Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

The morning started slowly, pounding with regret. I opened my eyes to a blaze of dull pain and moaned, my head throbbing as though it had been hit with a hammer. Still in the blue jeans and shirt I had worn the night before, I pulled myself out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. My prick bulged stiff with the need to take a piss.

Unzipping my jeans to do what had to be done, I pulled my dick out of his denim lair. The dank musk of sex drifted through the air. I smiled as I aimed my sturdy manhood, wondering where I had left the girl who had doused me with her aromatic scent. Relaxing, stroking myself as the last drops fell, I noticed that as my arousal grew, my headache seemed to fade. I briefly pondered the impact my discovery could have on the pain relief industry, but business doesn’t turn me on and my headache started to return. So I tried to remember the night before.

A pretty smile while titties bounced as she rode my thrusting prick.

Then it struck me. I had been drinking with Sarah. The sudden rush of memories hit me like a runaway train. Feeling pathetic because Melanie split for New York. Sarah’s lips engulfing my pecker, her little pink tongue caressing my staff. Forgetting our understanding. Pulling down those pretty flowered panties, down creamy thighs. Sarah’s love blossoming . . . velvet tight pussy, melodic laughter and groans . . . a heady drunk, taking advantage of our friendship . . . sucking her tight nipples, squeezing her soft ass . . . Bitch Melanie dumped me like a cold cruel bitch. Sweet Sarah fucked me like a raging banshee. Tears in my beer. Licking dewdrops off her swollen cunt petals . . . .


The bar was noisy and crowded. “Don’t you have plans?” I asked. “I’ll be all right.”

“Don’t be silly,” Sarah said warmly. Reaching across the table, she put her hand on mine. “This is what friends are for.” Sarah paused and turned her head quizzically. “Unless you’d rather I didn’t. Maybe I’m not the best person to talk to, about Melanie, I mean.”

“Nah, it’s all right,” I said bravely and took a drink of my beer. “I really don’t want to talk about her anyway.”

Despite this noble, sober thought, I’m pretty sure we spent half the evening talking about Melanie. Well, I talked about her anyway, while Sarah coolly listened. I don’t know how she took it, sitting there listening me lament through the waves of gooey love I still felt for Melanie breaking over the utter humiliation she had wreaked upon me. I remember Sarah smiling weakly, holding my hand and genuinely helping me ride out my emotional storm.

Sarah’s been in love with me for a year or so. She’s actually the younger sister of one of my college buddies, so I’ve known her for longer than that, but when Rich moved down to Dallas, Sarah realized I wouldn’t be stopping by anymore and she broke down and confessed her love for me.

Listening to this shy, pretty girl of twenty-two open her heart that way was one of the most touching moments I have ever known. Every sweet word that fell from her lips did its best to break my heart. I was engaged to Kendra at the time. Sarah knew that, knew her declaration was a cruel interference with a relationship I took seriously, knew she shouldn’t have said anything. She couldn’t help herself. I knew that.

And even with Kendra out of the picture, I couldn’t be in love with Sarah. Hanging out with Rich and me, she had been like a kid sister, fun and pesky. I liked Sarah – loved her in a family sense – but she wasn’t my type. I didn’t think so, anyway.

After her heart-rending confession, Sarah swore to me that all she wanted was to be friends. I didn’t take it very seriously at the time, and readily accepted the compromise, knowing it would stop her from crying. I didn’t want to send her away. More than that – I liked being adored by her, especially since it didn’t cost me much. We talked every now and again, catching up on gossip mostly, and then after Kendra split, we sometimes got together for a pizza or a movie. Just friends. Sarah really wasn’t my type.

When I met Melanie, Sarah quietly withdrew, faded into the shadows without a complaint. I didn’t intend to ignore her the way I did. I’m not a man who is really capable of weighing and balancing relationships and a gorgeous woman distracts me severely. Whatever nasty things I might say about Melanie at this point, I would by lying to say Melanie was anything other than strikingly beautiful – long legs, firm tits, high cheeks, rivers of hair. I’m really sorry she never let me take a few nude photographs. I’ll probably never have another woman quite so stunning.

But lovely as she was, Melanie dumped me for an New York architect and I don’t think she was even going to say anything except that I found the plane ticket in her planner when I went looking for a phone number. I wasn’t even suspicious then, but when I mentioned the trip, she became irritated and confessed the whole affair. And Melanie was gone.

I decided to go out and get drunk. I hadn’t been at Charing Cross twenty minutes when Sarah showed up. Someone must have called her. I wonder. I should ask.

I talked and we drank and I stopped telling her about my pain and started telling her stories about the troubles Rich and I got into at college, stories she had heard a dozen times before. Then I remember Sarah reaching across the table when I told her what a good friend she was and when she took hold of my hand, I lifted her fingers to my lips. The alcohol had rendered me a sentimental idiot by that time, and I wanted badly to express my gratitude to this angelic friend of mine.

Sarah sighed softly. My heart melted at the sound. Sarah loved me. What was I thinking?

