Mary Jane

Mary Jane
Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

Feeling anxious, feeling low, broken, dull, I eventually told a friend of my troubles. He gave me a name, a number, an address and promised me a better day. I made the call, spoke the name and went over to explore the solution he proffered. She answered the door, escorted me inside.

“Come in,” she said. “Take a seat and let’s get started.” She motioned me to sit on a pillow on the floor, the only real option open to me as there was no furniture. I sat full lotus, my hands upturned on my knees.

From her first kiss, all my troubles fled me. Her aroma filled the air, took over the room, loosened my belly and set my thoughts free. In a flash I’d forgotten the whole of my worries. I leaned back on my arms, sank in the pleasure of her touch. She kissed me again and my spirit melted.

I remembered a day in the park, reading Wordsworth under the summer sun, a warm gentle breeze blowing through my curls, pushing the pages of my worn paperback and the daffodils erupted into a wild pattern of petals and wind as the birds darted silently overhead. I lay back in the grass and the years went rolling by.

Leaving school behind, we drove to the park in the heat of the spring, searching for spaces, for energy and release. We laughed and sat and waited for the time to slip away. Each day drawing closer to the days we came to know, the bursts of freedom found in the first state of escape, leaning with liberty from the safe to the expanding.

And music and music, the ripping tear of electric vibrations, the heat and thud of a intently pounded drum, voices echoing and shouting, spilling and luring, taunting and releasing our youth into a rhythmic pattern of lust and anger. I kissed her again and she worked deep into my heart.

The blossom of big breasts and the tight excitement of roused nipples, we scared away responsibility with our earnest denials. I burrowed into her cunt, thrusting and lapping, rising and expanding, open and secure. I kissed her and kissed her and melted into a half-conscious, satisfied slumber that erupted into desire and an infinite need to feel more.

She kissed me and my muscles fled, lay me down upon the banks and wash over me like a spring flood, cold and warm and buoyant and splashed. I turned and I turned and the water and the sunshine and the burn and the sounds screaming into my peace left me wasted and wanting and sure there was more if only I could feel her kiss again.

“Again,” I said. “Give me more.”

Colors and visions of colors leaving the realm of light and entering into the dim shades of my last fears eroded and soon gone missing. I twisted and turned and the pictures came to life, dancing and mocking and laughing, so much laughter, in the round shapes and the lean lines and the soft wetness of acceptance and the stiff rise of taking. I cried in my happiness, gave way to my sadness, accepted my fate and dug my arms into the water, pulling me from safety to surrender.

I rested, humming and burst in the wake of her clouds. I took her inside me and I drove deep within. I lost my way and found my purpose and gave myself time to recover my senses.

The morning finally came and I went away, secured.


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The Devil’s Weed

The Devil’s Weed
Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

In my late twenties, between relationships, I spent about a year on my own. Mostly, I read and wrote, sang and played my guitar. Except for work, I hardly left my flat. Eventually, I grew weary of my solitude and my mind began to wander toward finding a mate. I mentioned my need to a friend.

He set me up with a friend, a very attractive young woman with obvious intelligence and a pretty good wit. However, she seemed cold toward me from the beginning. I did my best to put her at her ease but it seemed like things were going nowhere. I told her good night and went away feeling lonelier than before.

I ran into my friend and told him what had happened on the date with his friend. He encouraged me to call her again, assured me that she would warm up with time. I doubted that she would even care to try but he promised me she would.

I gave her a call and we went on another date but exactly the same thing happened. She didn’t seem to be having a bad time but she wasn’t having a good time either. I was patient, friendly, kind, my whole arsenal of getting along behaviors but nothing seemed to affect her. Once again, I said good night and went back to my books and guitar.

I soon saw my friend and explained the situation. I thought maybe he had another friend I could try my luck with.

“You have weed, don’t you?” he asked.

“Always,” I said.

“Did you tell her that?”

“Our conversation never went far enough to mention anything like that.”

“Well that was your mistake, bozo. Jamie loves weed.”

“You think that will make a difference?”

“Call her up right now and tell her you have some weed. Then you tell me if it makes a difference.”

I called Jamie up, right then and after she said hello, I told her I had some really good weed.

“Really?” she said with more emotion than all our dating hours combined contained. “Do you want to come over here or should I come over there?”

I chose to go over to her place, with the idea that she might be more relaxed at her own place. She showed me in with a grin and a hug, already more physical contact than our dates had shared. I took a seat on the big pillow by the coffee table and put a half ounce bag down. Jamie brought out a big glass bong filled with ice and sat down beside me, closer than we’d been before and started grinding a big bud.

