Reason Not the Need

(photo by me, of my wife)

Reason Not the Need
by David Cain

“I know what you need,” Alyssa had said with a smirk. Stephanie shoved a linen dress that clung to her damp arm. Some loose metal hangers rattled.

“This is too absurd,” muttered Stephanie. “I don’t need anything. I can’t believe I’m doing this.” A warm silence surrounded her. “My memo is already overdue, and I need to get started on the filings.” Her stomach churned slightly, consumed by the clash of worries and nervous anticipation . “I don’t have time for this,” she growled. The muscles in her back ached slightly.

The muffled bang of a closing door downstairs broke the silence. Stephanie’s heartbeat began to thump. A heady wave of nervous excitement shook her and she crouched a little lower. Her view of the bedroom seemed at once too good. Stephanie pulled the long linen dress back against her, taking some comfort in the way it clung to her. The heel of one of Alyssa’s pumps bit into Stephanie’s bottom. She reached down awkwardly to move the shoe when the bedroom door swung open. Stephanie froze as the heat of sudden excitement poured through her.

“Come in,” Alyssa said sweetly. Tom moved into view. Alyssa sat down on her bed. Turning slightly to face the closet, Alyssa winked at the spy within.

“Do you know Tom Stromboli?” Alyssa had asked. “The big guy who works on the loading dock?”

“You mean Bull? Sure. I went to high school with him.”

“Ever go out with him?”

“Bull? Be serious. He’s a big dope. No.”

“There are other reasons to go out with a guy, besides big brains.”

“Bull? He’s a nice guy, but Alyssa? You’ve gone out with him?”

“I prefer to stay in with him. He’s got what you need.”

Stephanie felt faint. Alyssa tried to keep from giggling. Tom walked around the room curiously before he stopped to look at some mementos on a tall white shelf. Alyssa spread her legs slightly, showing Stephanie the white panties beneath her denim skirt. Stephanie blushed. Alyssa licked her lips provocatively and softly rubbed the fabric between her tan thighs. Stephanie shifted slightly, barely rattling a metal hanger with her motion. Tom turned round.

“Come here,” said Alyssa invitingly. Tom smiled and moved toward the young woman seated on the bed. “You’ve got something I need,” she said as she reached for the zipper on his jeans.

It was the ripping sound of the long zipper that filled Stephanie’s pussy with juice. A shudder went through her, digging the pump hard against her bottom. Tom’s jeans went slack in the back and with a hard yank, Alyssa pulled them down to his knees. Stephanie pinched the tingling nipple of her left boob and bit her lip to keep a moan from erupting. White briefs hugged his muscular butt. Alyssa pulled the white cotton underpants half- way down his strong thighs.

“Oh, my,” Stephanie whimpered. Alyssa’s hands grasped each cheek of Tom’s hefty butt and rhythmically pulled his pelvis toward her hungry mouth.

“Why do you think they call him Bull?” Alyssa had asked.

“I don’t know. Strom-bull-i. Hard-headed or something to do with football.”

“I don’t think so,” Alyssa had said with a knowing grin, “unless that’s why they called him Bull instead of Horse.”


“Maybe they made up the name in the shower after the football game.”

“Oh, my.”

“You ever seen a bull?”


“He’s got what you need.”

Stephanie desperately wanted to see the famous cock Alyssa had in her mouth. She craned her neck, trying to catch a glimpse but as she was truly afraid to move, Stephanie could only imagine.

“How big could it be?” she wondered. From the sound of Alyssa’s slurping and muffled moans, it was clearly large enough to strain Alyssa’s jaw.

“Really, he has an awesome cock,” Alyssa had said. “Take a ride on that monster and I guarantee that you’ll forget every last one of your friggin’ troubles. I’ll fix you up with him.”

“No way. He’s a brute. I’m not going to let myself be mauled by a big oaf.”

“Tom? He’s a sweetheart. He fucks like a steel-driving man, but he’ll never think a bad thought about you.”

“I can’t.” Stephanie just couldn’t imagine giving herself to Bull. “I won’t.”

“Honey, I’m telling you, this is what you need.”

“I don’t need anything.”

“If you saw this dick of his, you’d need it.”

That was when Alyssa proposed the plan. Stephanie couldn’t believe she had agreed. The sharp pump heel bit hard into her ass.

“Mmmph,” groaned Alyssa, holding Bull’s cock in her mouth as she twisted them around to sit him down on the bed. Stephanie caught a few thick inches of his shaft in the transition, rising out of the thick nest of black pubic hair before it disappeared between Alyssa’s wide stretched lips.

“Oooh,” murmured Stephanie, but then it seemed Bull’s lust-filled eyes were upon her and she shrank in a fit of heat behind the long linen dress. Bull threw his head back, consumed in the bobbing of Alyssa’s head over his lap. Peeking out from the behind the fabric curtain that shrouded her, Stephanie could see nothing but the back of Alyssa’s thighs and the rhythmic motion of her head.

Alyssa squirmed with arousal. Bull grunted, obviously pleased with the attention he was receiving from Alyssa’s eager tongue. Stephanie’s tits ached and a trickle of wetness quickly drenched her cotton shorts. Alyssa reached back to lift her denim skirt to her waist, offering Stephanie a view of her white-pantied bottom. Stephanie felt a deep blush warm her face. Absorbed in the rhythm, Alyssa caught the elastic of her satin panties with both thumbs and gently tugged, pulling the undergarment over the creamy bulb of her ass until the slick lips of her aroused pussy met Stephanie’s embarrassed stare.

Stephanie held her breath, gazing at the naked sex of her friend. The roll of panties halted at mid-thigh. A tender finger emerged from between Alyssa’s thighs to tease the crease of her wet cunt. Stephanie shuddered, amazed at how excited she had become. A hand crept down with a tinkle of hangers to rub the damp crotch of her shorts. Alyssa lifted her head to look at Bull and moan.

“I think,” said Alyssa, reaching over to the bedside table and pulling open a drawer, “we need to . . . .” She extracted a thin silver package and tore it open with her teeth. She pulled the prophylactic from it’s wrapping and with a glance back at Stephanie, moved aside.

Alyssa held Bull’s cock in both hands, nearly covering the entire length of the member. The rubber slowly descended the shaft. As the bulbous head rose above Alyssa’s fist, Stephanie gasped. The shiny thick rod grew up from her hand, like a fat mushroom in a time-lapse film. And grew and grew and grew. The sheath reached its limit before Alyssa ran out of cock. Her hand flat around the root, she waggled the hefty pole, twisting to face the closet and tickling Bull’s dick with a mischievous tongue.

Stephanie’s jaw dropped in astonishment. She had never seen anything like it. Her muscles tensed. Her pussy quivered. She leaned forward, mesmerized and wanting.

All at once, she lost her balance and to catch herself, she shifted suddenly. The hangers banged like an alarm.

“Hey,” Bull said, jumping up off the bed. Stephanie shrank for a moment, but when he moved toward the closet, his thick cock aimed like a lance, she jumped out of her hiding place.

