Spooky

At the moment I'm out working (having scheduled this post beforehand), and anyway most people probably celebrated Halloween before now, but suffice to say that it is in fact All Hallows' Eve, and thus it seemed like the time to say Happy Halloween or whatever you call today, if you commemorate it at all.  I've grown too old and tired for costumes and too busy for much in the way of fun, but were I to be wearing a costume and having fun, here's an artist's rendering of what I'd probably look like.

Before you ask, no, it's not me, nor do I know from whence it cometh.

And here I told a Halloween story which was eaten by Blogger for reasons beyond my ken.  It was okay, but I can't type it again.  It wasn't really a Halloween story anyway, more of a story which happened to fall around Halloween.  You're not missing a whole lot.  Some, but not a whole lot.  Go back and read one of my other Halloween stories instead, because they're sexier.

Flash Fiction Friday - The Post-Modern Prometheus

There was nothing more I could do for her. I had tried everything, but still I cursed the fates as I sat, listless, before her corpse, slowly decaying, cold and dead. Then I remembered the musty book I had seen in the library, rushed to it, pulling it open, searching, searching... and found my heart's desire. New life surged through me, as it would through her...

They called me mad! Mad? I am saner than the soberest man. I shall have her back, I swear it by the God that has forsaken me! Mad?

And now her flesh was warm to my touch, and I waited, breathless, for her eyes to open, to greet me with a smile...

No. No movement. The warmth was merely the heat of decomposition. The stench was terrible. The incantation was a failure. I threw the book from me in disgust, knocked over the candles, obliterated the pentacle, then sank, spent, into the armchair.

I sat there, cock softening, wondering if I could get in a quick one before she completely went to mush. Mad? She charged $250 an hour and I'll be damned if I don't get my money's worth.

I held my breath and made do.

---

Yeah.  If I haven't mentioned it, I'm drained.  This could have been funnier or more interesting or more sexy or all three, but it is what it is.  I confess a lack of motivation based on the picture alone.

And now, some random thoughts: Frankenstein is the doctor.  His monster is usually called Frankenstein by the uninitiated, but the monster has no name, and is certainly not Frankenstein.  The subtitle of Frankenstein is The Modern Prometheus, hence my titular reference.  Everyone remembers Prometheus as the guy who is chained to the rock and has his liver pecked out by eagles every day (that is, if people remember him at all), but that was because he gave fire to man in violation of the gods' will.  Some legends equate fire with life; others say that Zeus (the king of the gods, in case you missed Clash of the Titans) also withheld the means of life from humanity.  This was all premised on some other legends where Greek gods prove just how capricious and jerky they were.  Thus, Frankenstein, the eponymous doctor, is a modern Prometheus because he violates God's will and gives life to a corpse.  It's not a perfect analogy, but then what is.

Interestingly, in retribution for the theft of fire, Zeus sent Pandora to live with man, and she had her box (everyone knows about Pandora's box, right?) with everything bad in it, and thus one could draw a comparison between fire causing great sorrow and defiance of death causing great sorrow as well.  That Pandora had a "box" rather than, say, something less suggestive, has led unenlightened commentators to suppose that the vagina is the root of all evil.  But fuck them.

I figure that, if someone came up with the means of creating life and they were a man, they'd make a woman first because who wouldn't want to create the perfect sex toy?  Okay, many people wouldn't, but the people who would go to the trouble to come up with the mechanism to create life might.  Or maybe not.  But there are some people who would really like a living RealDoll.

Frankenstein is also often supposed to have either used technology or magic, but in reality, he's something of a Renaissance man; he discovers clues in the past but uses the technology of the present.  It's not an indictment of technology, but rather of knowledge.  But then it's not really about that either; it's all about bad parenting.  Babies are pretty disgusting when they come out, and if we rejected them because of it, they'd probably grow up to be maladjusted serial killers too.  So, be good parents or else your little monster will wind up destroying everything you hold dear and then going off into the Arctic.

It's also always assumed that the monster is horrible to look at, misshapen, ugly, etc.  I think the uncanny valley provides a much better reason why Frankenstein's monster turned out ugly; it's close to human, but not quite.  It's horrible to look at because it reflects the horror in ourselves, because its life isn't quite real, because it reminds us of what we've done.  And yet, the monster is more human than his father, in many ways.

In conclusion, don't blame the monster.  He's a person too, with faults and features, and if he'd just been raised a bit better, if Frankenstein had taken responsibility for his actions, who knows what might have happened?

That was all much more interesting than my piece this week because my piece this week was about having sex with a stinky prostitute corpse because you can't bring it back to life.  Yeah.  Yummy.  How can you stand to be left out of Flash Fiction Friday, that can inspire such greatness?  You should read Frankenstein too, if you haven't already.

In and Out

In.  The first touch of the head on my labia, moving them firmly aside, feeling them spread over like water that follows the contours of it until it opens the passage within, the edges of the head like a speed bump, a dip in the road.  Then the entrance.  The vagina is actually quite shallow, much more shallow than a cock is long, at least at first.  Even after foreplay, after aching for penetration, the cock is an intruder.  For an instant, the natural defense tightens even the most practiced cunt.  But he is an intruder who is meant to intrude.  Why else would the parts fit together so perfectly?