“I don’t usually mention weed to people before I get to know them pretty well. I guess that was a mistake.”

“I love weed,” she said, filling up the bowl.

She took a big hit and then so did I. We fought the urge to cough, billowing clouds out of our tightly held mouths, spewing smoke from our nostrils before exploding into a thick fog of sweet dank dope smoke. She laughed and I laughed. She mechanically, automatically, kept filling the bowl and we went deeper and deeper into a mellow cool excitement.

We talked, finally having all the conversations I had hoped our dates would bring. Hours went by, discussing everything and nothing, the serious and the silly, the profound and the personal. It wasn’t long before I really knew Jamie and she knew me.

Her clothes started slipping away, first with a change into the comfortable, a soft oversized sweatshirt and some loose pajama pants. As she moved and stretched and lay and leaned, different parts of her very attractive body would shift into view for a moment, sometimes longer. I got to know her nipples and the crack of her ass, the lines of her loins and the dimples.

I didn’t dare touch her, nearly naked as she was, until she reached over and grabbed my erection through the thick denim of my jeans.

“Get those off,” she said, reaching for the button and tugging until I pushed my pants away. “Nice cock,” she said as she enveloped the length in her wide open mouth. “Watch,” she said with a playful glance and she started to suck me intently.

The next few hours were a blur of every sexual thought I had missed out over the long abstinent year. Like a man bound to silence and suddenly set free, I fucked with reckless abandon, in every way I could imagine. Jamie met me stroke for stroke, every bit as hungry, every bit as delighted. We fucked and licked and sucked and screwed until all we could do was sleep.

I called Jamie a few days later, carefully biding my time so I wouldn’t seem desperate. She spoke to me as though she hardly cared I had called. Bitterly disappointed, having felt so much in so short a time with this woman, I started to pull back, ready to end the conversation and let her go.

Then I said something about weed and Jamie changed again. She became happy and hopeful and couldn’t wait to see me. I took her to dinner. I took her dancing. We didn’t smoke any weed until I took her home. She was a delight to be with all through the night. When we did finally imbibe, she became a sex fiend, giving me all I could ever want in a fucking.

As I got to know her, I learned that merely the promise of weed would change her into a wonderful companion. The weed itself, while clearly an aphrodisiac, wasn’t as important as the potential. I always told her I had weed and sometimes we smoked ourselves into an orgy of sensual pleasure. I loved her and she loved me. We were a great couple.

Then my weed connection soured and there was nothing to be found anywhere. I pretended for a while but eventually Jamie realized that I had no weed and might never have weed. She turned cold, distant and started to spend more time away from me until eventually she didn’t answer my calls.

And I knew that she didn’t love me. Jamie loved weed.


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The Bridge

The Bridge
Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

I had spent the evening with Jake at a bar. When we left, he said, “I need to go over there,” he motioned to a small park beyond the last restaurant. “It will only take a few minutes.”

I looked the other way, toward my car but I couldn’t quite bring myself to refuse him. He’d been going through some rough times and down inside, I knew I could turn around and leave him if he was being unreasonable. There was a good chance he was on a stupid path to trouble, so I was always considering turning around.

We approached a small foot bridge between a mass of trees. As we reached the trees, he told me to wait there, that he’d be right back, keep a look out.

“What am I looking for?” I asked as he ran to the bridge, knowing I’d know when I saw it; a jealous husband or the cops. Lovely.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” said a woman behind me.

“Nonsense. When have I ever let you down?”

“Not you, I’m just … never mind.”

“Happy to see me, then?”

“So happy,” she exclaimed. “I almost couldn’t make it myself.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“He was drunk all night but he only just passed out.”

“Forget about him. I’m here now.”

“Yes, you are.”

After that the smack of lips and the rustle of clothes washed over the soft whispered inaudible words that followed. I didn’t turn around, being a good look out, now aware that I was looking for an angry drunk guy, not really wanting to see my friend get it on with a married woman.

But I couldn’t help but wonder how far they would take it, given the place they had chosen. They could lean against the rail or they could rut on the dirty ground. Fingering and rubbing would be relatively easy. They might figure out some way to get his cock out so she could suck on it. On the bridge, she could lean against the railing and he could slip it in from behind, although that would be pretty impersonal given the situation. She wasn’t a whore trying to get him off. She was a married woman cheating on her husband out of love for him.

A woman loved Jake. I guess anything can happen.