“Bull,” she said in a frightened voice. “I’m sorry.”

“Look at her shorts,” said Alyssa with a laugh. “Look how wet she is.”

“I am,” said Stephanie, her voice low and sultry in confession. Bull smiled, kindly.

“I know you,” he said. “Do you want me, too?”

“Please,” answered Stephanie, “can I?” She knelt down before him, and kissed the shiny knob of his rubbered cock.

“Yeah,” said Bull, smiling. Alyssa moved behind Stephanie and pulled down the drenched shorts. Stephanie shivered at the gust of cool air on her overheated cunt and let the big cock go into her mouth. Alyssa pushed a finger inside Stephanie.

“She’s so hot, Bull.” groaned Alyssa. “You should fuck her.”

“Oh, my,” said Stephanie. Bull removed his dick from her mouth and Alyssa steered her to lean over the edge of the bed. Bull took his place behind Stephanie and gently eased his thick cock into her enflamed pussy. “Oh, yes,” she squealed. Bull began to rock into her hard. “Oh, fuck.”

Alyssa jumped onto the bed and nestled her aroused pussy in front of Stephanie’s moaning mouth. Stephanie opened her eyes and in utter abandon touched Alyssa’s pink clit with her outstretched tongue.

“Oh, fuck me,” Stephanie said in the throb of staccato beats. “You were right, Alyssa. This is what I need.”

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Danny’s Girl

Danny’s Girl
by David Cain

LMP - framed - 028a.jpg

(photo by me, of my wife)

I lived with Danny for a year. He needed a roommate and I needed a room and I could afford the rent. After about ten months, I took a job on the other side of town, so I left. I could still pack my stuff in the trunk and back seat of my car, so moving wasn’t a big deal. I lived in six places in five years. My roots didn’t go very deep.

Danny was a great roommate. I hardly ever saw him. The place was clean. There was usually food in the kitchen. He had a big-ass television in the living room and another one in his bedroom, which was the one he watched. Some of my roommates have drunk copious quantities of beer, but Danny didn’t. Instead, he dated the way other guys drank. So when he was home, he was in the bedroom. They were pretty women, each one seemingly prettier than the last. None stayed for more than two weeks, the next one arriving a few days before the last one was leaving. Danny’s love life was in complete contrast to my own. I didn’t mind. As I said, I only rarely saw him.

Occasionally, I would hear them, moaning through the walls. It is an odd circumstance, to meet a woman a few minutes after listening to her elongated squealing orgasm. I didn’t have my ear pressed to the door or anything like that. Some of Danny’s ladies were loud. I assumed Danny knew his way around a bedroom. It was a busy place.

I, lacking feminine companions of any kind, was in the midst of a long period of nothing more satisfying than arousing thoughts and self-knowing manipulations. Masturbation is a second-rate ecstasy, but vastly superior to a bad relationship. I wasn’t ready to spend time getting to know anyone and I hadn’t any interest in finding strangers to hook up for a quick genital rub.

The computer in my room, supplied with a serious dose of bandwidth, provided me with all the visual and aural stimulation a perverted imagination like mine need to get past the build up of testosterone that inevitably overpowered my mind. I hardly felt any reason to leave my room. Why dress? Why shower? Being a hermit has never been so easy.

The living room, however, had a large sofa, a recliner, a giant television, a bar and access to the kitchen. I had never even seen Danny go into the living room, so the privacy was almost equal to my room. I couldn’t lock the living room door but no one ever opened it. After six months or so, I grew comfortable with my dominion over the living room. I lounged in the recliner in my boxers, munching and drinking and watching cable porn.

So it was, late one Saturday night. A ten minute squeal-fest erupted from Danny’s room while I was watching a basketball game, followed by the sound of a shower and finally Danny’s signature snore. The man could make some terrible snorting noises when he slept. Fortunately, our place was big enough to keep that sound confined to places close to his room.

The woman, I knew, was pretty. She had been in and out of the place for just over a week, long enough for me to see her but without the chance to make her acquaintance. There was something musical about her orgasmic squeals. It was enough to get my imagination working and I soon switch from the Lakers to some soft core, a gentle parade of big boobs and round asses. I stroked my cock thoughtfully.

She crept in silently. I didn’t hear the click of the bedroom door. I didn’t hear the shuffle of feet along the floor. I didn’t hear her breathing. I didn’t see her slip into the room. All my attention was focused on the images before me, playing imaginary scenes of seduction in my head.

She shifted on the sofa, a gentle rustle of thick springs and cotton. I jumped inside and turned to discover the source of the sound, my eyes wide in panic as I suddenly discerned the shape of another human being nearby, my turgid cock immediately shrouded in the folds of my terry-cloth robe. She smiled meekly.

“Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, no, that’s all right. I just didn’t … ”

“I couldn’t sleep and Danny’s snoring horrible in there.”

“Yeah,” I said. “He does that.”

She sat nestled on the sofa, bundled within an oversized robe, probably Danny’s, damp hair fallen to shroud most of her face.

“What are we watching?” she asked.

“Beats me,” I replied, looking back at the television. “Some tits and ass.”

“Sweet,” she said.

I stared mesmerized by the jiggling colors of the quick edit light source, confused by the scene. Who was this woman? Why was she here, sitting in the dark, watching big young ladies strip off their garments and stretch sensuously? Did she want something? Did she want me?

I turned to look at her, again. She watched the video until she noticed my look and smiled. I smiled back. Then I noticed the robe had parted slightly. I could see the fleshy swell of her breast beneath the soft dark cloth of her robe. I turned my gaze back to the television impulsively, not knowing what else to do.

I knew, at times, the stories were true and this seemed to be following the pattern. But I was man enough of the world to know that a roommate doesn’t fuck his roommate’s woman. Sure, for moral reasons, but so much more for practical reasons. Sex can make people crazy. Never live with crazy.

If she jumped in my chair, I wouldn’t have stopped her. I am practical but I’m not made of stone, either. I simply wouldn’t do anything to advance the situation. That was, I felt, sufficiently respectful. I wouldn’t fuck my roommate’s girl, but of course I would let her fuck me.

All of this, I considered in a visionless abstract. I looked at the naked women on TV but I didn’t see them. I turned slightly to check my near neighbor, who seemed mesmerized by the images on the screen. The robe had parted slightly more, exposing the first arc of the deep ring that formed her bulging breast’s nipple. Her hand rose to cover her exposure, I thought but instead she pinched her rosy tip and widened the breach of dark terry cloth.

I returned my gaze to the television, afraid to be caught staring. As the maidens cavorted in a fountain, I suddenly realized that looking at the framed photograph on the shelf beside the television, I could see my companion reflected. Both breasts were exposed and she tickled them playfully.

My cock had maneuvered out of the robe that had only loosely covered my thickened erection. My hand came close, but every touch seemed electric, like a burning fire of arousal, so excited I had become by this unexpected scene. It throbbed uncontrollably, with every breath, with every erotic thought, which I could not escape. I checked the picture frame. She stared in it, at me. At it. She held her breath and sighed.

