Oh...MASTER!"

...

"Master?"

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

"You just did."

"The cane was delicious, a real treat. I was wondering what you planned to do if I had chosen the feather duster."

"Actually, I was going to break off the feathers and use the sharp quills to pierce the flesh around your nipples."

"No! Not really! You wouldn't do that! Would you?"

"You can never be sure, Sarah, can you? That's why you love me."

"Only one of the reasons, Master. One of many."

~~~

For more fun, free stories, visit my website: http://www.lisabetsarai.com/freereads.html

In particular, check out this month's offering, a new MM paranormal serial entitled Not Quite Dead.

Lilith (#flashfiction #erotica #stories #spirituality)

He’s searching for God. She’s just looking for a fuck. But that’s not quite right. She knows, somehow, that you don’t have to seek God. God’s already there, inside. You just need to figure out how to open yourself and let divinity out.

For her, sex is the way, the consummate opening. When she’s writhing in a lover’s arms, the barriers crumble. For a few glorious moments, she can experience first hand the communion she normally has to take on faith. The bliss and the certainty are as brief and fragile as they are transcendent, She’s left with mere memories that fade the more she tries to clutch at them—scraps of joy, glimmers of magic. She’s learned over the years to let them go, the same way she releases her lovers when it’s time for them to move on. There are always new bodies, new hearts—new truths.

He doesn’t understand, thinks she’s been put there to tempt him him from his path of purity and righteousness. He’s not pure, though. He knows very well he’s not. If he were, he wouldn’t want her so badly.

She loves his youth, his shyness, his awkward innocence, his cleverness with words and with his hands. His intuition astounds her; the depth of his feelings humble her. When they meet for coffee and intricate conversations, she aches to touch him, but he’s armored in self-denial. The most casual brush of her hand makes him flinch away.

A veteran of many couplings, she can read his desire like the books he cherishes. It’s in his darting eyes, his flushed cheeks, the sweat she can smell, even across the cafe table. It’s more than lust. It’s like a prayer.

He stares into his coffee cup to escape her bold stare, even as he speaks of Japanese folk tales or dissects King Lear. In the fragrant and bitter dregs he reads his fate—an instant of forbidden indulgence then a long, hard fall. He vows to be strong, but her magnetism draws his traitor body. His stubborn cock is a pillar of iron between his tensed thighs.

Iron, and salt, the destiny of sinners.

Every Monday they come together to pace out the same steps in this dance of frustration. What can she do? Perfume and decolletage don’t dent his desperate resolve. If only she dared make a first move—but she knows terror and need will send him skittering away. She cares too much to cause him that distress.

She dreams of him, imagines the magic they’d create in connecting. He might be the one to finally set her free. No virgin, still she succumbs to the seductive promise of a soul mate. And if that promise fails, the mystery of opening remains, illusion vanishing like fog in the white-hot flare of pleasure, incandescent truth shining forth for a few seconds before the curtain falls. That’s what he craves, too, or so she believes.

But how to reach him? She ponders the conundrum as she twists and tosses on ocean-scented sheets, her fingers an unsatisfactory substitute for his maleness. His aspirations to holiness make her feel like a whore, but that doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except her need to wrap her legs around his waist and pull him inside her.

Finally, she writes him a story.

Refuge of the Road (#flashfiction #wanderlust #erotic)

To Joni Mitchell

It's barely seven. The crystalline sky shades from indigo in the west to powder blue in the east, where the sun has already climbed above the horizon. The parched air still makes me shiver in my denim jacket. I know that won't last long; I'll be sweating by eight thirty.

Empty highway stretches to the horizon, to my left and right, ruler straight, a crisp black line stitching across the endless scrub. The land is shades of gold and amber in the lemony morning light, punctuated by pomegranate shadows where a boulder pokes through the thin soil. An occasional saguaro raises its dusty arms. It's a gray-green caricature of me with my thumb out, waving down my next ride.

