In the Cards

In The Cards
Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

I am a scientist and a skeptic. I take logic and reason seriously. When I watch old Star Trek episodes, I most admire Mr. Spock for his relentless logic and endless fascination. I don’t care for Data from the Next Generation because while he enjoyed the nearly-perfect reasoning of a futuristic android, he suffered from Pinocchio syndrome, always wanting to be a real boy and embrace the panoply of a full gamut of emotions. I embraced the study of analytic philosophy. The world is all that is the case.

I’m telling you this because I feel like it is important for you to understand my skeptical attitude as I tell you this tale. I am not some astrological dope who believes that the spirits and the stars and the cosmic vibrations are responsible for one jot or tiddle of my life’s journey. I scoff at the power of pyramids and crystals and chi and any other inane voodooistic approach to living. Crap like that makes me angry. I hold the irrational in complete disdain. As I said, and would emphasize again, I am a scientist.

It was a Tuesday night in a bar in North Dallas when I met Rhiannon. She wasn’t what I would normally call my kind of woman. She had a disheveled quality, as though she was in a rush when she left and threw on whatever clothes she could lay her hands on. Her dark eyes seemed to stare past me as I sat down beside her and bought her a drink. Rings overpopulated her fingers and made tiny clinking sounds as she tapped the wooden edge of the bar. Her voice was low and quiet, as though she was always telling a secret.

“The problem’s all inside your head, you see.”

As things stand, I’m ashamed that I sat down next to Rhiannon and bought her a drink. I’m a happily married man, or at least, I am now. At the time, I was indeed married but I wasn’t really very happy. I wasn’t unhappy, either, but more like dissatisfied. My marriage to Kay had gone soft. We didn’t communicate any more. Somewhere between the exuberance of our beginning and the time in question, we had forgotten how to talk to each other. Not that we didn’t talk, because we did, but we didn’t talk about important things. We didn’t talk about sex.

An embarrassed silence hung between us like a shadowy curtain. I could see her but I couldn’t reach her. Sometimes it seemed like Kay wanted to talk to me, but every start stopped just as quickly. And then we would sit, in a silent shame, wanting to say things we couldn’t bring ourselves to say. We forgot how to communicate.

This had been going on for years, by the time I met Rhiannon. I sat down next to the witchy woman and coolly began to chat her up. Despite my inability to talk to Kay, I was a charming bloke, when I turned it on. Rhiannon seemed to enjoy my banter and it flowed from me with subtle provocation. If I wasn’t careful, I would be seducing her. I had no intention of being careful.

I don’t know when I started explaining my problems with Kay to Rhiannon. It isn’t entirely smooth, telling a strange woman in a bar about your problems with your wife, but it seemed to just come out of me.

“Let me give you a reading,” she said, taking my hand and leading me to a dark booth in the back of the saloon. I shrugged my shoulders skeptically. Who was I to say “no” to a beautiful woman?

“The cards never lie,” she said. I repressed a scoff out of deference to her. Normally, I would have loudly expressed my distaste for such nonsense, but there was something about Rhiannon, a feeling I got from her, that reined my rude inclinations. Besides, I thought, if I didn’t indulge her mystical foolishness, there was no way she’d let me fondle her boobies. Beneath her loose cotton blouse, I could tell this woman had succulent tits. So I played along.

I’m really not sure what happened next. Rhiannon laid an assortment of large colorful cards over the table. She handled the cards like a hustler from a New Orleans riverboat, flipping and rotating them confidently in her long-fingered hands.

“I see a woman,” she said in her deep sultry tone. “I see a woman sitting alone and she’s sad.”

“Kay,” I interjected.

“Exactly,” said Rhiannon. “You see here, Kay is sad because the words have left her. She cannot find her tongue.”

“Fascinating.”

“Yes. There is passion trapped within this woman, passion that must find release. She cannot open, see this here, this is the secret she has locked inside her, a secret that consumes her, a secret that she is powerless to reveal on her own.”