“Is there anything harder?” She asked.

I sat stunned as the words poured unbelieved into my consciousness. What?

She laughed. “I mean, is there any harder porn on your cable?”

“Sure,” I replied, reaching for the remote. “Plenty of porn.”

“Good,” she said with a soft moan. “I need some cock. I mean, tits and ass are great, but a girl needs to see some dicks to get off.”

“Works for me,” I said. “I usually don’t watch soft core.”

“Me neither,” she said, barely audibly.

Her feet found the floor and the robe fell to her sides, exposing her naked legs and stomach below her full breasts. Her eyes stared fixated on the sex looming large on the screen. My eyes stared at her, the living naked woman caressing herself a few feet away. My hand found my dick and began a slow serious stroke, drinking the visions of arousal in gulps.

“Wow,” she said, her hand thrust into her cunt. I looked up to find she was staring at me, at mine.

“Wow,” I repeated, unable to speak except in harmony. She began to twist and writhe on the sofa, adding perspective to my view, her gaze transfixed on the thickness rising from my lap.

“Hold on,” she said, jumping up suddenly and dashing back to Danny’s bedroom. I opened my eyes wide and breathed slowly, trying to understand what had happened. Pitter patter click. Click pitter patter. She returned, her robe reclosed and leapt back to the place she had left on the sofa. I sat up and draped my robe back over my erection.

“None of that,” she said. “Please let me see.” Opening her robe, she drew a vibrator from the pocket and initiated a low hum. “Watching isn’t cheating.”

“I’m sure it depends who you ask,” I said, for no reason. My cock stood at attention, independently presenting her with the view that she wanted. As my member throbbed, she groaned and began the stifled serenade of her orgasms. I knew she kept her moans soft so that Danny wouldn’t hear over the steady buzz saw of his snores. We could tell ourselves this was good and hurting no one, but we both knew Danny wouldn’t see it that way.

Her labia glistened wetly. Her muscles spasmed erratically. She stared and smiled wantonly. I stroked my cock and watched her thrust, buzz and crumple. My orgasm sprinkled my chest. She laughed as she fell to the floor.

“Good night,” she said, picking herself up and heading toward the bedroom. The door clicked open and shut and voices rumbled gently as I fell asleep in the chair.

Danny didn’t bring her back again. He found some other woman to bounce with. A few months later, I moved out and across town.

I have a dream that some day I’ll encounter Danny’s girl out and about in the world. We share a knowing look as we pass in the night. And maybe this time, I’ll think to remember to ask Danny’s girl for her name.

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The Pizza Girl

The Pizza Girl
by David Cain

A Fantasy in Slices

“Hey there,” the pizza girl said, “David?”

The question mark is part of the flirtatious game we play, this lovely pizza girl and I. For about six months, at least once a week, I drop by to pick up a pizza for the family. Usually she gives me a big pepperoni pizza, although every so often, I manage to sneak a supreme. The kids aren’t entirely ready for the full blown pizza experience, but on well chosen occasions, they’ll bear the excesses of flavor for my sake.

The pizza girl knows my name. I can hear it in her voice when I call to make my order, see it in the bright smile she gives as I enter the tiny shop. The pizza girl knows my name but pretends she doesn’t. On the other hand, I don’t know her name. I’m too shy to ask. When I imagine talking to her, I call her “beautiful.”

“Hey, beautiful,” I imagine myself saying, “how’s the pizza business?”

“It sucks,” she’d reply with an infectious grin. Sometimes I imagine the conversation will be easy.

I picked up five pizzas on Halloween, feeding a party of kids before they assaulted the streets on their annual candy begging mission. I arrived a bit early. The pizza girl wore low slung jeans and her pizza t-shirt tied up to expose her smooth midriff. I licked my lips as she checked the pizza progress, turning her back as I feasted my eyes on the delicious vision of her behind.

“It sucks working on Halloween,” she said, after telling me I’d have to wait another ten minutes. “I’d rather go out and get fucked up.” My mind reeled with responses to that opening, so many witty rejoinders assaulting me that I found myself unable to speak. That’s my usual technique – smile and imagine all the things I might say. It’s not an effective style, generally, although my apparently handsome visage tends to carry the amused silence better than we might expect.

“I love your costume,” I imagined myself saying. The pizza girl blushed.

In most instances, the pizza business is too busy for me to manage more than a few words with her before another customer calls. I don’t worry, for our demand for pizza is incessant. I will soon return for another brief tete-a-tete.

“You seem tense,” she’d say. I love to imagine it will be easy.

“Was that your wife who called?” she asked, last time I picked up a pizza.

“Sure was.” I’m not one to deny the obvious.

“She doesn’t like picking up the pizzas?”

“I guess she doesn’t,” I replied, once more at a loss for anything witty to say.

“Or maybe you just like coming up here?”

“Yes, I do.” I am a self-proclaimed master of dialogue, yet profoundly unable to actually say anything clever on the spot.

“Have a nice evening,” she says.

“You seem tense,” I might reply.

“I am so tense,” she replies.

“You need a massage,” I observe, confident of the fact that, in fact, everyone always needs a massage.

“Oh, I do,” she replies, her dark eyes aflame.

“I have a table and very strong hands.”

“Do you?”

“Give me an hour and I’ll relieve some of that tension.” My voice had dropped to a smoldering whisper. I am so seductive in my fantasies.

The pizza girl has very long black hair, down past her shoulder blades, silky straight and flirtatiously alive. I imagine brushing my hand through her hair, drifting down along the smooth curves of her satin latte skin. Perhaps twenty in age, giving or taking a few years, the pizza girl sounds coarse and abrupt with the rest of the Spanish-speaking pizza crew, but energetic and delicately warm with me. I know she thinks about me. I can hear it in the way her voice changes for me.

“That’ll be eight sixty-five.” As I hand her the ten, I’m watching her breasts move gently beneath the pizza t-shirt she always wears. Full, voluminous boobs jiggle slightly with the energy of her excitement. I blindly imagine the dark nipples beneath the cloth, catch vague hints of the hardness that develops under my gaze.

“I love your titties,” I imagine myself saying, suddenly crude for the sake of acceleration.

“Come back at ten,” she might say with a laugh. “I’ll introduce you.” My cock stirs, anxious to participate in the proposed soiree. Don’t worry, big fella, we won’t forget you.

As she takes the change from the cash register, her hand stretches forth. My hand reaches toward her and she lays the bills and silver into my palm, gracefully touching my hand with hers, lingering in the connection for as long as pizza decorum will permit. Our eyes meet. Her nipples harden perceptibly. I want to speak.

“Thank you,” is all I can bring myself to say.

The pizza guys always seem to be watching, curious, amused or jealous. Since I don’t speak their language, I have no clue. The pizza girl doesn’t do anything overt to express her feelings for me, so I assume she doesn’t want them to know anything. Maybe she does. I can only imagine.

“Don’t tell me you weren’t coming on to him, slut pizza girl.”

“So what if I was. Mind your own business.”