The pick-up is visible from miles away, the only vehicle on this pristine morning road. I watch its progress, as it grows from a red dot to a rust-eaten hulk of steel with a Chevy logo above the radiator. I wait, breathing deeply, calming my racing pulse. Either he'll stop, or he won't. It doesn't matter.

He pulls over with a squeal and checks me out through the cranked down window. “Young girl like you shouldn't be hitching out here, all alone. It's not safe.”

I favor him with my sweetest smile. “I can take care of myself. Can you give me a ride?” His face is in shadow but I like his voice, deep and slow like the earth shifting under those mountains huddling off to the right.

“Sure. Where you headed?”

I name a town some three hundred miles to the west. “You going that far?”

“Lady, I'm going all the way to LA!” His laugh tumbles out, free, somehow innocent. “Climb aboard.”

After tossing my duffel into the back of the truck, I clamber up to the bench seat. He's off the shoulder and onto the pavement almost before I can close the door. I lurch, slamming into his arm. Heat shimmers through me, though the air outside hasn't lost its chill.

“Sorry!” His grin is crooked. So is his nose, a bit, but he has a rough-hewn, solid quality about his face that appeals to me. “I've gotta be in Tarzana by the day after tomorrow for my brother's wedding. Guess I'm feeling the time pressure, a bit.”

“Never mind. Are you sure you want a rider?I don't want to slow you down.”

“Naw, that's fine. I like having the company. Keeps me from getting bored. I'm Dale, by the way.”

I tell him my name is Amy. It could be, after all.

“Pleased to meet you, Amy.” He doesn't offer to shake. The speedometer's grazing ninety but despite that, he's a careful driver, both hands on the wheel most of the time. I find myself examining those hands, which are blunt-fingered and dusted with gold-brown hair, probably calloused from manual labor. He strikes me as a rancher type, or maybe a carpenter. 

“I've got a hardware store in North Platte,” he tells me as we burn up the highway. “Can't really afford to take a week off, but Jim's my only family. What can I do? I know he'd come to my wedding.”

No band on those strong, stubby fingers. Not that it would matter.

After our introductions, we sit in companionable silence as the scenery flies by. He doesn't ask about me. He's got good manners, my speed demon driver. I'm pleased. I don't like to lie.

The sun climbs and we start to bake. I peel off my jacket, then my flannel shirt. He glances over. My nipples make noticeable peaks in my white tee. They wind into tighter knots as his eyes rake over me. The crotch of my jeans is soaked. He doesn't make a move. Polite, like I said. I know he feels the tension though, crackling through the cab. There's a visible lump in his denim work pants. He makes little noises of discomfort on the few occasions that he needs to work the clutch or the brake.

We've got the windows cranked wide. The hot desert air steals the moisture from my lips and whips my hair into wild tangles. He turns on some oldies station and songs from my mom's era blast out, “Satisfaction”, “Thunder Road”, “Life in the Fast Lane”. He's singing along, but the wind carries the words away.

I lean back against the sticky upholstery, close my eyes, listen to the music and the wind. Quiet lust hums through me, beating like a second heart between my thighs. I savor the only peace I know, the anonymous blessing of the endless road.

We don't stop. Together, we devour the miles. He has water in the truck, and sandwiches. We eat while he drives, pretending to ignore the sparks that shoot through us when our hands touch. I offer to spell him but he shakes his head. “I like to be in control,” he tells me. Lightning sizzles up my spine, sweet anticipation of a coming storm.

The sky overhead is a translucent teal when we finally pull in to the truck stop. I head for the toilet while he gasses up. He pays the motel clerk in cash, for one room. We don't discuss it at all. I smile at him, making myself as pretty as I'm able. I'm grateful and I want him to know it.

The room smells of mold and cigarette smoke overlaid with air freshener. Familiar, comforting. The drooping beige patterned drapes, the dun-green carpet, the fake pine paneling – I've been here before, haven't I? But this is the furthest west I've made it, so far.

He throws the deadbolt and we turn to one another in silent agreement. I make the first move, however, reaching up to pull his lips to mine. They're firm and sure, meeting me halfway, pushing beyond. His tongue in my mouth is ruder, more demanding, than I'd expected. Those hardware store hands roam over my body as we kiss, dragging up my shirt, worming into my jeans, fumbling with my zipper. I savor the hardness of him, everywhere, his rough fingers, his chest, the thigh nudging mine apart - not just the eager lump grinding against my mons.