“That’s terrible.”

“It is terrible. But there is a man.”

“She has a lover?” I said, growing suddenly angry.

“She has an un-lover. There is a man she loves, who cannot reach her.”

“Who is he?”

“She will not speak his name. She cannot. All she can do is nurse her passion for the man.”

“Is it me?”

“She cannot say.”

“Or Doug. I she in love with Doug?”

“She cannot say.”

“I’ll bet it is Doug. She has always liked Doug.”

“There is a way.”

“Tell me,” I said, rising to my feet, ready to run, if need be.

“Sit,” she commanded and I obeyed. “There is a way.”

“Tell me.”

“Go to her. She will be sitting on a sofa, or perhaps a chair, working on something that she holds in her lap.”

“You’re right. She probably is.”

“Sit beside her. Take what she holds in her hands and lay it aside. Hold her hands in yours. Look into her eyes.”

“Sure.”

“Then softly say these words to her.” Rhiannon cast a look around the room, making certain no one else would hear. Drawing close to me, she whispered.

I repeated the incantation in the same soft tone.

“Exactly,” she said. “Now go.”

I left at once. Driving through the darkness, I repeated the words. It all seemed so crazy. How could a brief sentence end our misery? The skeptic in me returned full force. What was I thinking, listening to this gypsy nonsense? Of course, none of this would work. It was madness.

Even so, when I opened the door to our house and stepped inside, I found Kay sitting on the sofa, exactly as Rhiannon has predicted. There was a book in her hand and she barely looked up from it as I stumbled into the room.

I sat down beside her and took the book from her hand.

“Hey,” she said, “I was reading that.”

“Shh,” I said, taking her hand. I leaned over to my wife and whispered the words I had been given by Rhiannon. Kay’s eyes opened wide. All at once, she kissed me. All at once, all our troubles ended.

I don’t know how she did it. Rhiannon, I mean. I don’t know how she knew what would happen when I did what she told me. None of it makes any sense. I guess our destiny was all in the cards.

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Dancer

Dancer
Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

When Ellen suggested that we attend the ballet, I was suspicious. My response was guarded, displaying the reluctance I considered normal for a disinterested middle-aged male. Ellen didn’t seem to notice my response and made plans. Dinner, a new dress and a grand time at the ballet was her plan. I moaned a bit but was gracious in my defeat.

So I found myself taking my wife to see my ex-mistress dance. I was still suspicious but at the same time I felt certain that Ellen knew nothing of my affair with Della. The whole thing had been brief, intense, insane and over as quickly as it had begun. I certainly didn’t plan to have an affair and never expected to be involved in one.

Of course, we were seeing Tristan and Isolde. Ellen couldn’t have engineered that detail; the Universe conspired to make me uncomfortable on that evening, dramatically set with Wagnerian leitmotifs. I waited for the encounter with bated breath, waiting for Ellen to pounce with accusations. Guilt rose to blinding levels. I kept mum, clinging to my last shreds of hope.

Ellen dressed dazzlingly, every detail touched up to bring her natural beauty to bear in full glory, reinforcing her position as a force to be reckoned with, as pretty a woman as I’ve ever dreamed to know. Let me be clear: I love Ellen, I have always loved her, I will always love her. I overflowed with fear, knowing what I might lose.

I can make all the excuses in the world about my affair with Della but none of them excuse me. I was weak and I should always be strong. The best thing in the world would be for it to be forgotten, erased, disappeared, turn back time, it never happened, what never happened?

“Isn’t this exciting,” Ellen said as we waited for the orchestra to begin, for the curtain to rise. “I love dance,” she said. “Don’t you?”

I measured my response but lost my sense to romantic feelings, her beauty glowing in the subtle lights. “I’m happy anywhere I am with you.”

The ballet was long, beautiful and enchanting. Della danced better than I ever imagined anyone could. Maybe it was because I know her but the ballet really spoke to me, through her.