Suppose we meet for a cup of coffee, a dish of ice cream, a bottle of beer. She wanted to get “fucked up,” so perhaps the beer is what she’d prefer. We might share a twig, put the daze in our lust-enflamed eyes. I brush the hair back from her face, caressing in a moment the soft flesh of her browned cheek. She kisses me. I enfold a breast in my left hand, squeezing the heavy flesh and teasing her thick nipple. She takes my rigid cock in hand, slips the stiffness between her sultry lips. I kneel behind her, hands grasping her young round ass, riding our hunger home.

“Do you want some Parmesan or peppers?” she asked.


Fumbling with the pizza box, she graces me with garnishments. I smile wantonly, wishing I could dare to ask her name.

“Have a nice evening,” she said. I could feel her wish to be part of that imagined time.

“I will,” I replied. “You, too, beautiful.”

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Bad Sex

(photo by me, of my wife)


Bad Sex
by David Cain

Ben looked up from his book, a thick black Penguin with age tinted pages. The silver bus, a dusty behemoth with black tinted windows and a guttural engine, pulled into the small station drive.

“There she is,” said a man to his wife. Ben turned to look at the couple, the only other people waiting for the bus. The silver-haired man looked at his watch and then pulled their tickets from his jacket pocket. The wife, a small, tight-lipped woman, held a big orange bag with a hug in her lap. “C’mon, Beth,” said the man, rising. The woman stood slowly, trembling slightly.

Ben closed his book and pushed it into his jean pocket. Diesel fumes belched into the stale summer air as the driver shut off the engine. Ben coughed and stood up, stretching his long limbs high toward the pale blue sky. The sun blazed over the gas station building across the street, starting the early morning with a bright stroke of heat. The driver, a sturdy serious looking man in a blue cotton shirt, opened the door of the bus with a pneumatic rush and stepped out. The couple stood waiting at the bottom.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” the driver said. “We’ll be leaving in about ten minutes.” Clipboard in hand, he walked into the station. Ben watched the driver pour a cup of coffee before he leaned over the counter to speak with the big red-headed woman. Ben walked down toward the street, away from the thick blue-grey cloud of hovering smoke.

“I’m going to be in that trap long enough,” he said, squinting as the sunshine bit his eyes. “No reason to rush in.” The grey-haired man helped Beth mount the steps into the bus. Ben looked down the long empty road. “Damn,” he said. “I’ll be glad to get out of here.”

“All right,” the driver said loudly. Ben turned to see him wave. Walking back up the drive, he pulled the old book from his back pocket and clutched it familiarly. The tall silver bus roared to life. Ben lifted a foot up on the black rubber mat as the machine shuddered. “Ready to roll?” asked the driver with a smile.

“Let’s lose this place,” said Ben, climbing into the dark, cool cabin. “Next stop, Paradise.” The driver chuckled and closed the door behind him.

The couple sat in the third row back on the right, behind the driver, close enough to see the road and far enough to have some privacy. Ben nodded to the man as he passed and kept moving down the aisle until he reached the very back. Plopping down on the bluish-grey seat, Ben leaned back and ceremoniously opened his book. At least, he thought, there would be plenty of time to read.

Ben quickly lost himself in the tale of old Russia as the dusty American plains rolled past the tinted windows. The heat of the day slowly infected the faintly cooled cabin of the bus until Ben could feel his t-shirt begin to cling to his chest. He sat up and looked out the window. Flat fields stretched out for miles, broken only by the rhythmic cycle of three oil pumps and a thin line of oaks near the white farm house. The dusty plume of an unseen pickup, hidden by the silver shimmers of wheat, traced a intersecting course toward the highway. Ben shifted to the left and opened his Turgenev.

Twenty pages more had gone by when the bus stopped. Ben looked out the window to see the small station, very like the one they had just left. A sign above the door read, “Rotenburg”. Ben smiled, imagining the abuse such a name would incur. A dozen passengers began to embark. Ben opened his book and stared intently at the yellowed pages. More than anything, he feared the companionship of some talkative yokel during the next three hundred miles. Ben exuded anti-social vibes.

Ben didn’t dare look up, but he could sense the presence of someone nearby, and felt them sit down across the aisle. Sneaking a peek up the bus, Ben relaxed slightly. Everyone had taken a seat. The bus bounced over a curb as the angry engine growled and Ben stared again into the old tale of the disrespectful son.

Miles drifted by and the chatters of quiet conversation began to drone in Ben’s ears. The words seemed to stop and linger as his thoughts faded into a lethargic descent toward sleep. Ben closed his eyes and let the cool pause comfort him. The bus jumped as it changed lanes to pass, and Ben could feel the stiffness growing in his back. Ben shook his head vigorously and stretched.

She sat across the aisle, scribbling in a notebook perched upon her thigh. Ben stopped and stared for a brief moment at the pretty girl. Thick, fine hair of a pale brown that flirted with being blonde hung down past her shoulders. A bony knee pushed out of a tattered hole in her faded jeans. Her dark painted lips seemed to recite something as she wrote. She hunched over her work, shrouding her chest between her thin bare tanned arms, cast in a dull pink t-shirt with a faded tiny bow at the end of her short sleeve.

Ben looked back into his book, holding it so that the title would be visible to the girl across the aisle. He didn’t want to talk to her as much as he wanted her to admire his literary choice. She popped a bubble. Ben looked up. She looked the other way, stretching. Full breasts, firm and round as ripe citrus, pressed forward, clad tightly in dull pink. Ben’s eye’s widened and focused. The circular impression of underlying nipples in the cotton of her shirt sparked a burst of fire in Ben’s blood. She turned back and Ben buried himself in his book.

Ben couldn’t read a single word of Fathers and Sons. It might as well have been written in Russian. He peeked back across the aisle, unable to contain himself. The nipple of her right breast seemed like a shadow under the faded t-shirt. Ben looked back at the book. His heartbeat pounded in his ear. He looked back over, to see the profile of her breast as it jiggled in the steady gentle bounce of the bus ride.

“Magnificent,” he thought, his gaze enchanted by the vision.

“Good book?” she asked, smiling. Ben jumped slightly.

“All right,” he said.

“I can’t read in a bus,” she said.

“Yeah,” Ben said, turning over the book to look at the cover. “Usually I can, but I can’t seem to concentrate today. Probably should have brought something lighter.”

“I just can’t,” she said. “It gives me a headache.”

“I’ve heard people say that,” Ben said. “I don’t have any trouble.”

“You’re lucky,” she said. “Reading would be a good way to kill this ride.”

“Yeah. But you can write?”

“Well, the bouncing ruins my handwriting.”

“I’ll bet,” said Ben, smiling.

“Besides,” she said. “I just jot down words. It’s not really writing.”

“Sounds like writing.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I guess so.”

“My name’s Ben,” he said, reaching across the aisle.

“Kathy,” she replied, grabbing her purse and scooting over. “Do you mind?” she asked.

“Come on over,” he said, pushing over toward the window.

“Going anywhere?” Kathy asked.

“Yeah,” said Ben. “I have a friend in Des Moines.”