So I was lost in thought, listening to their slobbering and trying to guess what position they had worked themselves into. A dark figure started crossing the field.

“Shit,” I hissed. “Jake! Bogie at twelve o’clock.”

The rustling and whispering grew louder with added sounds of people struggling to stay balanced. The man, for I could by then see it was a man, came closer. The rustling continued as he reached me.

“What’s going on?” an old drunk said. Clearly not their old drunk.

“Just enjoying the night.”

“Can I bum a smoke?” he asked.

“I got nothing.”

“Cool,” he said. “They fucking back there?”

“Yeah. Probably.”

“You didn’t look.”

“There are things I don’t want to see.”

“That’s wisdom for you.”

As Jake emerged, still adjusting his shirt, he said, “who was that?”

“The future.”


“Some old drunk.”

“Let’s get out of here?”

“Have a good time?”

“Yeah. I’ve got to stop doing that.”

“As if you could.”




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Slow Ride

Slow Ride
Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

I was almost late for work when I rushed to catch the elevator and squeezed myself into the mass of humanity within. It was just after the new year, when new directives, new programs and new protocols were in effect. I didn’t dare be late. People were watching me.

I work in a tall building, near the top floor and a glance at the control panel confirmed my worst fear; the slow elevator would be stopping at nearly every floor on the way, discharging one or two passengers and then waiting an unexplainably long period of time before the doors closed again. I checked my watch, sighed and then resigned myself. The elevator would go only as fast as the elevator would go. I was a prisoner of my fate.

At the first stop there was jostling as people near the back pushed forward to leave when the door opened. I turned around as I let someone past to see if anyone else behind me would be wanting out and looking to move back since I was in for the long haul.

First I saw Jessica. Then I saw Max. Some strangers chatted about their weekend but we were dead silent. No one dared to look anywhere. We immersed ourselves in thought.

The last time I saw Jessica and Max was at our company holiday party. I walked in on them, in the coat alcove, half naked and fully guilty. I know her husband and I know his wife and they all know each other. We’ve all known each other nearly ten years now. Maybe this had been going on longer but I had no idea. My first reaction was pure shock.

I had never seen Jessica naked. She’s a very attractive woman by any standard and I’d many times admired her curves and cleavage and legs and smile and occasionally fantasized about the charms she hid fairly well. Until that day, when everything she still wore had been pushed aside, uncovering breasts and nipples and bottom and cunt. My view of them lasted maybe eight seconds. The image is burned into my memory forever.

Sometimes our memory invents lots of details to fill in the things we didn’t really see, so it is possible that I’m remembering Jessica naked as prettier than she really is but, honestly, who cares. In my mind, she’s a first rate bird and I’ll forever live in awe. I don’t think that will affect our work relationship but who can tell and how could it not. We shall see, I guess.

At the second floor, another passenger gets off and I move as far away from my coworkers as I can, instinctively distancing myself from their problem. I saw it as their problem. I wasn’t fucking in the coat closet.

I’d seen Max naked before, changing for swimming and the lot, so that wasn’t as much of a shock although I’d certainly never thought I’d be seeing him on the job. The memory of his buttocks thrusting into our esteemed coworker is proving hard to shake. Some parts I’d really rather not remember but they’re stuck in my mind nonetheless. Damn them.

At the third floor, three people got off and it became difficult to avoid eye contact. Both Max and Jessica soon looked down at their shoes. It seemed the best course of action, so I copied their approach to being completely uncommunicative.

I wished for a moment that I wasn’t there, not simply to avoid the awkward ride but because I felt sure these two adulterers had some talking to do and limited opportunity. Unless they had already had the conversations, on the sly over the holidays, when spouses were simultaneously out of the house or something. What were they up to? I felt like I didn’t even know them any more.

Was it a drunken bang in a mad impulse when a stroke of privacy overcame their already eroded morality? Had they been carrying on for months, behind our backs, secretly meeting and putting cock to cunt while we let ourselves be fooled by their cool demeanors. Days or years?

Another floor, another passenger disembarks and the tension in the air gets tight.

By this time, I had become suspicious of everything I knew. How did they behave at the party before this happened? Did they act too warm or too cold at the office? Were they staying late, coming early, taking long lunches? Sporadic memories left me with an infinity of theories.

Finally, it was just the three of us and staring at our shoes didn’t seem to work any more. I looked at her and she looked at him and he … we looked at each other for a split second, let our eyes wander and focused again.