About one-third of the way through, a man danced across the stage.

“That’s him,” Ellen said with a muted squeal. “That’s Gary. I met him at the Windersons. Isn’t he gorgeous?”

I turned to look at Ellen, glowing like an enchanted schoolgirl in adoration of her heart throb. I had the strange feeling that if she met the young man, she might have attacked him. In naughty ways. I should have been jealous, I suppose, but I understand. No one is always strong.

“Dancers are just beautiful,” I said. “It’s what they do.”

 

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Sexy Almost Evil

Sexy Almost Evil
Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

We had been at the party for hours, drinking fairly steadily, until it was late, after one. Janice seemed caught in a conversation with some strange couple about injustice in different lands, at least, she wouldn’t acknowledge my subtle hints that maybe it was time to go. I felt too drunk to follow their conversation so I retreated to a sofa, to wait them out or fall asleep. I wished I had some more weed.

“I have some,” a woman beside me said, reaching into her clutch purse and extracting a long, fat joint. My eyes surely went wide with surprise, which she took for acquiescence and she snapped a lighter into flame and bathed the pinched paper end until it smoldered with thick grey smoke.

“I appreciate this,” I said, fighting back a harsh cough. “How did you know?”

“You had the sad look of a stoner without weed. I assumed.”

“Well noted,” I said, choking back another hit of the sticky sweet smoke. “Have you been here long? I mean, I’ve been here all night and I never saw you before.”

“We just arrived. Just off the job.” She took a deep draught off the doobie and held the hit in without struggle. I was no light-weight and I was fighting to keep even a bit of the monster dope down. When she released her hit, the smoke was faint, barely there, as though she had absorbed every molecule of the drug into her lungs.

“We’ve been here all night,” I said, relaxing through every muscle until I nearly sprawled across the cushions. “It was getting a bit dull.”

“But not any more,” she said in a way that made me think we were up to something more than just sharing a big reefer on the sofa. Like a wink or a little air kiss but even more subtle. I noticed then that she was very pretty, very attractive, something special in the sexy department. Tits and ass and what a fine mouth.

“Who do you know?” I asked, lacking anything better to say.

“No one. I’m a friend of a friend.”

“I see. Well, a friend with weed is a friend indeed so you can count me as your friend, no doubt.” I held up her joint and tried another big hit. I coughed until it hurt.

“Are you all right?” she asked with a hand on my knee, very concerned.

I nodded for a minute before I could voice an answer. My cock noticed her hand before I did, springing to life within my pants, inching quickly toward the pressure of her fingers on my thigh. When did she move from my knee to my thigh?

“Great weed,” I said. Her fingers grazed the bulge of my thick dick.

“I love it. It’s the kind that makes you feel happy and sensual. Every touch is like electric magic. The aroma, the purrs, the sizzle.” Then she whispered close to my ear. “Sex is the best.”

My addled mind raced, tight with desire, muddled with intoxications. Screams within rattled me. Fuck the pretty lady. I sent my imagination down the fast course of picturing her naked, sucking my cock, lying beneath me, kneeling before me, all in a slurry of seconds, calculating time, space and energy, where and when and how and now. My cock twitched. I began to lean.

Then I remembered Janice, just in an instant, just for a moment, just long enough to lead me to turn to look her way.

When I looked back, the pretty lady was gone. She took the roach with her. My eyes searched to no avail. My cock throbbed and subsided, forgetting all the excitement to slumber again.

Janice told me it was time to go and so we left. I thought to ask someone, anyone, but I realized I didn’t even know what to say, how to describe her. She was sexy, almost evil.

 

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Ballet

Ballet
Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

I had reached the point where I never missed the ballet. You wouldn’t know I loved classical dance by looking at me, supposing that they have a look other than tuxedos. I’m usually a pretty ordinary guy, watching sports, going hiking, woodwork, boating, all that masculine junk. I got hooked on ballet when I was in my early twenties. I dated a ballerina.