“Hey, me too,” she said. “I guess this is a good time for visiting.”

“Long overdue,” said Ben.

“You know what I think,” said Kathy in a hushed voice. “Long bus rides remind me of bad sex.”

“Really,” said Ben, flushed and eager. “I can’t say I ever made that comparison. How do you mean?” His eyes cast a glance down, to see Kathy’s nipples tighten.

“Well,” she said, laughing. “It’s a bouncy ride which seems to last forever. It makes my butt sore

and I feel lucky just to get it over with.”

“The scenery is dull and it makes me sweat,” Ben added.

“The noises are awful,” Kathy added. Ben laughed.

“I guess you’re right,” he said. “The bus to Des Moines is a lousy lay.”

“But good company can almost make it worth while.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Ben. “I guess we do what we have to and enjoy what we can.”

“I like that,” said Kathy.

“You have a lot of bad sex?”

“More than I want to remember. You?”

“Hell,” said Ben. “All I can remember.”

“Why do we do it?”

“Bad sex is better, on the average, than no sex.”

“Just barely,” said Kathy.

“Besides, we can’t tell it’s bad until we get there.”

“So you leave a relationship if the sex is bad?”

“No,” said Ben, thoughtfully. “I guess I don’t always. I’m always hoping, I guess, that one of these days she’ll relax and have some fun.”


“I wouldn’t say that. Just unimaginative.”

“Wow,” said Kathy, “that’s it exactly. Boring.”

“How boring?”

“Bam, bam,” Kathy said, jerking her pelvis up with each stroke, “bam bam bam.”

“Ooh,” said Ben, “what a waste.” Kathy blushed and laughed.

“Some guys think a hard dick push is all a girl wants.”

“You want variety,” said Ben.

“Variety,” said Kathy. “Imagination.”

“I’ve had girls reject anything that even smacks of creative.”

“So stupid.”

“You know what the bored cannibal said? ‘Missionary? Again?’”

“Good one. Really? Just lay back and spread their legs?”

“You know it, sister. I have this one friend,” Ben paused. “She absolutely refused to get on top.”

“No,” said Kathy. “I love to be on top. Control the beat.”

“Yeah. I wanted to see those titties bounce.” Ben felt the sweat roll down his cheek and looked at Kathy. She turned away, shyly, and he stared as her nipples hardened beneath the damp cotton shirt.

“You like tits?” she asked in a whisper.

“I love them,” Ben said seriously. “Sometimes I think I could squeeze and suck her tits all night. Just loving them.”

“Oh,” said Kathy gently. She squirmed slightly.

“She won’t let me behind her, neither.”

“Wow,” said Kathy. “But at least guys can get blowjobs.” Ben shook his head slowly, smiling. “Jeezus,” she said. “I didn’t know there were girls like that still running around.”

“More than you’d guess. I’ve had a few who would suck my dick, but they hardly even know how to get started. Only one or two really got into it. None of them will swallow, anyway. I’d love to have a girl who would. One always spit it out. I hated that worst of all. It made me feel filthy.”

“I can’t believe it. I mean, I love giving head.

Really and truly. It’s like playing a musical instrument. You hit the right notes and . . . I love the taste.” Kathy licked her lips. “I swallow,” she said softly.

“Mmmm,” said Ben. “I would, I mean, I love to drink a girl’s juice. The taste of a hot pussy is one of the best things I know. And I’ve known girls who wouldn’t let my tongue near them.” Kathy struck Ben on the arm.

“You’re lying,” she said with a laugh.

“No, I’m not,” said Ben, rubbing his bicep. “She will not let me lick her. She tells me it’s just gross.” He mocked her shrill voice.

“Wow,” said Kathy. “I’ve had head once, I mean real make me squeal head. He left me. I’ve regretted that one ever since.”

“Yeah, good sex is hard to find.”

“Damn hard,” agreed Kathy.

“It’s not just the dull ones, either. Some chicks are just a little weird, you know lots of leather and rubber and shit.”

“I’ve known some creepy guys,” said Kathy. “Although I don’t mind a little spanking and tying, you know, if I really know the guy.”

“I understand,” said Ben. “I don’t think that’s weird. I’ve done a little spanking myself.”

“What bugs me is the power games.”


“Well, some guys seem more interested in being the guy that fucks me. You know, showy stuff, dominating stuff.”

“I had one girlfriend who always wanted to do it in public. You know, at picnics behind the bushes, or at ball games or in the theater. Once she gave me a blow job at a restaurant, getting under the table.”

“No shit?” asked Kathy, her nipples tight, the aroma of her musk permeating the bus.

“It was wild. I think the waiter knew, but he kept cool. She was a trip.”

“I’ll bet. Imaginative.”

“Definitely imaginative.”

The bus rolled rapidly down the long, even highway until it reached the outskirts of Des Moines.

“Look, Kathy,” said Ben. “Do you think maybe you would want to get together, you know, while we’re in town?”

“It’s probably not a good idea,” said Kathy. “I mean, I came to see this friend of mine for the week, and I don’t think I’ll be able to get away.”

“Yeah,” said Ben. “I guess that’s true. Still, I’ve really enjoyed our talk. We should really get together sometime.”

“Are you taking the bus next Saturday?” she asked.


“Change buses and go back on Saturday,” Kathy suggested. Ben smiled.

“I’ll try.”

The bus pulled into the station, a slightly larger replica of the others. Ben looked out the window. Standing on the platform, he saw Susan standing patiently in a soft white frock. He smiled quietly. It had been so long since he had seen her, and Ben tried to feel enthusiastic. Kathy leaned over him, pushing a firm breast softly against his cheek. Ben kissed the supple cotton.

“Ooh,” said Kathy. A tall, muscular boy with sandy blonde hair stood waiting in a white t-shirt and jeans. Kathy leaned back into her seat. She opened her notebook and ripped out a page. Scribbling furiously, she handed the paper to Ben.

“I’ll be at my uncle’s place,” she explained. “Call me in the morning and we’ll see what we can manage.” Kathy put her hand on Ben’s lap and squeezed his stiff prick. He kissed her. Kathy shook her head. “I don’t know how much bad sex I can stand. Call me.”

Ben folded the paper and pushed it between the pages of his old Penguin. He followed Kathy, watching the smooth circles of her bottom as she walked down the aisle. As he reached the doorway, the blast of July heat steamed in. Ben took a quick glance at his book and caught a glimpse of the scrap of white paper hidden within. He nonchalantly pushed the paperback into his pocket, confident. There wasn’t a chance unimaginative Susan would ever read between the lines.

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(photo by me, of my wife)
by David Cain

“Please come out with us, Daniel. It will be fun for you, I promise.”

“Not tonight,” Daniel said calmly.

“Why not?”

“I have plans, Elise. Maybe some other night.”

“What plans? You haven’t been out in almost two years.”

“I go out.”

“Haunting used bookstores isn’t going out. Besides, we’re just going out for a drink and then to the Avalon Theater. You like plays, remember?”

“I have plans tonight.”

“With whom, Daniel? A date with a book? A woman?”