Still kissing, we grope each other like teenagers. The heat of the long day driving has soaked into our pores. We're fevered and hungry.

We break our clinch to throw off the remains of our clothing. He's got muscles, but a bit of a paunch, too, a little softness that I don't mind at all. And hair, lots of it, brown curls on his chest, meandering down his belly to the thicket around his cock, solid as the rest of him. He bears me down onto the sagging mattress, grabs my wrists and holds them above my head while he drives into me.

There's no preparation, no foreplay, but that doesn't matter. I've been dripping and ready for hours. His cock in my cunt is everything I crave: pleasure, connection, oblivion.

Neither of us lasts long. We race up the slope to climax, biting and clawing, pelvises slamming together. We both want it faster, harder, deeper. He waits till I come, though, before he lets go. Woozy with delight, with my pussy fluttering around him like some sea creature, I'm still astonished when he pulls out. He sprays his jizz all over my breasts and belly. Then he collapses on top of my sated, sticky form.

We clean up, separately, in the rust-stained shower stall. He treats me to steak and beer at the diner next door to the motel. We sit in the booth, on the same bench, our thighs touching, floating on the cloud of new intimacy. The blowsy waitress gives me a complicit wink. Dale tells me about his Nebraska childhood, his reckless younger brother, the wife who died of cancer two years after they married. I spin him tales of my college years, my poems, my travels, a fantasy laced with strands of truth.

Back in our room, tipsy with beer and fresh lust, we fuck again. This time it's slow and sweet. There's time to feel every inch of him, sliding over my aching clit, through my slick folds, to settle in my cunt. His fingers trace the welts he left in our first coupling. He murmurs apologies; I kiss them away. After what feels like hours of bliss, we come together. His cock erupts inside me, inside the condom he bought in the diner men's room. His heat floods me, bears me away to some quiet, sparkling place where there's nothing but the beat of our hearts.

We cuddle together afterward, drifting toward sleep. “Amy,” he murmurs, licking my earlobe. “Maybe you'd like to come with me? To LA? We'd have a great time, girl...” His voice trails off into a yawn.

“Maybe,” I whisper, something cracking open in my chest. “Let's talk tomorrow.” He's already snoring.

I wake at five, when the first hint of dawn filters through the lopsided curtains, and dress as silently as I can. Dale's still rocking on the currents of his dreams. He lies curled on his side, arms drawn in to his chest. I have the urge to stroke my palm over the golden down on his back, to plant one last kiss on his pale buttocks. I don't give in.

Donning my sneakers outside the door, I hoist my duffel onto my shoulder and head for the highway. I walk back, retracing our path for at least a mile, before I stop and put my bag down. I don't want Dale to pass me on his way west.

I'm hungry. I can't tell if the sensation is physical or emotional.

I watch the eastern sky brighten from ash-gray to pearl to peach. I fill my lungs with the crisp scent of sagebrush. My pussy tingles whenever the seam of my jeans grazes my clit. The road sweeps away from me in both directions, a graceful ribbon of darkness in the ripening dawn, a river of possibility. Calm settles on my restless spirit.

Humming a song from the seventies, I stick out my thumb.

Sweet, Not Smut (#sweetromance #pnr #summerromance)

Here's a bit of sweet, romantic flash fiction... just to prove I can!

Last Dance

It was hard to be brave.

Jen was determined not to give in to her tears. Across the lake, garlands of multicolored lights outlined the ferris wheel, the tilt-a-whirl and the antique carousel against the night sky. A soft breeze coaxed the dark water into playful ripples and carried the faint music from the rides. Jen leaned against the gazebo railing and took a deep breath of the moist summer air, redolent of roses and new-mown grass. The ache in her chest did not ease.

Her cheeks hurt from the hours of forced smiles. She had fled as early as politeness allowed, not waiting for the cake or the toss of the bouquet, dying to escape the visions of Amanda and Jack-- laughing together at the head table, clutching each other on the dance floor, kissing every time someone clinked a spoon against a glass...