We dated for about three months and she was incredible. I was demanding and she didn’t have time for my shit and she went on tour and I never spoke to her again. On the other hand, I never missed one of her shows. At first, it was a stalker sort of thing. She may have dumped me but she couldn’t stop me from paying admission and admiring her. It sounds creepy, I know. I was sometimes a schmuck when I was young.

After a month of three ballets a week, I’d forgotten about her. She was just another dancer in a vast production, layers upon layers of magnificent beauty, subtle, ethereal, transcendent motion through and beyond emotion. My heart throbbed with every reaching, leaping, turning, bending measure of sparkling orchestrations. I belonged to the old gent on third violin as much if not more than to my lost lover, chorus girl number three.

I haven’t been able to stop; collecting every video I could find, beyond Nureyev and Fonteyn, through MacMillan and Balanchine, Misha and the ABT, Russia and Denmark and France and London, admiring, studying, memorizing, gushing over and lusting on.

On Saturday, she was dancing Swan Lake, on the telly, the one I dated twelve years ago. Just a minor role, but it was good to see her on stage again.  She hurt herself a few years back, tore her knee. No one thought she’d ever dance again, but there she was, on stage, on television, for all the world to see.

I was young when I met her; I certainly had no appreciation for ballet at that stage of my life. She was just another woman, a bit on the skinny side but strong and limber. Her physical attributes and abilities caught my attention, in core artistic ways, meaning lustfully. Every move she made was like an explosion in my eyes, my heart and my cock. I couldn’t get enough of her. She soon had enough of me.

She was a Balanchine dancer, so her body was of that type. The legs and butt on that woman were a glory to behold. On stage, she made us all melt with desire and love and lofty feelings of transcendent madness. At my apartment, just as beautifully gifted but stark naked, that’s when things went soaring into the stratosphere, zooming to some distant planet of goddamn fucking ecstasy.

The fact that I used to touch her, take her, lick her, fuck her, oh yes, the fucking of the her, that fact remains a miracle presumed to be the result of some passing saint. What good deed had I done to give karma cause to bestow such an orgasmic series of days on such a mortal slob? I’ve searched my past for some explanation of how it came to pass, of course so that I could at least make some attempt to put myself in the path of success. But I have nothing. I had nothing. I was just a good looking youth. The goddess came down to earth and bestowed joy upon me, a lifetime of memories and a love of dance.

Enough for now; I’m off to the ballet!

 

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Breaking Up is Hard

Breaking Up Is Hard
Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

Note: I wrote this almost three years ago. Seems like yesterday.