Out.  The gentle suction as the piston of the plunger is pulled back.  I often wonder if sex can produce a vacuum within me.  It feels like that, when he's been all the way in, to the root of me, and he has to pull out sometime otherwise there's no sex, just penetration.  Not that I don't enjoy the penetration alone, but without movement, it's not complete.  I haven't grown used to him yet, this early.  My muscles still ease back into their old position as he exits, as if they expected that to be a one-time thing.  It's just the suction, the loss of warmth to the vacuum that may or may not exist.

In.  The first time I wanted it, needed it.  Now, no matter how much I know he's coming right back, after the first withdrawal I'm surprised he returns.  Maybe not in my brain, but my body is surprised; the flesh was just beginning to feel normal without him there, and here he is again, warm and hard and thick.  It kindles the desire, rekindles it, inflames it, throws gasoline on it.  I never want him to leave again.  I want to have him inside me always.

Out.  The second retreat is easier, quicker, less time to get used to the idea of it, building up to a rhythm which will see further penetrations and withdrawals.  He's not even all the way out this time, not most times, not when he's not teasing me.  The cock head stays securely inside me, the lips moved up and down his shaft by the thrusts.  Now, when he pulls back, my body wants him back.  It's like holding your arms up for a long time; you want to let them fall.  He was supporting me, and now the support is gone.  I feel like I might cave in.

In.  More quickly, less thoroughly.  I've grown deeper, like a pool that only seems shallow above the water, but when you dive in, the light tricked you and the bottom is miles away.  Only if he dives very deep will he touch the bottom now.  He's not looking to touch the bottom; the splashing is what we enjoy, most times.  Fully wet, completely lubricated, he can slide in and out of me, and if he does it in rhythm with my own movements, it's like he's within and without simultaneously.

Out.  I don't even notice it now.  I know he's coming back.  Maybe we had to switch positions, and there was a brief moment where my insides got used to the idea that maybe that was it.  Maybe I came, and the spasms drove him out for an instant.  But I can feel his energy there, ready to press into me again, and each penetration, each thrust, has merged into one long movement, unable to pick out the individual moments, just a continuum.

In.  Out.  In.  Out.  In.  And he grips me tight, and presses deep, deeper, and then if I can feel anything at all I feel the surge as he begins to cum.  There's a moment, just before the actual fluids, which I think should count as the beginning of orgasm, the moment when anticipation has reached its climax, when what is to follow is a foregone conclusion.  He stiffens, his breath catches.  When the shots are fired, things are remarkably still, compared to the rest of the activity.  The pulses are forceful, but they don't move.  He may press, but he seldom does anything but tense and relax.  Sometimes I feel the spurts of his semen as they splash against my womb.  Sometimes not.  It almost doesn't matter, after what has gone before.

Out.  At last.  He can't stay.  He may stay next to me, we may warm each other, even work up to another heady climax, but in the end, there must be a final retreat.  Until next time.

Everything/Nothing

Suppose we take the proposition that a lack of sleep leads to a lack of energy.  And suppose that a lack of energy leads to a further lack of interest in anything fun.  And suppose that sex is included in those things which are fun.  And suppose that a lack of interest in sex implies a lack of sex itself.  And suppose further that both a lack of interest in sex, a lack of energy, and a lack of having sex lead to a lack of blogging.  Thus:

! sleep -> ! energy

! energy -> ! interest(fun)

sex ∈ fun

! interest(fun) -> ! interest(sex)

! interest(sex) -> ! sex

! interest(sex) && ! energy && ! sex -> ! blogging

Thus:

! sleep -> ! blogging

Lexi hasn't been sleeping, thus Lexi has nothing to blog about.  QED.

There, now you know symbolic logic.

I haven't been sleeping well, my mood is poor, most of my sexual opportunities are limited by location and energy, and basically if I were to blog right now, it would be both poorly-written and boring (viz the preceding and forthcoming words).  Basically, all I have the energy for is to watch sitcoms and desultorily masturbate.  Seriously, I've been wetting the wanton weasel (which really works better for boys, but I'm going to use it anyway and laugh, haha) extremely perfunctorily; I just want to get off and go back to not having to exert much effort at all.

I could excuse all this by saying that I'm in a moment of down-time and I'm just decompressing, except I'd rather decompress more effectively.  It's not making me feel any better.  And I like to sleep more, rather than less, when I can sleep in.  Starting very, very soon, I shall be hip-deep in shit again, and I really wish I could get my body to cooperate and let me have a decent night's rest for a few days.

I also cannot blame feminine issues.  Basically, I'm just suffering from the fnahfnahs.  I'm almost glad no one is around to see it, but on the other hand, I can't help but think that if certain people were here, I wouldn't be suffering from them.  One never knows.  My god would I like to go back to bed right now.

Limericks

Rozewolf wanted limericks, and Advizor echoed, so what the hell, I've composed a few, which have nothing to do with Flash Fiction Friday but that's mostly because I can't see myself being able to write just one and fulfill any requirements.  Maybe Flash Limerick Friday.  Anyway, ask and ye shall receive.

A girl in a town closely littoral

Had orgasms decidedly clitoral.

Said this girl, "I'm a lass

For whom fingers will pass

But I simply cannot abide shit oral."

The lady came out of the lake

And was wooed by a knight, brave Sir Jake.

Though his sword filled her needs

And did naught but good deeds

'Twas for royalty only she'd quake.