“Let me take you home,” I said gallantly.

“All right,” she said with a blush that seemed terribly cute. “But I’d better drive.” I think she paid the tab because I don’t remember doing it. I’m not sure how that happened.

We drove back to her place without incident, which leads me to suspect that Sarah wasn’t very drunk, and she helped me up the stairs to her apartment.

“I’ll make some coffee,” she said. I plopped down on a fluffy tan sofa. I had never been inside Sarah’s apartment, but I felt immediately at home. There was just something comfortable about the place, about her, about us being together. I leaned back. From the kitchen, Sarah told me about when Rich helped her move.

“Mom told him to get this trunk that was our grandmother’s out of their basement. She’d packed it up for me with old dishes and towels and kitchen appliances that she’d saved and bought and stuff. When Rich got to their house, Mom and Dad were at Aunt Ida’s, so Rich took the wrong trunk, stuffed with forty years of paper records from Dad’s business. It probably weighed six hundred pounds, but Rich managed to drag it up the stairs, push it onto the truck, push it up my stairs and into my living room. Mom and Dad came over here in the meantime and were helping me clean the place. Rich collapsed on the sofa and Mom says, ‘what’s that?’ Rich looked up at her like she was crazy. ‘Rich,’ she says, ‘that’s the wrong trunk.’ Rich just shook his head. ‘No, it isn’t,’ he said. Mom tells him again that he brought the wrong trunk. Rich looks up at her and says real seriously. ‘Mom. No, it isn’t.'”

Sarah handed me a cup of hot coffee and sat down.

“So what did you do?” I asked, waiting for the molten java to cool.

“That’s it over there, under the television. Rich still insists that was the trunk he was supposed to bring.”

I drank the coffee, watching Sarah with blurry eyes as she told me more stories, and then my head cleared slightly and waves of affection began to pour through me. It was as though I was seeing Sarah for the first time, sitting in her living room at twelve-thirty on a Friday night, years and years after we’d met. She told a story about the dog she and Rich had when they were kids and I put my hand on the bare flesh of her lean thigh, just below where the short skirt ceased. Sarah stopped talking, mid-sentence.

“Oh,” she said finally. I rubbed gently, teasing the hem higher.

“Sarah,” I said, tickling her lightly. She laughed, breathing heavily, careful not to chase my roaming hand away. I squeezed the fleshy softness of her upper thigh. Pushing herself forward, she spread her legs to meet my fingers.

“Ooh,” she said as I brushed the yellow blossom print shrouding her damp cunt.

“Pretty flower,” I said, “lovely luscious flowers.”

Sarah gasped and pressed her veiled pussy closer to my touch.

“Let me kiss your petals,” I said, slipping to the floor to kneel between her legs. Sarah teased my hair as I pressed my lips against the yellow flower, filling my senses with her fragrant lusty scent. “Pretty flower,” I purred, stroking the faint lipped impression of her blossoming arousal.

Sarah pushed her panties down. I kissed the first glimpse of her pale brown curls, sat back as the flowers swept down her long thighs. I helped the colorful cotton slip down her calves and off while Sarah giggled and spread her pink petals wide. I kissed her taunt clit, felt her melt as my tongue tasted her nectar. Sarah shuddered and pressed her cunt closer, returning my kiss.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” she said. I looked up to see her joyful smile. “I have wanted so badly to be yours.” Sarah laughed, “Push a finger inside me. I always finger myself when I’m thinking of you.”

I drank a sip of Sarah’s warm juice and then tickled a finger between her wet velvet lips before slipping the stem deep inside. “Really?” I asked in a pause.

“Yes,” Sarah said as she unclasped her bra. “Being friends with you has been torture.” She pinched a stiff nipple as I invaded her cunt with one more finger. Sarah’s tart water poured over my palm. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to suck on your cock.”

I licked Sarah faster, excited by her lewd confessions.

“Oh, you turn me on,” she gasped. My fingers drove inside her with a crazed, intense rhythm. “Fuck, yes,” she cried, pulling my face hard against her jutting clit. “Fuck, yes. Fuck yes.” I gave another lick and Sarah exploded, her pussy quivering, her thighs clenching, her titties shaking.

I leaned back, smiling at the vision I had spread out before me; the soft folds of Sarah’s glistening quim, the black skirt bunched at her waist, ripe tits shuddering under her dusky nipples, a delighted smile and a smoldering blue-eyed gaze. I licked my lips, tasting the delicious musk smeared across my face. Sarah sat up and kissed me with unleashed desire.

“Let me,” she said, while she unzipped my jeans. “I’ve got to suck your cock.” Sarah quickly slipped down to suck the crown of my dick while she pushed my clothes off. I sat back on the sofa, Sarah engulfing my cock in her kiss, licking my shaft like a peppermint stick. “I’ve been dying to suck this prick,” she said, with a tease of her little pink tongue and a wiggle of her broad valentine ass.

“You’re a hot little bitch, Sarah” I said laughing.