Fiction is made up stuff. This tale is fiction. I’m serious, Mark. I made this up. . . .except the part where I called you a fool. That part is true. You were a damn fool.

~~~

As the floundering ship sank, I was pulled into the whirlpool.

I’m almost embarrassed I let it happen, and yet all things considered, I won’t complain about the turn of events. Life sometimes makes things happen that maybe ought to happen, and I don’t know that we have all that much say in the matter.

Normally, I would have saved a story of my love life for a night on the town with my best friend, Mark, instead of blabbing the whole thing to the fictional underworld, but under these particular circumstances there are advantages to confessing to an anonymous crowd.

It was a Friday, and I was wrapping things up in the office, pulling a few more documents to check over, writing my initials a few more times, and dodging two of the clerks who were working in tandem trying to tag me with a dog case. The phone rang and I hesitated, not really anxious to open another can of worms, but there was still thirty minutes to kill, and there was always the chance it was a personal call. I had no plans for the evening, and was hoping that would accidentally fix itself. Accidents happen.

“Steve Kahl,” I said, trying to sound busy, just in case.

“Hi, Steve,” she said. It was a sad sultry voice that sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. “This is Karen.”

Six weeks ago, my best friend Mark broke off a long term relationship with Karen. I liked her – I always had – but Mark had a penchant for roving after young women, and as the lies got thicker and the excuses got lamer, I started advising him to stop being stupid, get it over with and break things off with Karen. I knew I should have minded my own business, but if you can’t meddle in your friend’s life, when are you ever going to get a chance?

“Are you busy?” she asked.

“No, I’m just wrapping things up.”

“I mean tonight. I really need someone to talk to.”

“Look, Karen, ” I said, proving I had some loyalty, “I don’t think that would be such a good idea. Mark is a close friend, and . . .”

“I know,” she said sorrowfully, “I don’t want to cause any trouble. It’s just that I’ve always considered you a pretty good friend myself, and I just thought maybe you could help me understand everything that’s happened.”

I know I should have said “no” and let her find another way to cope with my wayward friend’s poor taste. I could easily come up with a dozen reasons to keep myself from this denizen of trouble. But I’ve never been one to walk away from a hornet’s nest, especially when it had so much potential to blow up in my face, especially when it involved an attractive woman looking for a sympathetic shoulder. I’m not a good person, but I live a rich life.

I held my breath when I rang the doorbell. Footsteps preceded the shift of wood, and Karen stood in the doorway, demure and alluring, her eyes alight with mischief, and a barely audible “Hello, Steven,” on her lips.

When I had first met Karen nearly ten years before, she had been as thin as a wisp, strung out on reefer and Bowie. Time had served her well, as a few extra pounds helped her from the junkie look into something a tad more feminine. Dark eyes drew me into the apartment, and soft hips neatly captured in a jean skirt sat me down on a sofa. A drink appeared in my hand and a thick joint touched her red lips.

“I’m tired of trying to hold myself back.”

“That’s good,” I said weakly, wondering how far my moral obligations of friendship ran. Karen tossed her thick mane of dark brown hair into a unkempt mess around her pretty, round face.

“Mark treated me shitty,” she said carelessly. “We both know it.”

“He is who he is – you knew that – and he only did what is natural for someone like him. Look at his dad; like father, like son, they say.” I said, my eyes caught staring behind the top button of her white cotton blouse, into the deep cavern of cleavage.

“You’re his friend and I respect that, but I also know you did your best to make him treat me better.”

“You deserved better,” I said truthfully, somehow feeling I had fallen into a trap. I made no effort to free myself and she passed me the thick piece of weed. I took a deep drag, and watched the slow spread of her thighs, waiting for that first glimmer of panty. She stopped just shy, and stood up.

“Did you know he wouldn’t fuck me?” She swayed to the slow mambo of a soulful Santana song.

“Yeah,” I admitted. “I think he told me every time you two had sex. You know Mark. He loved guy talk.” I blushed, remembering the intimacy I had witnessed by hearsay. “I know it’s a little twisted, but I really liked those particular stories. And I gathered the shop had closed when he never mentioned doing it with you anymore.”

“I couldn’t even get a rise out of him, toward the end. I guess the other girls we’re wearing him out.”

“He’s always been a bit of a fool.” I said, feeling a twinge of guilt, an emotion which was quickly washed away as Karen undid the top button of her blouse.