Said the pharaoh, returning from Punt,

"I am horny as hell," with a grunt.

"When I'm back down the Nile

I shall party in style

And fuck everything Ra gave a cunt."

---

I really wish Blogger would get it together to support the very standards-compliant BR tag, so I could stop jumping through hoops to write poetry.  I'm quite proud of the first one; "closely littoral" isn't exactly the finest phrase ever, but it means "near a lake" and it rhymes and scans.  And no, "shit oral" doesn't refer to anything other than bad head.

Had I been writing for a less frank audience, I think I could have done the last one, just changing several words around and maybe ending with, "And chase everything Ra gave two legs..." and then trail off and grin.  Honestly, you saw it coming, right?  I think it might even be funnier that way.  But since we're a frank, adult audience around here, I went with the frank, adult version; also, I want to take back "cunt."  Also, Ra gave a cunt to things other than women... and here I'm trailing off and smiling again.

Yeah, I have nothing better to do than write dirty limericks for you.  I'm like your trained limerick-writing monkey.

Flash Fiction Friday - The Mother

dropping he dove deeply    all alone and unarmored

seeking the sea witch    mother of the wild one

down to the cold black    down into shadow's lair

bright was his strong sword    long had he lusted for blood

blood to avenge comrades    blood for his dark gods

‘til came he down and    saw her slim form swaying

heard her sultry call    beheld his mortal foe

bright was his strong sword    forgotten in nerveless hand

no one to aid his quest    all alone and unarmored

singing she called to him    come slayer of many

come to my warm arms    put aside troubles past

forget the breathing world    long had he lusted for blood

now his lust is loin-felt    to spend himself in her slickness

whiten her womb-well    feel the flesh forced open

bright was his strong sword    casting away darkness

now he sees her true form    sneer curling her lip

she would revenge her son    wild one who rends men

her beauty made terrible    before his new wisdom

now he raises up    the forged fury of his fathers

screams she shrilly    seeing her scheme settled

mother of the wild one    and bright sword shall battle

---

Presented for your approval: one Beowulf pastiche of limited skill.  I wish I could say that I spoke Old English and had translated this.  Or that I had enough chops actually to do metrically what the bards of yore were able to pull off in their heads.  I tried to hoe a line which gives a feeling for it, anyway.

It's awkward because modern audiences are used to iambic pentameter, and if you read this, sometimes it seems like it wants to go into that, but there are six stresses and it's not iambs.  This isn't historically accurate because Old English poetry tended to do two stresses per half-line, but honestly, every time I've tried quadrameter, the lines are too short, and that's leaving out the other requirements.  So, sextameter of sorts with a caesura in the middle (that's what the space between the half-lines is, for those who wonder).  Let's face it, it's bound to have faults; it's not called "Flash" fiction for nothing, and this is pretty slapdash.

I am rather more interested in the alliterative qualities of it in any case.  Old English (and indeed other poetry of the same sort) is alliterative verse, which means it doesn't rhyme but it still holds together based on shared sounds.  I didn't force it, but there's rather a lot of it here, as it should be.  I admit that I stole "strong sword" straight from Beowulf itself.

At this point, a fair number of you have begun to wonder about me, or to wonder what the Hell I'm talking about, or both.  I hope the excerpt (if I can call it that) holds together on its own without too much context being needed, but suffice it to say that Beowulf is a hero, he's already mortally wounded Grendel, a monster (the "wild one who rends men"), and now he's gone down to the bottom of the watery realm to deal with Grendel's mother.  Maybe you saw the movie and remember Angelina Jolie.  Well, for starters, dear God no, but that's whom we're talking about.  I haven't seen the movie, nor do I care to, but if that helps, go nuts.  Actually, watch The 13th Warrior instead, because that movie kicks ass.

I'm left with the task of explaining myself, having just provided what would otherwise be a translator's postscript had I actually translated anything. Basically, I wanted to write Beowulf pastiche.  I took several liberties with the story.  Why with this picture?  I don't really know; it struck me that nobody said that Grendel's mother had to be hideous.  But the sneer is what caught me; she's not sneering in the picture, but I could see her doing it, and she went from beautiful to terrible, and that's basically when I started thinking up alliterative lines.  I'm particularly proud of "whiten her womb-well;" if the Anglo-Saxons had written porn, I bet they would have used that line.

Okay, I'm a nerd.  Don't expect Homer pastiche next week because it's much harder to pull off, but do expect further diversions into the world of literature-nerdery.  And if you're an Anglo-Saxon scholar who'd like to criticize me on my choices or my incorrect use of things or my lack of complete and total alliteration, I'm sorry in advance.  I should probably have written something sexier and less complicated.

For that, I recommend Flash Fiction Friday for your sexy and uncomplicated needs.  I don't mean that the writing is sexy and uncomplicated (usually the former, seldom the latter), just that you could write something sexy and uncomplicated for Flash Fiction Friday and we'd probably dig it the most.  Do the kids still say that?  Dig it the most?  No?  Damn, fetch my time machine.

Or, in other words:

Flash Fiction Friday    steeped long in silent sexiness

bursts forth bouncing    with burgeoning literary legerdemain

hail to the Bear-Tank   thick of thew and mighty

with visual treats vying    for exciting ecstatic exegesis

Sugar in the Morning

My sleep schedule is shot to hell.  I have no idea when I'm going to be awake, other than at the times when I must be, and then I'm usually miserable because either I've just gotten to sleep or I've been up for 14 hours beforehand.  On the plus side, it does mean that I'm often awake at times when I can get me some of that good Daddy lovin'.

