Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

When Rick asked me to go clubbing with him, the memory of several dull evenings spent listening to the monotonous complaints of his friends fairly advised me to refuse. The last time I went out with them was a miserable experience, plodding along from bad scenes to worse ones. Trapped without a ride to escape in, I had been forced to endure their tedious company until nearly four in the morning. I certainly didn’t want to go through that painful experience again.

But Rick convinced me to give them one more chance. A new club had opened by the highway and he was eager to explore the fresh twists of an untested environment. I relented, mostly for fear of the boredom of another Saturday night spent watching vids and smoking blunts alone. Rick picked me up at nine and I crammed myself into the back seat with some of his friends. In my gut, I knew going with them was a mistake but I went anyway.

The club had a sheen of newness; the cushions were plump, the bar stools unnicked, the chrome and mirrors shone with the intense glitter of disco lights and strobes. Rick’s friends weren’t as bad as I remembered them, or at least, they were in a better mood to party that night.  We ordered pitchers of beer and loads of greasy food and a few rounds of shots. Things were lightening up and I started feeling good.

I felt even better when I caught the eye of a pretty woman at a nearby table. I paid her no mind at first but occasionally, I noticed her staring at me, only to look away when I did. When she walked near our table, I stood up and confronted her.

“Hello,” I said in a dark, sultry voice. She smiled.

“Do I know you?” she asked, not in an accusatory way but as though she sought help finding an answer.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “More’s the pity.”

We danced; we sat and talked; we laughed.

“Hold on,” I said at once. “I remember you. We went on a date, like five years ago. A terrible date, as I recall.”

“No,” she said, looking closely at me. “I’d remember that.”

“Here,” I said, pulling out my phone. “Here’s a picture of me in college.”

“Oh my word. I remember him. That’s you? It’s rather hard to believe.”

“One and the same.”

“But he was such a jerk.”

“I know. I apologize. I look back at who I was and I can’t even believe it. I was crazy back then. It’s as simple as that.”

“You seem better now.”

“I am, I promise.”

“Let’s be fair, though. I was stupid back then too. And you weren’t that bad. Lots of terrible jokes, a bit of pushiness and a few inconsiderate demands.”

“I just remember it was a terrible date. I don’t remember why.”

“I do. Against my better judgement, I took you back to my place.”

“That doesn’t sound terrible.”

“It wasn’t, at first. We had a nightcap and danced to Sinatra.”


“That part was nice. Then we started making out, getting naked.”


“I remember you looked fine without your clothes.”

“I wish I remembered better. I’ll bet you did too.”

“We moved to my bedroom. We fumbled around for a bit.”


“Rubbing and kissing. Then you shot a huge load on my belly, groaned, rolled over and passed out.”

“Oh shit.”

“Such a disappointment for a girl. I took a shower and you didn’t move. So I had to wake you up with a bit of shouting and minor violence and finally you opened your eyes, grabbed your clothes and skedaddled.”

“I’m so … Look, I’ll see you around.” I got up to leave this bad story behind.

“Sit down. It was bad but that was ages ago. I’m over it. And I’m sure you’re a better lover by now.”

“I am, I swear.”

“What do you say I give you a redo,” she whispered to me, as though our plans were secret.

“A redo?”

“A redo; a do-over. Come back to my place, I’ll fix some drinks, we can dance and try another take.”

My eyes opened wide.


Her place looked familiar as we drove up and even more so when I stepped into her living room. I had been here before. I sat where I’d sat before.

“Tom Collins,” she said, handing me a tall glass.

“What’s that?”

“Lemonade and gin; it’s what we were drinking last time.”

“Is that wise?”

“It wouldn’t be a redo if we did it differently.”

“Okay, I said, so the Sinatra comes next?”


I had become a better dancer over the last five years and she appreciated it. I think that set the stage for our improved go. I still don’t remember what she looked like before, probably looked younger which can be better or worse but she looked great, cutting the rug in her apartment. I paid her compliments and she said sexy things. I’m damn sure I did a better job on the dance floor.

I took my time in the bedroom, going slowly, admiring and teasing and drinking it all in, inch by inch, joy by joy. As she bared her breasts, full and firm and succulent,  I felt a sharpness in my cock, straining to find room to grow in my pants as I sat on her bed. Her hand strayed to my erection and I began to grow concerned as the pleasure mounted.

It had been weeks since I’d been with someone. How much control would I have? My nervousness, invisible to her as my lips caressed her nipple, began to weaken the hardness I felt, starting down the dangerous path of losing my erection, leaving me searching for that middle ground between too aroused and not aroused enough.

I laid her down and spreading her legs, I nibbled on her clit, tongued the wetness of her cunt. Cunnilingus was a skill I had developed over the past five years and I think she appreciated the twist it added, prolonging our sex by a dozen minutes at least. She sucked my cock as I fingered her pussy, slipping a digit into her asshole for good measure, teasing myself with how exciting it was to play with this beautiful woman while she gobbled my dong. I took a deep breath at times, to still my racing heart, to delay the inevitable, to do myself proud this time.

Once we started fucking, I’m sorry to say, I didn’t last long; five minutes at the most. It was just too exciting, too delightful, too slippery, too perfect. She’s really a gorgeous woman and fucking her is too fine. Her ass is, well, just the way a pretty woman’s bottom should look. I think she came a bunch of times. I’m pretty sure. She seemed happy enough.

“That was better than last time, I’m betting,” I said as I tried to catch my breath.

“It was good, much better than before. But I’m thinking we could do much better. Let’s take that one as practice and redo again.”

And we redid and did it some more.



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, cannabis, dance, erotica, fiction, literature, literotica, personal, short stories, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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