Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

I don’t know what happened.

I took Tracy to the lake house for the weekend. It was good to get away. The weather was nice. We were having a great time together, for the first time in a long time. We’d been teasing each other all day and hurried our way through dinner so we could get a little drunk and enjoy some sex in the great outdoors.

Not that we were planning on doing it in the woods. The bearskin rug or sofa or bed, in the cabin, in the outdoors. But the wine worked perfectly and she was on me as bad as I was on her, tongues and fingers and cunts and cocks. It was like we were young again, discovering sex for the first time. We couldn’t get enough.

We went out on the screened porch to cool down and drink some water and were back at it again. She went crazy sucking my cock. The sounds of a nearby party erupted out of the darkness, a tinny sound system turned too loud with bumping good music, laughter and shouts and weird rebel yells. We didn’t mind, adapting the rhythm of our fucking to the thin bass beat and I even yelled in an expression of pleasure.

It then occurred to me that all around us was darkness. If they weren’t very far away, and they sounded pretty close, they could easily see us backlit by the house lights. Modesty made me shrink but pride made me grow.

“They’re watching us,” I said.

“I know,” she replied, writhing lustfully against my steely cock. There was fire in her eyes and a rut in her loins. We went at each other hard, excited, eager and wanton.

“Let’s go outside,” she said. “Outdoors.”


“The table. The picnic table.”

A big cushioned chair caught our attention before we reached the table so we climbed onto the thick padding, naked and aroused. She swallowed my dick in her mouth before I knew where I was. My hand stroked the sloppy excitement of her randy pussy. Twists and turn brought her cunt to my mouth and then moved again to jam on my cock. The fucking locked with the music and squealed.

They were standing around us, twelve hippies or punks or whatever we call young adults at a party these days, cheering us on, matching my strokes with a symphony of grunts, cries and screams. Again, modesty fought pride but the cunt I was fucking held more sway than these clowns. So I gave Tracy all I had and she seemed to be playing the same song.

We sat around talking to the youths, strangely comfortable with our nudity, intoxicated by the flirtations of so many attractive men and women. We headed back to their party, still completely starkers. Two of the guys walked beside Tracy, a hand on each cheek of her naked butt. A blonde babbled at me and my dong bounced in the darkness.

At first it was just drinking and dancing, singing and laughing, fat joints and sexy looks. Then things migrated into their beach house and the clothes came off. Their clothes, obviously, as we left ours behind. Fucking and sucking and kissing and next please.

Six hours later, I woke up on the floor, still naked, a bit sore. I went to find Tracy. She was sandwiched between two guys on the sofa, half-consciously pawing each other as they drifted in and out of sleep.

“C’mon,” I said, “let’s go.”

“Nope,” she said. “I don’t want to go.”

I tried to talk to her but she wouldn’t listen. Then the guys on the sofa decided that I was done harassing my wife. They asked me to leave. Eventually, I gave in and left.

I haven’t seen Tracy in a few weeks. I’ve talked to her on the phone but she doesn’t want to come home.

I just don’t know.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, erotica, fiction, literature, literotica, personal, short stories, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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