This morning, I was up before him, and since I hadn't done this in a long time, I went in at around the time when he needs to get up and sneaked up under the covers and started blowing him while he was still asleep.  I have a system for non-disruptive head; I leave my lips pretty much in place the whole time, just wrap them softly around him while he's still limp, and gently lick around.  As long as I don't break contact, it doesn't seem to wake him up; I've never gotten him to cum while he's asleep, but I can certainly get him hard.

Today was no exception.  I got into a rhythm with gentle suction and my tongue running over the head of his cock, and then he grunted and sat up and rubbed his eyes.  "Morning," he said to the lump under the comforter.  When I was younger, the lump was much smaller; sometimes I'd crawl under there and just put my head down and curl up and go back to sleep for a moment or two.  Now, there's no real way to conceal myself.  I just started working harder at it; I brought my hands into play too, running my fingers through his hair and cupping his balls, while sucking away.  Finally, he pulled the covers off and looked down into my eyes with a smile, then inclined his head in the direction of my mother, who was still asleep, which told me that he didn't want me to wake her up.

So we adjourned to my room.  Ordinarily we might have gone to the tub, but I just wanted some bed time, and I think he did too.  We got in my bed, he pulled me on top of him, and I just lay there on his chest with his cock sticking up between my legs for a while before he adjusted himself and slid up into my wet, waiting passage, and then we just kissed and rocked for a bit.  Grinding my clit down on his pelvic bone got me off eventually, and then we stayed snuggly for a few more minutes before heading to the bath, where he was able to move a bit faster, now that he was fully awake, and took me from behind under the spray of the shower until I was gasping again before he filled me with a prodigious load from all the teasing.

It reminded me of weekends before those ceased to have any meaning to me.  When I was still in school, sometimes on weekends I'd be up when he got up, and we'd make love before anyone else was awake.  During the winter, in particular, when the house was cold in the mornings, it was so nice to just get back under the covers with him, feeling his warmth around and inside me, and just slowly greet the day.  I didn't even need to cum, or get him to cum; it was just nice to wake up easily like that.

Dad is sometimes my gentlest lover; there's nothing forced between us.  We know each other well, and we know that we can just be together, without fierce passions or strong desires, just loving and happy.  As I get older, it happens less and less, and I miss it, but it's a thing which almost can't be recaptured; we're older and still very much loving, but life has become more complicated and stressful.  I'm not a believer in the idyllic qualities of youth; youth has its own follies and problems and stresses.  But sex with my Daddy has always been wonderful, and if it's wonderful in a different way now than it was then, I'm okay with that.

Of course, then he went off to work, and I was left in the house alone to do my work, but all I really wanted to do was to curl up in a warm bed with someone I love and wait out the day.  Sometimes it seems like all days are getting to be like that.  Autumn is in full swing, the last gasp of summer is fading, and soon, if I were a bear, I'd be hibernating.  Just some thoughts as I stare out my window at the falling leaves.

Sort of a First

So I'm sitting at home in the afternoon this weekend slowly reducing my stress levels, which had achieved epic heights recently, and I get an email from Pam (you remember Pam) asking if I'd like to hang out and talk about something important.  I was so close to saying, "Hey, yeah, love to but I'm feeling..." blah blah blah, you know the drill.  I certainly do.  Anyway, on a whim because miraculously I had nothing else to do and I figured I could use the company, I said, "Fuck it, yeah, I'd love to hang out and talk."

We met at this coffee place (where I was miserable because I love coffee and the smell was driving me insane but I've pretty much cut myself off from the bean) near her apartment and made small talk for a while, then she finally blurted out, "I'm pregnant."  And cue Matrix bullet time as my brain went, and I quote, "Huuuuuhhhhhhhhhh????" in slow motion.  Actually, it was less coherent than that, probably more like, "Whabbahabbadeehoowhawhaaaa???"

If this were a man telling this story, the reason for the comedy/drama here would be obvious.  But since I could hardly have gotten her pregnant, my reaction was more based on the abruptness of the announcement, not to mention the fact that it wasn't like we were bosom buddies or anything.  Sure, we'd had a threesome (yeah, you didn't click those links and now you're wondering, or you thought there was only one link and missed the important part, so go back and read it, I'll wait).  But I didn't know my own sister was pregnant until three months or so went by.  Why the Hell was she telling me?

For a few reasons, as it turns out.  First, they're relatively new in town, so she doesn't know that many people.  Second, she couldn't tell anyone who might tell her boyfriend (the father, and we know this because it wasn't me and he's the only other person of the fathering persuasion she's fucked in the past year at least).  Third, she couldn't tell her family, not yet.  Fourth, I now understand that my little tryst with the two of them meant more than I thought, because she's seeing me as a friend with whom she can talk because I told her once about her panties showing.  Yeah, go fig.  So I was the only person she could tell, I guess.  Everyone else was out by process of elimination.

So yeah, being the first person to know something like this is a bit out of character for me.  I mean, the first first.  Not one of the first.  After she found out, she told me.  My own family don't always do that, as I said.  Not with pregnancies, necessarily, but with stuff of that nature.  And this was a big first deal.