It occurred to me that they might take revenge on me, witness to their crime. I wouldn’t have thought so but I wouldn’t have thought Jessica would be bare breasted and wet when I went to get my coat. I didn’t think I had anything to fear but I didn’t know either.

I felt sure the best thing for everyone was to pretend it didn’t happen. They were too drunk and it wouldn’t happen again. That would be the easy way. I could only hope.

I looked up again and Jessica caught my eye with a smile. The aroma of musk filled the elevator.

“I’m thinking threesome,” she said. “Anyone else?”

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The Play

The Play
by Lord Malinov

“I went to see that play with Derrick.”

“With Derrick?”

“He knows someone in the cast.”

“So you went with him?”

“He didn’t want to go alone and I like seeing plays.”

“Was it good.”

“It was weird. Experimental theater. Jenny’s in the show.”


“Last summer, you remember, at the Civic.”

“I think I remember. Was she any good?”

“Like I said, it was weird. The program said it was dynamic theater. The writer changes the show constantly, rewriting the show every night, or something like that, to better suit the actors as the writer’s vision of them changes. Something like that.”

“So it was weird.”

“I kind of knew Jenna enough to know that as the drama unfolded, she was playing herself in that drama, if that makes any sense.”

“That’s just crazy.”

“It was fun. Entertaining. Derrick had a blast, which made it more fun than it would have been if I had gone alone. His friend was adorable.”

“And gay.”

“Of course. Then he paid me to go away.”


“He paid for my Uber, so he didn’t pay me but he paid to send me away.”

“Nice guy.”

“He was so happy. I think he thinks this guy is the one.”

“For now.”

“He was adorable.”


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Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

I leaned against a railing, waiting for the luggage from our plane to start dribbling onto the carousel. It had been at least twenty minutes since we landed, testing our patience yet again. Air travel requires endless amounts of patience, it seems. It had been a rough road that day, full of obstacles, delay and a bumpy flight but this would be one of the last ordeals of this journey, so we all stood quietly, trusting our luggage would begin to descend. I looked at my watch and when I looked up, I saw her.

“Donna,” I shouted, an almost involuntary reaction to the sight of my old friend in a totally unexpected place. She dragged a wheeled suitcase behind her, having come into town from some other place entirely, at exactly the same hour as I did. What were the odds?

She looked at me in surprise, startled by my shouting her name, almost backing away from me until she looked at me again and recognized her old friend in the older face. She dropped her purse, set down her bag and threw her arms around me with a squeal.

After a few minutes of babbling, spewing bits of information at each other, it became clear that our meeting was the purest of coincidences, one in a hundred million, at least. A nudge from the Universe perhaps, I thought and proposed we take advantage of the incredibly unlikely serendipity and get together for dinner.

But alas, Donna had come into town specifically to go to dinner with a client and my hopes were dashed.

“I should be finished by ten,” she said. “Meet me at the bar in the hotel lobby.” We both made reservations at the same hotel. That’s how powerful the coincidence was.

At least the hotel didn’t assign us adjoining rooms. That would have been spooky levels of weird.

So ten o’clock came and I planted myself in the hotel bar and ordered a whiskey on the rocks.  After the strenuous day of travel, the alcohol washed over me gently, relaxing my tired mind and muscles, made things easier to bear. I watched some sports news on the television behind the bar without registering any of it. I kept thinking about Donna.

We’d been friends, working at the same office more than ten years before. I remember flirting with her a few times but we were both in relationships and nothing ever happened. I remembered days when the sight of her was the height of pleasure, working in the dull monotony of projections and numbers. There was a year or so that we spent having lunch together, in groups of coworkers but even tete a tete. She was interesting to talk to, told some curious stories. I don’t know what.

One whiskey followed another and some time after midnight, I gave up on Donna. We hadn’t exchanged numbers so all I could do was pay my tab and head upstairs. I staggered and swayed a bit as I made my way to the elevators. One whiskey too many, perhaps.

I made it to the room, performed my ablutions and crawled into bed naked, still drunkenly aroused by the thought of Donna and loving the feel of clean, taut sheets. Just as consciousness began to slip into the darkness, a loud banging shook me awake. I pulled on my boxers.

“Are you awake?” she said through the door.

“Just a minute,” I said, stumbling over my clothes in the dark on my way to the door. I flipped on a light and cracked open the door. Donna stood in the hallway, wearing a robe and holding a bottle of whiskey and a bucket of ice.

“It’s not too late, is it?”

“Come on in,” I said and began searching the clothes on the floor for my pants.