“Once I even dolled up real nice for him, playing the tramp because I was getting so goddam horny, and do know what he did? He looked up from his fishing magazine, rolled his eyes and told me he was tired. I thought I looked great.” Karen lifted her skirt and whirled her ass, a round bulb of creamy flesh covered in baby-blue lace, swirling before my eyes in a hypnotic circular motion.

“He told me. I smacked him upside the head when he told me that story.”

“Did you? I’m surprised he told you. He should have been ashamed. I guess he did tell you everything. Hell of a lot more than he ever told me.”

“I haven’t been able to get rid of the image since.”

“What image?”

“Of you in a white lace teddy with garters and stockings, lips dark and sensuous, eyes burning with a gleam of lust.”

“Steve.” She spoke low. “You’ve been thinking of me, dressed like that, ever since?”

“Yeah,” I told her with an embarrassed grin.

“Well . . .”

Karen took hold of her shirt front and ripped it apart, sending tiny white button flying across the room. Her breasts, round and full like two Florida oranges, jutted toward me, eagerly, almost menacing me with the sharp nubs of hard, dark nipples. I reached out my hand and gave her full left tit a squeeze. The fruit felt ripe, and I drew it into my hungry mouth. A glimmer of perspiration tasted salty as I suckled her warm bosom.

“I’ve been a fool,” she said between soft moans. I tossed her down on the sofa, and smiled.

“Yeah, I thought so,” I told her. I pulled her thin panties out from under her tight skirt. I pressed my tongue against her scarlet clit. She tasted of fire, swirling in moist desire.

“Forgive me,” she said in a dark voice.

I lapped the dark chasm of her cunt, kneeling before this delicious, beautiful woman, devouring her sensitive heart, so long ignored. I drowned a finger in the burning hole while I felt her release years of maddened passion. She screamed wildly, pulling my hair, pulling my face into her pussy, pulling me into her.

I sat back to admire my handiwork, her cunt pulsating still with the final gasps of her orgasm. Karen was a deliberate, thoughtful woman, and I had known I could trust her to enjoy herself. I undressed myself slowly as she studied me with her smoldering gaze. When I dropped my shorts to release my angered rod, she quickly sat up and took it into her lovely mouth.

Her lips rang the shaft and her tongue played a tune along the length. I had seen Karen for so many years as a friend – a woman of a friend – a woman I had best not consider, and seeing her this way, with my cock in her mouth made me wild. I wanted her to suck me, to know that I wanted her, to feel my power as I gave her back to herself. I wanted to ease her doubts and help her live.

I lay her back onto the sofa, and buried myself into the warm confines of her furry opening, pumping this vixen with all my soul. I withdrew and rolled her over so I could take her from behind and admire her round buttocks and long back, sweaty and capturing loose strands of her dark mane as she flailed her head from side to side. I put my arms around her to squeeze her tits, feel their loose sway as they rocked to my beat.

I lay myself down and drew her on top of me. Karen smiled in a spark of nasty delight as she guided my prick into her pussy and began to take the bouncing ride. I firmly grasped her ass to help sustain the raging pace of our fuck, and salivated as her titties bounced, the milky-white mounds taking their own pleasure from our congress. I looked into her dark eyes, so warm, so intelligent, so friendly, so full of desire and devotion and of love, and I lost my control and shot my passion deep inside of Karen.

My cock was still inside her as she kissed me, and we kissed and fucked until dawn.

The only thing I can’t figure out is how to tell Mark. He’s bound to find out, and the best thing would be for me to tell him. I just don’t know how. Breaking up is hard to do

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Turn Around

Turn Around
Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

Driving home at two AM, I began to wonder why.

She’d asked me to stay with her and I wanted to stay, to spend the night, to finish what had been started, to lounge in the beauty of our evening together until dawn broke and I smelled the sunlight in her hair as she slumbered in my arms. But I left, started the long drive home. Found myself wondering why.

I met her three weeks ago, installing a telephone line. She lived way out of town, the furthest reaches of our territory, beyond the furthest customer I’d serviced. I was in the office when she came to arrange service. I gave her the form and she wrote her name and address and number. I snatched the form and scheduled the service call for myself. I wanted her the moment I saw her. She was fine, my kind of fine.

A week later, two weeks ago, I drove out to her house to install the line. She looked beautiful, smiling wide when she answered the door. We spoke briefly at the office and she didn’t know I would be doing the service call but she seemed delighted to see me. I did the install efficiently and gathered my tools. She offered me a soda. I sat down and took a drink.