“Yes. I mean no.”

“It isn’t healthy, Daniel. You’re getting a reputation as a real crank. People are talking about you. My friends are always talking about you. People always ask me when you’re going to start dating again. Just go out with us tonight.”

“You’re sounding like Mom, Elise. Some other time.”

“I’m going to come over.”

“Fine. But not tonight.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I love you, Daniel. I worry about you.”

“I love you, too, Sis.” Daniel hung up the receiver with a sigh. The idea that people were talking about him disturbed him slightly. Daniel didn’t consider himself a crank. The thought that Elise and Jim and Karen were going to talk about him irked him deeply. They didn’t understand what he was up to. No one could possibly understand. “Tonight,” he said to himself, “tonight has to work.”

The sun receded finally beneath the crest of pine trees and the huge space of Daniel’s study filled with creeping shadows, the dull orange glow of a distant sunset giving a ruddy tone to the pale wooden floors. Daniel rubbed his brow. A sense of possession stole over him. He began to pace, walking slowly toward the twenty foot windows that faced the bloody sky, and turning to walk back toward the blazing fireplace at the far end of the hall.

“Two years?,” he asked himself. “Two years, and when will it end?”

Daniel’s boots marked an even interval of time as his walk led him to the deepening night and back to the blossoming flames. A sinister wind stole through slight cracks in the upper reaches of the grand room with a howl. His heart began to thump when his resolve broke down and he stole a lateral glance at the long shelves of books covering the study’s northern wall.

“Once again,” he muttered in surrender. “The last time, again.”

Still trying to resist the allure, Daniel’s dark eyes fixed on a book standing alone behind his desk, an outcast from its mortal brethren, shimmering unnaturally in the nocturnal gloom. “Five hundred times,” he mused as his feet slowly drifted off the well-trod path and toward the dark shelves. “At least five hundred times. This has to end.”

Although the last gasp of Daniel’s resolve had been exhausted so many times before, the same shudder that had rippled through him on the very first night struck him again. The ritual was well defined, but the thrill was far from gone. Tonight, he thought and not for the first time, will be different. Even without the hope that gripped him on this night, there was no bravado in his thought. Every night had been different.

As he touched the ancient leather spine of the tall book, Daniel shook. It had been a week since he had opened the pages, an arduous week of incredible self-control since he had read the mystic words. It was the longest stretch of abstinence that Daniel had endured since he found the book in the tiny bookstore in East Berlin. There had been nights when he read the page three times in six hours. Resistance had been inconceivable, until he had a reason to hold back. Tonight would be the payoff. Daniel spoke a Latin prayer.

The old grandfather clock struck a sweet tone and Daniel nearly dropped the book in fright. Adrenaline poured through his ragged heart and he collapsed into the chair behind his desk. “Good,” Daniel said when he recovered his senses. “Tonight will take every ounce of my emotion. Blow storm!” he yelled.

The book fell open at a touch, directly to the page Daniel sought. It seemed his whole life had become contained in the words stretched across that single piece of parchment. At first glimpse, the words seemed to burn and writhe. Daniel knew he was tangling with ultimate darkness, an evil beyond any human conception. Still he continued. He couldn’t care for good and evil. He could only care for love.

Some nights he had to make a decision before he began, but not on this night. A single name possessed him, ached within him. His eye caught the first word of the incantation. Daniel braced himself, like a patient preparing for the undoped touch that would begin the cut of a scalpel.

“Katrina,” he said, giving in to the passion. “Come to me.” Strange words followed and the spell was begun.

A flame rose from the center of the study, a tiny flicker of orange and a dazzle of white sparks. The fire slowly grew until the heat touched Daniel’s face and called forth a wash of sweat. Smoke poured from the flashes, choking him cruelly. The root of the bonfire spread until ten feet of Persian rug seemed to be feeding the conflagration, flames shooting up as though it consumed a middle-aged pine. The last word left Daniel’s lips and he closed his eyes and turned away from the fierce blast of infernal fire.

A crackle tore through the roar and a cool breeze suddenly caressed Daniel’s burning body. He opened his eyes. A vision of white light nearly blinded him, but still he stared, knowing what sight awaited him. The light dimmed and the spirit Katrina stood before him. Daniel wanted to cry.

Every time she was conjured, Katrina appeared differently. On that night, her long golden hair was tied in ponytails, reminding him of a sweet girl he had met when he was young, a simple cowgirl at a country dance, hoping for a little dance and romance. Daniel had often wondered how much of Katrina’s form came from within him, but there could be no answer. She was always like someone, and yet like no one he had ever known. Katrina was whoever she was. Daniel could know no more.

“It’s you,” she said with a smile. Her voice echoed with the sound of crystal bells and young birds.

“It’s me,” Daniel replied, his heart bursting with longing.

“I’m glad,” she said.

“Do others conjure you?” Daniel asked, surprised by a thought he had never considered.


“It had never occurred to me,” Daniel said, frowning. “When was the last time?”

“I have no sense of time,” Katrina said. “I don’t know.”

“Do you . . . ?”

“They’re foul, twisted men, used to abusing power. I hate them.”

“And me?”

“I long for you, Daniel. You draw me to you.”

“I think of nothing else.”

“I can feel your devotion. It makes me live.”

“My life is in trouble. I have an idea. I need you.”

“What can we do?”

Daniel walked around the desk to where the apparition seemed to stand. Her lean body seemed fashioned of fog, a translucent shimmer in the form of a lovely woman. A silver gown hung from her shoulders. A worried look streamed in beauty.

“I believe we can set you free.” Daniel reached out to touch Katrina. His hand passed through her arm, as though he had grabbed a puff of smoke.

“I’m frightened,” Katrina said. She wanted to cry but no tears would come from her ghostly eyes.

“Trust me,” Daniel said.

“What will you do?”

“Have you noticed,” said Daniel, aching to touch the sad woman he loved so deeply, “that there are times when you seem to take substance.”

“Not really,” Katrina said softly.

“There have been nights,” Daniel confessed reluctantly, “when I have conjured other spirits. I haven’t always known . . . ”

“You’ve conjured other women?” Katrina said.

“Sometimes. Some evil spirits.”

“Were they beautiful?”

“Yes. Not like you, dear Katrina, but in their own wicked way. They seem to know something, or at least believe in it. They have tried to arouse me, to make me want them. And it seems to me that the more that I do want them, the more substantial they become.”

“You wanted them?”

“Lust is a powerful emotion. But I also feared them, and I don’t think lust is enough. I don’t know, but it has always fallen short. When the moment comes that my desire for them subsides, they quickly fade away. It is the nature of lust to dissolve in satisfaction. Love is different, stronger.”

“I see. So if I make you want me, I will be alive.”

“I don’t know. Maybe there is no threshold. But the substance they take is strong – some have even been able to touch me. I believe there could be some way.”

“They’ve touched you?”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. Don’t be sorry. If I could only touch you, for just a moment, I could forgive everything.”

“I know you, Katrina. I love you as deeply as a man could ever love a woman. I love the sparkle in your eyes and the curve of your flesh. Rouse my emotion, make me want you.”