It was kind of tough after that.  I'm just not that personally invested in it.  That it's quite likely that the baby was conceived the night of the threesome makes it a bit weirder, though she didn't make a big deal about that, just mentioned it offhand.  I don't know them, or her.  I tried to talk with her, to be supportive, but I don't know that I did that good a job.

She was getting a bit distraught and I suggested that we adjourn to some less-public location, which of course wound up meaning I invited her back to my house even though I didn't want to because despite my great love for my family I'm still slightly ashamed to bring people home and have them find out I still live with my parents.  I know, shame, shame.  Anyway, she didn't even seem to notice; we went in the back door to avoid any confusion and wound up in the playroom downstairs.  I went and got her a glass of water and asked my parents to keep scarce, to which my father raised a knowing eyebrow until I told him that no, I wasn't enjoying myself.

She was crying.  God, it was terrible.  I didn't want to deal with it.  I'm not proud of that; global community and selflessness and all those ideals.  I just wanted her to go away.  I spent a certain snarky few moments with her crying on my shoulder thinking that if I went to her with a problem out of the blue, she wouldn't be as nice.  I don't know if that's true, and it's probably not fair, but I thought it anyway.

Once she cried out the hysteria, she started talking, and I nodded and injected small listening noises and basically let her talk my ear off, during which I learned most of what I've said above about not having anyone to whom to go.  She was worried about what Kirk would think.  She was worried about her parents.  She was worried about being a single mother.  I didn't really have anything to say about any of it.  I still don't know her well enough to do anything more than say, "It's okay," which would be a lie, because I have no idea if it's okay.

I did try to cheer her up, and she started smiling a little.  We moved from the big stuff, at which I could be no help, to the less major stuff, like how no one would ever love her if she got fat.  To which I replied, "Hun, I bet you'll be a sexy preggo."  And cue the bullet time effect again, because at that point she kissed me.  I knew it was worth renting the bullet time effect machine for the whole day.

Remember how I said that not every woman is bi?  Yeah, it's still true.  Despite how it might seem, there are many, many straight women out there.  I've made passes at a few of them, believe me.  I don't tell those stories because they tend not to be sexy.  And in this case, I maintain that Pam is not terribly bi, because the kiss wasn't that sexual, and in her emotional state, I couldn't swear she wouldn't have kissed anyone who said something nice to her.

I kissed her back, I'm not going to lie.  But when she stopped, I let her pull back and wipe her mouth (why do they always do that?  It's cute, but it's still pretty silly for grown people to do that) and look confused.  A queen of seduction would have said something like, "It's okay to be confused, honey.  Just let your body tell you what to do."  Or something like that.  I am not a queen of seduction.  I said something like, "Well, that was nice," and she looked me in the eye again and saw that I was grinning a little, and then she did too, and we started to laugh, and so I ended my first very brief make-out session with a pregnant woman by making her laugh.

It's okay.  If I had tried to go farther, who knows what would have happened, but it wouldn't have been real.  She was just so freaked out at that point that I would have been taking advantage.  Not that I didn't want to, a bit.  I was moistening by the minute thinking about it.

She didn't try to kiss me again, and I didn't make any moves, and she eventually went back to talking for a bit longer.  Finally, I told her that my only advice was not to keep it from Kirk much longer, because it was better to tell him and get it out in the open, for her if for nothing else.  I don't know if that's the right advice at all.  I'm still a bit torn up about having given her what may turn out to be terrible advice.  But I couldn't really stop myself.  I had to say something.

I offered her another glass of something, or to go somewhere else for a bit, but she said she felt better having talked it over with someone.  Maybe that's how I was able to help.  If so, that's good.  She didn't seem to feel awkward about what had happened at all, and once she had calmed down, God I was tempted to ask her to stay and maybe test the waters a bit more.  I even (what was I thinking) offered to help her talk to Kirk.  She looked tempted, so I followed up with, "Of course, I'm just saying that because I want to get back in your bed, you know that," with a shit-eating grin, which made her laugh.  I love being able to tell the truth and have people think I'm joking.  Except I think she knew I was telling a bit of the truth, because she said she and Kirk had talked about having me over again (ego boost) and all that had stopped them was the current situation.  More impetus for me to resolve it.  Not that they were all that great in the threesome department, but hell, I enjoy being with a couple just for the idea of it.

She kissed me as she left, on the cheek, but it wasn't one of those forced things, like she was trying to prove that the other kiss had been misinterpreted.  It was just a kiss on the cheek.  I'm okay with that.

So, sort of my first preggo.  Not really, because I don't think it counts unless she's showing at least, and I didn't get anywhere but a long kiss.  Still, hope for the future, I suppose.  I may make a tag for Pam if things go well.  I'm hoping.  I could use a diversion.  My current gig is not sexy at all.  No, actually, I'm making a tag for Pam, because hope springs eternal.

After all that, I called Sveta and told her about it, and in no uncertain terms that she was not to get pregnant despite my enjoyment of the idea.  She giggled (which drove all thoughts of anything but her from my mind) and said she had made plans to surprise me but she'd change them now if that's really how I felt, to which I replied that maybe I had been hasty and if she really wanted to get all juicily knocked up and have little demon babies, who was I to stop her?  She doesn't seem to share my impregnation fetish (thank goodness, I think) so I'm not worried.  She likes creampies, but not the natural result.  I'm also pretty sure she's less into women in general than I am, but hey, that's okay with me too.  God, if she'd been there after Pam left, she would have gotten so many orgasms it's not even funny.  As it was, I almost gave her one over the phone telling her what I'd like to do to her if she ever got pregnant.  But her stupid roomie was there, so she couldn't do anything about it.