This business has taught me about people. I know about how people get lonely and just want to talk about anything with anyone. I know about people with wants and desires, who will push and pull in strange ways to get to some unspoken personal goal. I know about friendly and angry and impatient and nurturing and excited and repulsed and adored and abused. I know how people are. This wasn’t like that.

We got along like old friends. We spoke the same language, mostly. We remembered the same things. We took an interest in each other. The soda lasted almost two hours. I had to get back to the office. I asked if I could call her. She hoped I would.

I struggled hard to play coy and somehow managed not to call her for three days. I didn’t want to frighten her with the explosive attraction I felt for her. I knew I had to play smart. I basked in the warmth I still felt from being near her.

When I finally called, it was as though I’d never left. We picked up right where we left off. I immediately realized I could have called her anytime and she would have been glad to hear from me. I had wasted three days, playing a game that we didn’t play. I cursed myself and vowed to stop wasting time. I asked her out.

We were going to go to dinner and a movie but we never left the restaurant, talking over coffee until the staff nudged us out. I took her home and left her with a kiss. There was a half-hearted mutual desire to end the evening in bed but the late hour made it seem too foolish to pursue further. She invited me over for dinner. That was tonight.

She cooked. I fixed us a drink. We talked and ate and talked and drank. Music played. She sat down beside me. We kissed.

She touched me where I needed to be touched. I squeezed every bit of her body in my hands, exploring, devouring, adventure, knowledge, every moment discovering a new playground. She sucked on me as I prodded and caressed her wet entrances to a calypso beat. All passion welled within me, heated desire and a completion in yearning. Everything I wanted, I had. Everything I was, she loved.

We twisted and turned in damp rigidity through every relevant facing, laughing through bursts of loving needs. Orgasms hit us like lightning, seconds that passed in hours in the release and enfolding of everything we were, together. We collapsed and laughed and couldn’t quite stop.

I don’t know what made me get up and leave. Maybe it was all too much, too much feeling, too much spent. I felt confused, disoriented, almost afraid. I gathered my clothes. I wasn’t even thinking.

She asked me to stay. I mumbled something, my keys already in hand. We said goodbye.

I drove away. I asked myself, why did I leave.

And I turned around.

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Mr. Fipps

Mr. Fipps
Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

“Isn’t Mr. Fipps married?”

Pete finished his shrimp. “Single. They divorced about three years ago.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“I’m surprised. It was a huge scandal.”

“No kidding? I thought Fipps was pretty straight.”

“Ha! No, not quite. He had that image but not any more.”

“What happened?”

“She left him and asked for a divorce. He wouldn’t give her one and she didn’t really have grounds. So she took him to court and won. So it’s all a matter of public record.”

“She didn’t have grounds but she won? How did that happen?’

“She was having an affair, met a guy, fell in love, moved in with him.”

“So Fipps has grounds for divorce.”

“But he refuses to sue for divorce or to grant her one.”

“She’s stuck.”

“Except that the whole things was Fipps’ idea. He instigated the affair. She engaged in the affair at his behest.”

“He told his wife to have an affair.”

“Not just once, but dozens of times. Seems that Mrs. Fipps was a randy young lady when they first married. He caught her in bed shortly after the wedding, screwing the milkman or something like that. He didn’t bust in but stood just out of sight, peeping the adultery. Apparently, it really turned him on. But it wasn’t seeing Mrs. Fipps enjoying the company of another man that made him horny, it was her cheating on him that made him wild. She’d cheat and he’d be waiting for her when she came home. Lots of sex. You wouldn’t think so to look at him but they were animals.

“A few years into the marriage, things cooled down. Mrs. Fipps didn’t have affairs because there really wasn’t time in her schedule for dalliances. Natural enough but it started driving Fipps crazy. He wasn’t going to be happy unless his wife engaged in extramarital affairs. So he told her about his obsession. It amused her, so she went along with it, making time in her day to meet a man or two. She was happy, Fipps was happy, everything was hunky dory.”

“This goes on for years. Sometimes she cheats infrequently, once every few weeks while other times she gets busy and it becomes a daily ritual. Decades.”

“So then she meets a guy, falls in love with the fact that he doesn’t insist she have affairs and moves on. He said no and she said yes and the courts agreed.”

“I never would have imagined.”

“Every office has a story.”

 

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