She remembered Jack's kisses. It seemed like yesterday, although it had been more than a year. On a summer night as balmy and sweet as this one, he had parked on a country road outside of town, grabbed a blanket from the trunk and led her through a meadow to a knoll overlooking the river. She recalled the tall grass caressing her bare legs and the heat of his fingers entwined with hers. The black bowl of the heavens arched overhead, studded with blazing jewels. They had settled onto the blanket, lying side by side, entwined in a feverish kiss. His familiar smell, soap, sweat and nautical after-shave, mingled with the scent of growing things.

His mouth was fierce, his tongue bold, claiming her as his and his alone. She rejoiced. His hand slid up her thigh under her cotton dress. Summer lightning shimmered through her.

"Oh, Jen," Jack had moaned. "I can't take much more. Put this on me." He had pressed a small, square packet into her palm.

Alarm bells rang in Jen's head. "But we agreed...not until we're married..."

"I can't wait, baby. It's only three months. Please...!" He had rolled her onto her back and straddled her. Her skirt bunched up under her. His weight was both thrilling and scary. "Don't you love me, Jen?"

"With all my heart. That's why I want to wait. I want our wedding night to be special."

"It will be special. But right now--oh, have some pity on me, baby!"

"No!" She had scooted backward, away from him, and scrambled to her knees. "We promised. You promised." The raw greed she had seen in his face frightened her.

"You know what they say, babe," Jack had replied with a feral grin. "Promises were made to be broken..." Despair overwhelmed her then, as she understood how wrong she had been about Jack Barnes.

She hadn't stopped loving him, though. He had been the one to break it off. "I don't think you're right for me," he'd said. You mean I'm not enough of a slut? she'd thought, blinking away her tears, nodding her agreement that from now on they'd just be "friends". When she'd heard about his engagement, she had been physically sick for three days.

Now, at least, the torture was over. She took in another lungful of the soft night air. The tinny carnival tunes wafting over the water made her smile despite her misery. Since her dad had brought her here for the first time, when she was eight, Lakeview Park had always been one of her favorite places, She loved the smell of frying corn dogs, the melting sweetness of cotton candy, the breath-stealing thrill of being hurled into space by the amusements. When she strolled the tree-hung paths lined with lichened stone, or sat on one of the curlicued wrought iron benches, or stood here on the point where tiny waves lapped at the piles of a ruined wharf, she felt the past enfold her like a comforting blanket. One hundred and twenty years the park had been here, offering its peace and its pleasures.

Then Jen remembered that she would soon lose this as well. Probably the last season, the local newspaper had said. After a decade of losses, the owners were selling to some conglomerate that wanted to build a shopping mall. No one was interested in old-fashioned amusement parks anymore.

No one but me, Jen thought. The tears she had been fighting all day welled up and spilled down her cheeks. Huge sobs shook her slender body. She buried her face in her hands and finally allowed sorrow to overwhelm her. Everything she cared about was gone or going: Jack, the park, her cancer-ridden father...

"Please don't cry, Jen."

A male voice, full of warmth. A strong hand on her shoulder. Jen turned to the source, blinking to clear her vision. A young man stood beside her, dressed in a brown uniform she didn't recognize. His straight black hair was parted on the side. His even-featured face wore an expression of concern. Something tickled the back of her brain, some vague sense of familiarity.

"Do I know you?" she asked. She must look horrible, she realized, with her eyes swollen and her skin blotchy. She sniffled and stood straighter.

"Well, not exactly." His grin made him look more boyish. He had a cleft chin, she noticed, and dimples in his pale cheeks. "It's complicated." He laughed, and Jen discovered she couldn't help joining him.

"What do you mean, complicated?" she continued when her giggles subsided. Something about her companion made her feel totally at ease.

"I'll explain later," he said. He brought his hand out from behind his back. Between his thumb and forefinger he grasped the stem of a single red rose. "For you, sweet Jennifer. A token of my esteem."

How did he know her name? She took the blossom. Its heady perfume surrounded them. "Thank you. But if we've never met..." she began.

"I'm Daniel," he interrupted. "You can call me Dan." He leaned on the rail next to her, gazing out over the lake. "It's lovely here, isn't it? Even with the music, there's a quiet calm that's healing to the soul."