Flash Fiction Friday - Fugitive

"I've got her in custody; keep looking for him." No one stopped a man in uniform, asked to see identification. In the confusion, they were only worried about the male gunman still at large. The two figures, cuffed together, disappeared into the smoke without fanfare.

Later, once he pulled off his false mustache and badge, his un-cuffed hand slipped up between her legs, pressing in. "I was dripping wet the whole time," she moaned. "You know how watching you in disguise gets me wound up." The shackles stayed on; she writhed, but escape was the furthest thing from her mind.

---

I'm not in love with this one.  100 more words would have helped.  I know, asking for more words is a sign of weakness; we must be tight, tight, tight.

I edited the hell out of this.  I've given glimpses of my thought process, but today I have very little thought process so instead I'll give a glimpse of my editing process.  Many times I don't need to work quite as hard to make the requirements because it just works out for whatever reason.  But in this instance, I wrote the basic text, then had to go back and add things, which necessitating subtracting things.

I started with opening dialogue, but it was different than the final version.  I cut it halfway through, but had to reintroduce it because some kind of explanation for the first paragraph was lacking.  That meant I had to cut some extraneous material from the second paragraph.  It was sexy but obvious so to the cutting floor it went.  It didn't really serve the story.

I worked through a few iterations of the final line, including "furthest thing from their minds," but ultimately the final version reflects the fact that it's more about her, which looks back to the original conceit that he's a police officer taking her in, rather than a fellow fugitive.  She's not fleeing him, both because he's not really capturing her and because who'd want to flee?

After that, it was mostly adding small touches and constricting verbiage.  I changed "dangerous fugitive" to "male gunman" because I wanted to reinforce the clue that there are two people involved in the manhunt, plus I was planning on using fugitive in the title.  "On the loose" became "at large" because it's a slightly more hard-boiled way of saying it (and I needed that extra word).  I did preserve "without fanfare" from the original version, but most of the other rhetorical flourishes either were cut or heavily altered.

Now that I've revealed how to do the trick, I suppose it's less magical.  My thought process was a little more straight-forward: they don't regularly cuff prisoners together like that (if prisoners are together, it's usually with chains between cuffs) so my mind immediately went to the idea of a policeman falling for his fugitive.  Then I spent a few moments internally giggling, thinking about how amusing the last scene of The Fugitive would have been if Tommy Lee Jones and Harrison Ford had started making out in the back of the car (this didn't really add anything to my process, but it was funny).  Then I wrote it with a bit of a twist because the original idea seemed a little straightforward.  Then editing.  See above.

This has been Flash Fiction Friday.  I have no pimping in me at the moment, so I'll just say that it's a lot of fun even when it's difficult, and there are so few things in life about which I can say that, so you should do it too.  Or, as they say, go ye now and do likewise.

Capitalism Is Not the Answer

I've been down somewhat for the past week or so.  No, no pleas for sympathy; it's hormones and stress and not anything worth mentioning.  I only mention the state of affairs because it serves as context.

Yesterday we went out, just Mom and me, mostly to do grocery shopping but also for a few other errands.  Dad couldn't come because of work.  Now, both Mom and I would love nothing more than to simply go to the used bookstore for several hours, but that wasn't in the cards.  However, we had to go to the mall (I hate the mall) and since I was in JC Penny and there were panties there, well, I thought maybe buying some underwear would cheer me up a little.

I don't like clothes shopping.  But I'm a panties-buying fiend if I let myself.  Actually, not even buying, just browsing.  I like to look through the underwear aisle.  I wound up with two pairs of panties which were on sale, and while I'm not going to model them for you, as visual aids, I present:

They call these bikini-cut; I guess I agree, although I think what I normally call bikini is now being called boy-kini, or is at least closer.  Pretty soon Madison Avenue will have all women wearing nothing but strings tied around their waists, which will be sad because I like panties with a little fabric.  I liked the white and blue better than the other option, and I can deal with the silly pattern.

And come on, I had to buy these.  The color is great, and my booty lives to be plundered.  If they'd had ones with Haz-Mat signs over the crotch, I might have bought those instead.  This is what I call a bikini, and I'm a sucker for this cut.

Yeah, there were a few others, but they weren't on as deep discount as these were.  And unlike novelty items, I'll wear both of these at some point.  I wear nearly all my panties at some point.  Sure, I have a few which are basically costume, but everything else, I do wear.  And I discard old models when they're past their prime (instead of holding onto them until they literally fall to pieces, Mike), although I have a few old pairs for various sentimental reasons that I don't wear but I keep.

I don't panties-shop in JC Penny often, understand; most of the time I won't go near department stores, but I had to be there anyway.  And before people assume, I also don't panties-shop in Victoria's Secret either, except if I'm already there and have nothing better to do.  I buy some online, but mostly I just browse wherever I happen to be.  Many of my panties have been picked up in dollar stores and Wal-Mart and so forth.  I don't care too much about name brands; I buy things I think are cute or will be comfortable (ideally both).  I used to have a stock of plain panties, but I've pretty much replaced all those with slightly more interesting but equally cheap models.  It's a miracle what you can buy these days; when I was younger, it was much harder to find stuff for cheap other than plain.  Maybe that was just my geographical region.  I know I wasn't getting taken to Victoria's Secret when I was a tween.