“How?” Katrina asked, blushing as only a ghost can blush.

“Do you dance?” Daniel asked.

“I think I can.”

“Then dance for me,” Daniel said, leaning back against the mahogany desk and smiling. “What do the foul, twisted men ask from you?”

“They ask me to dance,” said Katrina. Fire seemed to spark in her pale eyes, a desperate hunger that began to move her hips, a lick over her grey lips. “I must do as I am asked.”

“I can’t bear to imagine you in the clutches of some other man,” said Daniel angrily, furious, ready to strike out at any man who would dare intrude.

“They’re handsome men,” said Katrina, picking up her skirt to reveal the smooth lines of her lean legs. Daniel felt his heart begin the throb furiously. “Do you like me?”

“Beautiful,” he replied, tingling with excitement.

“Can I take this off?” she asked with a coy smile.

“Please,” whimpered Daniel, his gaze fixed on her.

“It isn’t hot,” Katrina said as she lifted the robe up. Her wide hips gyrated slowly as she left them bare. Katrina turned to show him her creamy full bottom, a hint of form without color, like an old French postcard of a girl reason tells us has been long since dead. Daniel burned with desire, his attention caught by the swells and valleys of her shadowy body.

“I want you,” she growled as the robe fell to the floor. Full breasts bobbled slightly as though excited by his heavy breath.

“I want you,” he replied, reaching down involuntarily to scratch the tenseness of his loins.

“No,” she said sharply, ceasing her dance.

“What?” he asked, pained.

“Don’t touch.” Her head nodded toward his swollen crotch. “Don’t release your desire.”

“Yes,” he said, wondering if he could really restrain himself. “You’re right.”

“I’ll do the touching,” Katrina said, placing a finger at the shimmering crest between her thighs. “So hot for you.”


“My boobs, too. Do you want to taste my nipples?”


“I’ve always loved you, with all my heart. You make me hungry.”


“My pussy’s so swollen, so moist, so fiery.”


“My ass?”


“I can almost feel your hands on my shoulders, your kiss on my lips.”


“I need you this way, can you touch me, do you want me?”


“I grow richer and fuller. You were right. I will live.”


“I will live and we’ll fuck.”


“I can almost feel you. Do you want me? Do you want me?”


“Come here,” Katrina said, her voice sultry and commanding. “Come kiss me.” Daniel shook in anticipation. Her body seemed almost alive, a woman’s naked flesh, aroused and drawing him near. A demonic look flashed through her eyes, lust overflowing her soft demeanor. Daniel rushed three steps forward and took the girl in his arms.

A kiss melted on his lips with the intensity of kissing a burning hot iron, yet at the same time luscious and sweet, a sudden sense of fulfillment, of holding all love in his arms.

“Lover,” Katrina moaned as she held him tight in her arms. Her body melded to his, caressing him gently as she kissed him with all her soul.

“No,” he said as convulsions exploded inside him. The woman suddenly began to fade. Her touch turned to a cool mist. “No,” he whimpered and Katrina vanished away.

Tears flowed from his dark eyes as Daniel collapsed on the floor of his midnight dark study. A dampness in his trousers echoed the tears.

“Tomorrow,” he said finally, desperate in failure. “I’ll bring her back tomorrow night. One more time, one more try.”

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On the Swing

On the Swing
by David Cain

We frequented a swinger’s club on the other side of town, a bar atop an ordinary hotel near the Interstate. Saturday night had us excited so we decided to make an evening of it.  I dressed like a swashbuckler, a loose white shirt and black pants. Silver dressed like a slut, in a good way. We made the long drive to the hotel, arriving in the dark. The freaks come out at night. A wedding reception blared from one of the banquet rooms. A small bar on the first floor hosted karaoke sadly. A forlorn guest sat down alone outside the party as though expecting to hear a mariner’s tale. The empty halls echoed and we found the elevators.

When I say Silver dressed like a slut, I mean she wore stockings and a thong under a too short skirt and a blouse that might give glances of her nipples as she moved. Every instant was a possible revelation, a tease, a whisper, a promise. What would be risqué for ordinary venues and tame for a house party was standard fare for this swingers club. Provocative was as good as we could get because they had a liquor license so they had to try to keep the party decent, maintaining a soft line of near-nudity and almost fondling that the swinging crowd didn’t bear easily and forever tested.

An elevator opened and we stepped inside, pushing the button for the top floor. The door hesitated and then started to close when a young man’s hand interjected and reversed the door’s direction. He stepped in with an apology, pressed a button and turned to face us as the door finally slid shut.

“Holy shit,” he said when he saw Silver in her slutty attire, got caught staring hard at the naked thigh between stockings and panties, a bulge barely covered by her too-short skirt. He shook his head in disbelief. “So there really is a swingers club on the top floor?”

“Yeah,” I said. Silver lifted her shirt, exposing her tight-tipped breasts to the guy.

His eyes bulged. “Can I show you my …”? he stammered. Silver looked at me and smiled. He pulled down his polyester jogging pants to reveal a semi-erect cock. Kneeling down, Silver expertly took the rising rod into her mouth. He came at once, in seconds, juicing into her mouth with a load groan. The elevator door opened. “My floor,” he said, short of breath. “527. Come by and I’ll introduce you to the guys.” The door closed as Silver retouched her lipstick.

The club was bumping, electric and fun, full of flashes and admonitions, thumping drum and bass beats, grinds, squeals and warnings, drinks and flirtations and frequent illicit glimpses of nipples, bums and shadowy cunts. Silver soon ran into some old friends and we joined their private party in one of the hotel rooms below.

A typical hotel hallway opened into a typical hotel room with two King-sized beds and a super-illuminated bathroom. The nudity restriction was reversed as naked bodies were visible in every direction. A woman led me to the sofa, sat me down and straddled me, shoving her wet cunt into my face. As my tongue began to work between her labial folds, I caught glimpses as another woman tugged my black slacks down past my knees. She licked her fingers, rubbed her pussy and stuck my erect cock into her hot damp hole.

Caught by the rhythm of the woman riding behind her, the pussy in my mouth began to flow copiously, twitch spasmodically and grind down hard while a roar of squeals rocked through the crowded hotel room.

As the women changed places, I managed to catch a view of Silver, surrounded by the bare asses of the guys from room 527, slurping on each hard prick in turn. A juicy cunt thrust herself into my tongue while another dripping twat engulfed my throbbing dick. The rest of the night was a blur of fucking and sucking and laughing and playing.

When we left the still-simmering party, sometime after five, the elevator was stuck. We cuddled together, Silver and I, exhausted and satiated, until they wrenched the door open and we embraced a new day.

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Faint Praise

(photo by me, of my wife)

Faint Praise
by David Cain

“Let me take that,” Mark said, reaching for her coat.

“Sure,” she said, putting down her guitar case and glancing at the short shelf of tattered paperbacks along the near wall. Mark tossed her wrap over the back of a tall rocking chair and putting down his black notebook, he leaned down to turn the switch of a lamp. The light glowed a pale yellow through the cloth shade. A slow rhythmic creak marked the fading reaches of black wool toward the wooden floor. “Nice place,” she said.