Jen didn't answer. It didn't feel necessary. On the opposite shore, the amusements twinkled like a faraway galaxy.

"In the old days, there was a dance pavilion here on the point. On summer nights like this it would be crowded with couples of all ages, from seventeen to seventy. The trolleys brought us here from town. The whole place was strung with lights. It was a fairy land."

Daniel took her hand. It felt so natural that she scarcely noticed. She was caught up in the picture he was painting of a happier past.

"The orchestra played from dusk until midnight. Admission was a nickel. Over there" -- he pointed toward a clump of trees to their left-- "they sold refreshments: sweet corn, lemonade and shaved ice with syrup..."

"The night we met," he said, slipping his arm around her shoulder, "I bought you a raspberry ice. It made your lips purple. I just had to kiss you..."

Just like that, he did. His mouth was gentle but Jen still felt the passion as he pressed his body against hers. Strange electricity sparked between them. He kept his mouth closed. Wanting more, wanting to taste him, Jen teased the seam where the lips met. He relaxed and allowed her to entangle their tongues. Pulling her to his chest, he ran his hands down her back to her waist. Her nipples peaked under her thin dress. She rubbed them against the odd, rough-woven fabric of his shirt. Between her thighs she began to melt.

The kiss made her dizzy. Perhaps she wasn't getting enough oxygen. The world spun around them, but there was no chance of her falling. Daniel held her, strong and secure.

Gradually the whirling ceased. Dan brushed his lips against hers one last time, then drew back. His left hand rested between her shoulder blades. The other held hers, out to the side. Jen became aware of music. She clutched his belt as he led her in a sprightly waltz.

They moved together across the floor of an octagonal pavilion, its wooden roof supported by carved pillars. Strands of bright bulbs sparkled overhead, radiating from the center to the periphery. Other couples danced around them, the women in tunics and slim, ankle-length skirts, the men wearing cuffed trousers and waistcoats or uniforms like Dan's. She felt the fabric of her own skirt fluttering around her calves.

"How...where...what's going on, Daniel?" She looked up into his warm brown eyes. His ripe lips curved into a smile and those adorable dimples winked at her.

"Never mind, my sweet. Just dance with me."

He led her with grace and confidence. Jen found that if she simply relaxed into his arms, following was effortless. As the music slowed, he held her closer. A hard bulk at his groin pressed against her belly. Languid arousal washed over her in waves. I must be dreaming, she thought. She never wanted the dream to end.

They swayed together. Jen closed her eyes, breathing in his scent of fresh-cut wood and lavender. When she leaned her head on his chest, she could hear his heart, strong and regular. She felt their breathing synchronize.

The waltz went on forever. Then the music stopped. The lights went dark. They still stood, holding each other, at the center of the floor. The orchestra and the other dancers had disappeared.

The summer wind ruffled Jen's hair. The forest stirred around the deserted pavilion.

"Come home with me, Daniel," she whispered. He answered with a kiss, sweeping her back into her voluptuous dream-state.

"I can't," he said finally. "Tomorrow I'm shipping out."

"Shipping out?"

"I'm off to the Western Front. To Marne."

Jen racked her brains, trying to remember why that sounded familiar. "No, don't go," she pleaded . "I've just found you."

"You'll find me again, Jen." He smiled sadly. "You always do. Or I'll find you. Look for me, when you return. Follow your heart. When we meet again, you'll know."

"But Daniel..."

He placed one last luscious kiss upon her lips, then stepped back into the shadows. "Remember me, darling. And don't cry."

The dizziness descended again, but this time she didn't have Daniel's sturdy frame to hold on to. A hurricane raged around her. Tears poured from her eyes but the gale whipped them away. When the tumult eased, she found herself back in the gazebo, sitting cross-legged on the splintery floor. Alone.

"Daniel!" she cried, her agonized voice echoing out over the lake.

"Don't cry," she heard, in her ear, in her heart. "Look for me. I'm waiting for you."

The summer air was heavy with the scent of roses. Looking down, she discovered she still held Daniel's gift. She brushed the velvety petals across her lips, remembering his kisses. "I'll find you," she whispered to the night. "I promise."