But the end of the story is basically that it didn't help.  I was mildly interested in looking at panties while I was doing it, but after I bought them, I felt guilty for spending the money and back to my malaise.  So the moral of the story is that panties are fun to look at.

No, no, that's not what I wanted to say, I was just entranced by panties.  The moral of the story is that buying shit doesn't solve anything.  But then I knew that already.

Pretty much the only thing that's made me happy this week is that Sephi is probably even now on her way to the airport if she hasn't already boarded the plane to take her home.  No one should have to live in Texas unless they want to.  Sorry Texans, your state doesn't make me happy.  Work on your school board and religious and racial intolerance and then we can talk about the heat and humidity.  Not to mention the whole cowboy superiority thing.

The rest of you, don't sass me or I'll give you the same.  I'm Queen Bitch until further notice.  Don't make me come over there.

Thirty-Three

Yes, it's trivial pursuit time again.  I know, repetition, silly questions, pointless answers, blah blah blah.  But it's not like there's no other content, so if you're sick of these, I hereby give you permission to ignore them.  Te absolvo.  I stole this from Kara and Jess, who in turn got it from Sunday Stealing, and from there the trail goes cold because I've stopped caring.  I don't make an active effort to find these, but they come up sometimes and I can't resist an easy post.

Thirty-Three:

1. When was the last time you cried?

I cry all the damn time.  Probably too much.  I cried like a leaky faucet when Mike left; that's probably the last time I had much of a reason.

2. Were you named after anyone?

My whole name is after various people.  So are all my sibs' names.

3. Why are you so fickle when it comes to women?

This is rather a confrontational question, isn't it?  I'm not fickle at all.  Either I'm interested or I'm not.  I think this may be a case of not knowing what "fickle" actually means.  It doesn't mean choosy.  It means capricious.  I'm slightly choosy, but I'm not terribly capricious.  I do have flings, but that's not a case of being fickle.  If I were fickle, Sveta and I certainly wouldn't still be together, I would have gotten bored with Kate, and probably my family and I wouldn't be on speaking terms either.  Yeah, I'm justifying myself to a stupid question.

4. What is your favorite lunchmeat?

Really good roast beef.  But that's hard to come by.  Or very thin, dry Virginia ham.  Also not the easiest thing to come by.  Generically, pastrami I think.  Corned beef is also acceptable.

5. Do you have kids?

No.  Someday, I think, but not at the moment.

6. If you were another person would you be friends with you?

I doubt it sometimes.  I'm not sure how I'd feel about myself if I met myself.  Maybe I already have and I just don't know it.  I worry about lacking a basic self-awareness of my own qualities.

7. Do you use sarcasm a lot?

Never.

8. Do you still have your tonsils?

Yes.

9. Would you bungee jump?

I'd go sky diving first, and I'm not likely to do that.

10. What is your favorite cereal?

Frosted blueberry mini-wheats, although I eat them as snack food rather than in a bowl.

11. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?

How else am I going to take them off?  If this is a question about whether or not I wear shoes that can be slipped on and off, the answer is not frequently.  I wear sandals and slip-ons, and I do have nice shoes that don't lace, but most of the time I'm in boots or sneakers, and I can't take either of them off without untying them.

12. Do you think you are strong enough to be with me?

I am peasant woman, strong like ox, with broad back for bearing wood for fire.  I can pull plow.  I have wide hips for many babies.  In other words, no.

13. What is your favorite ice cream?

I'm not a big fan of ice cream.  Some good chocolate is probably the safest bet.  Chocolate, coconut, almond, with fudge... yeah, I'd eat that without much protest.

14. What is the first thing you notice about people?

I don't know.  I've had this question a number of times phrased in different ways, and I'm never sure.  If it's visual, I probably notice the general shape outline because that's what neuroscience tells me I notice first.  In terms of all the senses, maybe the sound of their voice.  I have no clue.

15. Red or pink?

Red.  I like pink too though, for some things.

16. What is your least favorite thing about yourself?

Come on, don't make me choose.  I have so many things to pick from.

17. Who do you mess with the most?

Probably Mike.  In the sense I believe this question means, at any rate.  Not in the sexual sense, just in the general "messing with" sense.  I mess with him a lot.  He gives as good as he gets though.

18. What was the last thing you ate?

Oddly enough, blueberry mini-wheats.

19. What are you listening to right now?

Nothing.  I don't tend to play music while I'm typing.  Distracts me sometimes.

20. Who was the last person you talked to on the phone?

Sveta.  I called her earlier to talk since we both had the day free.

21. Why aren't you married?

Several reasons.  On the face of it, no one's ever asked me seriously.  More in-depth, I don't know that I could commit to marriage at the moment, both because I don't have the stability in my life that I'd want, and also because I have issues with commitments of that type.  Not that I'm unwilling to make life-long commitments at all, just that... well, issues and let's leave it at that.  Plus, marriage is great and all, but I'd really prefer to get married in a way which would allow more than two members of the partnership.  I don't really want to have an open marriage.  I want to have a marriage of many people.  Since that's not likely to ever happen, I may wind up with a marriage to one person, but with other people involved extra-legally.