“Don’t worry about that,” she said, indicating my pants. “It’s too late for clothes.”

“Too late for clothes?”

“Adults don’t wear clothes after midnight. I thought everyone knew that.”

“Sure,” I said. Why not? I opened the whiskey and poured two coffee cups full over ice. “So how have you been?”

I sat down on the un-slept bed and leaned against the headboard. Donna sprawled across the foot of the bed and we began to talk, unraveling a decade spent apart, becoming fast friends again in the process. There was so much I like about Donna, beyond the fact that she is extremely pretty, in a fairly ordinary way. Not model pretty but the way usual people are. I couldn’t help but be excited as her robe crept open as the alcohol made us sloppy, leading my hardening cock to push away the thin cloth of my boxers.

At some point, I started to nod off to sleep when I was abruptly awakened by the feel of her hands on my feet, pushing and rubbing, taking away tension in every press, every pinch, every tickle. My cock found its way free, jutting out of my shorts.

“Isn’t that just fine,” she said and crawled slowly up my calf and thigh. I was instantly awake and sober as she began to fondle my steely rod. Her robe crept to her waist, exposing the creamy globes of her bottom to my view. She took my dick in her mouth. I couldn’t believe my good fortune.

Up and down, thick and teasing, tempting and tickling, swallowing and licking, Donna worked on my cock in a cycle of a dozen variations of lip, tongue, mouth and nimble fingers.

“Give it to me,” she said during a pause. “I want to suck you dry.”

With that, my whole body tensed, my being entered into my spirit and I gushed forth in throbs of delight, lust, love and desire. Donna drank down the flow with moans and muffled squeals, licking and suckling to clean away every drop.

We lay a while, my eyes almost shut, her body stretched along my still quivering legs.

“I should go,” she said. “You need your sleep.”

“Please don’t,” I said. “I want to love you more.”

“Patience,” she said.

“Fuck patience,” I said, drawing her lips to mine. I was done waiting.

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Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

“You almost done? Everyone’s gone.”

“Almost. Five more minutes. Wait for me?”

“Sure.” He dropped his bag and slumped to the floor, leaning against the wall. “What are you working on?”

“It’s a piece for Jerri.”

“For a show?”

“I don’t know. He’s working with a new composer.”

“Straighten your leg.”

“Thanks.” She walked over to the piano and restarted the music.

“I can’t get those reaches right, near the end.”

“Keep on,” he said. “You’ll get it.

He watched her as she danced, seeing her as he rarely did, isolated and up close, dancing for herself, unconscious of even his gaze, inwardly focused to bring out the sequence as choreographed. Beauty amplified under the microscope of isolation, the look of her, stretching and reaching, thighs, stomach, arms, fingers, beyond the pale, into the light.

They’d been in the company together for more than three years but he’d known her longer than that, he reflected. When they first met, she was a stick of a girl, still awkward and stiff but pretty in a way that was disconcerting, like she wasn’t real, almost. Beauty isn’t uncommon among dancers; there is a standard, normal kind of excellence and there was an interesting in the almost perfect flawed sort. She represented neither, just beautiful with a golden glow of grace.

When she went to the piano to restart the music, he moved to the piano bench to take over those duties, so she could dance.

A turn suddenly made him aware of her left nipple, a slight bulge and darkening of her thinly stretched leotard. Following the gentle swell of her breast through the movements became a mesmerizing pattern of lifting, swooping, falling into a delicate weightiness, rising as a breath, descending in a spiral of sweet passion.



The line of her stomach stretched and stretched, pulling tight slowly until it released, crunched into shallow waves of spandex hugging her writhing torso. Through his eyes he could feel his hand running along the lean lines, supporting and guiding and feeling, softly feeling with the turn of her body through his hands and into his arms. He shifted on the piano bench.


She bent to the ground, flexible as a human can be, the elegant sphere of her well-toned bottom raised high, higher, leaping to float across the space, mirror reflecting mirror reflecting the incredible undulations of her flesh, spreading, exposing, her lean thighs fading into her round buttocks as her loins bulged barely contained by the strained spandex cloth.

“Again?” he asked as she collapsed to the floor.

“I hate this piece,” she said. “I hate it so much. I know, I know, I’ll love it in the morning but for right now I want it on the record that I hate this piece.”

“Duly noted.”

She picked up her bag, turned to him and curtseyed. “Thank you for waiting and thank you for helping.” She smiled, noticing the erection in his shorts.

He bowed slightly. “And thank you.”


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