“I’m your hot little bitch,” she said. My cock slipped deep into her self-pleased mouth. Sarah shook her white bottom gingerly as she excitedly sucked on my stick.

“I want to,” I said, pulling myself free of Sarah’s kiss to move behind her. Sarah tossed her blonde hair aside as she looked back to watch my progress and then waggled her ass to tease my approach. Looking down at the curve of her back, the swells of her bottom, feeling the moist touch of her pussy as my stick pushed her lips aside, I felt like heaven. I sank my stab deep into her cunt.

“Fuck, yes,” said Sarah, biting her lip and pushing back against my hip’s blow. “I knew you were a hot fuck.”

I squeezed Sarah’s ass, fucking her hard, thinking that this was a beautiful girl, wondering why I hadn’t done this before. Sarah moaned and swore as I drove myself inside her, destroying the pesky little sister image that had made us good friends and replacing it with a saucy wench picture that made me want to scream.

I backed off, pulled out and sat back. It was all so crazy, fucking Sarah this way. She didn’t waste a moment, but climbed onto me, pushing me back so she could ride my rigid stick. Her eyes shone with the ferocity of a hungry cat as Sarah dropped her cunt down along my cock. I groaned and Sarah started to thrust.

“You’ve always wanted me,” she said, her titties bouncing with each stroke of her hips. “I know you’ve wanted to fuck me.”

“I have,” I said. “I have.”

“Fuck my pussy,” she said.

“I am,” I said, “Fucking you bad.”

“You want me to fuck you?” she said.

“Fuck me, Sarah.”

“I’ll fuck you crazy,” she said, shaking her mane loose.

The desire began to run through my body and I couldn’t have stopped the explosion if I had tried, titties bouncing, vulgarity tripping past Sarah’s sweet smile, pussy riding tight, ass pounding. I poured my lust inside her cunt, throbbed and shook, tensed and fell apart.

“I love you,” she said. “I always will.”

We lay nestled in each other’s arms for a long time, whispering endearments.


I didn’t remember anything else, except that I woke up in my own bed, dressed in my jeans and shirt and still reeking of our mingled sex.

After a bowl of cornflakes and three cups of coffee, I sat down to think, contemplating at length the whole affair. As much fun as I had with Sarah, the prospect of losing her friendship worried me. On the other side, I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of Sarah thinking we were hitched up just because of our drunken ball. She’d been holding herself back for a long time, torturing herself, she said. I felt certain we couldn’t be friends, and I wasn’t ready to get serious with her.

Melanie had left me the day before. My whole life seemed confused.

I decided to call Sarah. I wanted to straighten things out, or at least find out where I stood. She answered the phone on the third ring.

“Sarah,” I said.

“You still alive, too?” she asked.

“Barely,” I said.

“I should be pissed with you,” she said, her voice laughing behind the stern words.

“I’m sorry, Sarah.”

“How could you let me get that drunk?” she asked.

“You?” I answered. “I was potted.”

“How did I get home?” she asked.

“I think you drove.”

“No way. I’m really pissed then. How could you let me drive?”

“You were supposed to be taking care of me, Sis,” I said.

“Oh,” said Sarah. “I guess you’re right.”

“Anyway, about last night.”

“You feeling better?”

“I feel great, considering.”

“Well, that’s something.”

“I just . . .”

“Can I call you back?” Sarah said. “I need to pull on a sweatshirt and pour a cup of coffee. It’s freezing in here. Hey, do you think we came back here and drank coffee last night? The pot was burned black when I woke up this morning.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Call me back.”

I hung up feeling even more confused than when I started the conversation. Was it possible that Sarah didn’t remember our wild episode? Surely, after the fucking I had given her, there was some evidence of our play to pique her curiosity. Was she pretending to protect me from what had happened? Did she just want us to just go on being friends? I considered every word she’d said, searching for clues, and I wondered.

Part of me felt a great relief at the idea that we could pretend it never happened and go on as before. Surely Sarah wasn’t my type. One thing felt certain, I needed a friend more than I needed a lover.

But it stung my pride, imagining that maybe Sarah didn’t know what pleasure I had given her, that the fuck she had wanted for so long had been lost in a drunken fog. Or that Sarah thought she’d taken advantage of me and felt ashamed. Or that she regretted our romp and was running from the memory. Or that she really didn’t care about me.

Finally too impatient to wait, I called Sarah.

“Hey,” she said. “What’s up?”

“Can I take you out tonight?”

“Sure. Anything in mind?”

“I’ll make the arrangements,” I said. “Something nice. Dress up, you know, something sexy.”

“Well,” said Sarah, “this is an unexpected surprise.”


“Sure,” Sarah said with a giggle. I stared hard at the phone.

I knocked on Sarah’s door at a few minutes after the hour. She looked ravishing in a tight black dress that makes me ache to remember. I handed her a bouquet of yellow roses I had picked up on the way over, an impulsive afterthought to mark our fresh start.

“Pretty flower,” Sarah said with a sly smile. “Lovely luscious flowers.”

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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