“Thanks. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll get us something to drink. Can I get you a beer, or a rum and Coke?” Mark glanced hopefully at his pretty companion as he started into the kitchen.

“Do you have any wine?” she asked, picking up a small indigo vase and then turning it over for a quick glance at the dusky underside. No price. She smiled at herself.

“I might. I might,” he called back from beyond the harshly lit doorway.

Strolling along the sofa, her finger trailing along the rough fabric of the flowered upholstery, she listened to the echo of her heels on hardwood. She fingered the leaf of a dry green ivy and then leaned over the table of plants to push aside a faded linen curtain, taking a quick peek at the view outside the small window.

“You’re in luck,” Mark said, carrying two fluted glasses glistening in pale pink. “I had one bottle left.” She took the wine glass and rang it gently against his. “To a beautiful performance,” he said. She blushed slightly.

“Thank you,” she said, taking a sip of the tepid wine. Her nose wrinkled slightly.

“You were really quite lovely,” Mark said, beckoning her to sit down. “I mean, it shouldn’t really matter, but it does. In this day and age, the image a performer presents is at least as important to her success as the way she sounds.” She sat down on the sofa timidly and took another sip of the wine.

“I didn’t think my set went very well,” she said.

“Nonsense. I mean the acoustics of the club are poor and I think that made you sound a little tinny, just a bit, and well, the audience was really unworthy of the music, but a real ear can sort past the situation and hear the musical qualities that hide underneath.”

“I don’t like the place,” she said, eagerly. “Jeff lets me play and at this point, that’s worth something to me, but the place is just gloomy and smoky and it all depresses me a little.”

“I know it does,” Mark said, softly touching her shoulder. “But I’ll bet we can arrange something more suitable. A good review should get the attention of, maybe Ed at the Wilderness.” Her eyes lit up at the words.

“I would love to play the Wilderness,” she said, her voice ringing with ambition and promise. He smiled and nodded.

“I know I can at least get you a spot with Jerry at Serena’s.”

“That would be all right,” she said, thinking seriously as she considered the possibilities. “I mean, I’ve played Serena’s a couple of times, but still, it’s better than the dump I did tonight.”

“Absolutely. A few good words in my column should go a long way in moving your career along.”

“I know,” she said. “They do pay attention to you. We all do. Are you really going to write up tonight’s show?” She wrinkled her nose and frowned slightly.

“I have to write about something,” Mark said, laughing. “Why not your show? You certainly entertained me. I can probably think up a few nice things to say about you.” He put his hand over hers and squeezed.

“But I can sing so much better, you know, when I’m in the right mood. I didn’t even know you were there until I was almost finished.”

“Your honesty came through. There was a magic to it all; a beautiful girl baring her soul over the clatter of dishes and the inconsiderate laughter of a bunch of sorry drunks.” Waving his arms, Mark acted out his vision of a rose blossoming in a tempest.

“It was terrible,” she said, her eyes wide in remembering. “I wanted to just pick up and go home, but I knew I had to keep singing.”

“It moved me, watching you struggle to perform under those conditions. But you rose above it and gave me a chill. I kept looking at you up there, and I knew something good was going to happen.”

“I saw you writing. It made me really curious. What were you saying about me?” She looked over at the black notebook on the table.

“Just notes, reflections, details to help me recreate the feelings you inspired.” Mark smirked, remembering his florid descriptions. “Like the way your eyes gleamed when you sang the chorus to, what was it? Riding?”

She leaned forward, excitedly. “Can I see what you wrote?” The faint outline of her nipples pressed through her tight blouse.

“Um, I’d rather not. You’ll see when I put the article together,” Mark said, taking hold of her hand. She frowned, disappointed. “It’s just that my notebook is kind of personal,” he said.

“Did you say anything mean about me?”

“No,” Mark said, playing with a loose thread in the flowered upholstery.

“Tell me the truth,” she said.

“Not at all. I just, well, I started writing about how beautiful you looked, while you were singing, and I wrote about how much I would like . . . to . . . see more of you.” Mark’s voice trailed off, suggestively.

‘How sweet,” she said. She paused, waiting for the kiss she knew would follow. Mark obliged her gently.

“I wrote that you were the most beautiful performer I had seen since, well, ever.” Mark whispered as he drew her closer, bringing her into his grasp. He fondled the swell of her breast, teasing her nipple through the fabric. She seemed to melt into his kiss, responding to his touch with a ready eagerness.

“I knew you could hear me,” she said, as Mark kissed her neck and slipped his hand under her shirt. “I could tell you were really listening.” Mark pushed the underwire up over her breast and pinched the stiffness of her nipple. She moaned softly.

“I wanted to see you perform,” Mark said as she kissed his strong jaw attentively. He pulled at her shirt, until she lifted it over her head and shook her fine whitened hair loose. “Mmm,” he said with a lascivious grin as he took a tit in his mouth and sucked as his hands slipped back behind her, and squeezed the fullness in her skirt.

“You’re so good,” she said, running her hands over his back through his shirt.

“I want you so bad,” he murmured, lifting her black skirt. She squirmed uneasily as Mark worked a finger around her panties into her the tight crevice between her thighs.

“Oh,” she said as Mark struggled to unzip his pants and push her panties down her thighs. “Wait,” she said, twisting herself slightly to let the thin fabric out from under her. She started to lean forward as he pushed his rigid prick between her pussy lips. “Oh.”

“I wanted to fuck you so bad,” he said, shoving his cock deep and she let her eyes close as he gave her an eager pounding, the sudden wild blows of impatient, anxious lust. He watched her titties bounce as he stroked steadily into her tight cunt, a stunning vision of beauty that touched his hungry core. “Incredible,” he said with a glimpse of her soft blue eyes. “Give it to me,” he demanded.

“Ooh,” she moaned almost ecstatic, “Fucking me good.”

Mark pulled his prick free and squirted his appreciation onto her pale muff, groaning in happy release. She reached down to rub the juice over her hairs, teasing her pale clitoris with a few rapid turns of her agile fingers and then sat up, pulling down her black skirt.

Mark leaned over to kiss her and then stood to zip himself back up. “You are fantastic,” he said. She pushed her arms through the straps of her bra. “Mmm,” he said, leaning over to kiss the last glimpse of her breasts. She picked up her blouse.

“I’m anxious to get started on your review,” he said, laughing. “I think I can find a few good words for you.” She picked up the wine glass and downed the warm alcohol in three long gulps.

“You’re sweet,” she said. “Just fabulous.”

“I’ll even give Jerry a call in the morning. I’ll bet we can get you onto a better stage.”

“That would be nice,” she said, standing. “I should probably go. You have some writing to do.”

“Yes,” he said, picking up her coat and walking toward the door. She picked up her guitar case and he handed her the thick wool cloak. “You are so beautiful,” he said, kissing her softly.

“You’re incredible,” she said, opening the door. “Really just incredible.”

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