22. Last movie you watched?

In the theater?  Toy Story III (I don't make it to the movies that often).  In general?  I may have watched a Marx Brothers flick last.  I can't remember.

23. What did you dream about last night?

I can remember this dream: I was at a library which was getting rid of a lot of books for incredibly cheap, and I was going through the shelf to pick out books and putting them on another shelf to hold onto them, and I kept accidentally putting the wrong books on the wrong shelf and knocking all the books on the floor.  It was tedious.  Also very nerdy.  Most people dream of discovering treasure; I dream of discovering cheap book sales.

24. What book are you reading?

I'm reading a very dry scholarly book on the early Middle Ages and one about math (specifically e and the various logarithmic implications thereof), plus I just finished up a trashy Margaret Weis fantasy novel but haven't moved on to the next in the series because fiction keeps me up at night and I've had enough trouble sleeping recently.

25. Summer or winter?

Winter.  I don't like the heat or the bugs and I do like snow and cold.  But I like some things about summer quite a bit, and some things about winter not so much.  It's not an easy decision, but winter wins fairly easily in the end.

26. Hugs or kisses?

Kisses by a slim margin.  I'd rather have both.

27. Do you have any special talents?

Depends on what one means by "special."  And actually by "talents," since sometimes people take that to mean "any bit of knowledge, acquired skill, or talent one might happen to possess that not everyone has."  I choose to interpret "talents" fairly literally; it can't be something I know or a skill I've learned, it has to be something which I just possess, even if it applies to knowledge or skills.  Thus, the answer is yes, but you'll have to see below for the actually interesting part because they chose for some unknown reason to split this into two questions.

28. What are they?

I have a talent for spacial sense; I can see things in three dimensions easily enough, and I always do quite well on those tests where they have you rotate objects in space and so on.  I have a talent for music but no skill at it.  I can sing quite well, I think, but have no training.  I can sing in harmony after having heard a melody quite briefly.  I can hear and remember music in a way which used to shock people when I was younger; I've always sung on key, even when I was practically a baby.  I have a mechanical instinct and also a practical sense of how things work which makes me think of certain things as being really easy when they aren't to most people.  I have a talent for rules; I'm terrible at most games, but I understand how to play them fairly quickly, and I was making up my own games when I was quite young too.  Now that I've tooted my own horn about this unbearably, I should say that I have very little talent for a lot of things too.  I have no dexterity for many things, I have very little talent for anything sporty, practically no fashion sense, and try as I might I seem to have no facility for drawing or playing musical instruments.  I "get" some mathematical concepts, but I have no talent for it as a result.  And my talents tend not to help so much in my life.  I may be able to rotate a model in my head, but I have no sense of direction at all.  I have mechanical sense, but I'm terrified of the inner workings of cars to the point where I let my mechanic do everything but clean my windshield.  I can sing, but we're not talking opera, and I don't have perfect pitch or some amazing quality that makes people weep.  And as I said, I can't play most games to save my soul, possibly because I never grew out of the phase where I like the rules more than I like the game, and so I get bored with the actual execution and just want to futz with the rules.

29. What did you watch on TV last?

As it was broadcast, as opposed to DVD or some other way?  Hell, I don't know, possibly The Tonight Show or something similarly inane.  I didn't choose it, but it was on.

30. What is your favorite sound?

You'd think this would be a sexual noise, but I think my favorite sound might actually be a cat purring.  Or possibly a waterfall.  There are many wonderful sounds, and I'm hard-pressed to pick just one.

31. Rolling Stones or The Beatles?

Both fine.  Neither makes the top of my list.

32. Most likely to respond to this meme?

Respond how?  This is one of those stupid incestuous blogging questions.  The people who liked it, I guess.  Or maybe not.  Fuck if I know.

33. Least likely to respond?

Pope Benedict XVI, assuming I have to pick someone who could conceivably respond.  Possibly Kim Jong Il.

Flash Fiction Friday - Obvious

spiny fear in her stomach pit all happening too fast too fast much too fast feeling them all around smelling them smelling was it could it be

Fear.  They were nervous too.  She sighed and smiled and

taking hold of herself blindfold off grinning at the smiling faces looking down at her it will be okay it will be the best ever just let me have a few to start then more and more and more

And things went quite well after all.

---

Paging Captain Obvious.  Your story is ready.

The only reason this is even worth your time is that it's pretty much autobiographical, in as far as stream-of-consciousness can be.  Actually, it'd be my advice to anyone at their first gangbang: honey, they're just as scared of you as you are of them.  Sure, that's not always true; sometimes you wind up with a bunch of pros while you're still a newbie.  But usually, even then, there are nerves.

That's where my second bit of wisdom comes in, the one I tell people with stage fright.  They want you to be good.  The audience is rooting for you.  Even if you're the villain, the audience wants you to be good at being the villain.  They're not waiting for you to fail, they're hoping for you to succeed.  In a sexual situation, thinking about that does help diffuse the nerves too.  Your partner(s) want you to have a good time (or at least they should) because if you have a good time, they will too.  Certainly, there are audience members who are assholes who want you to fail, just as there are partners who want you to have a bad time so they can enjoy that, but really, why give them the pleasure?

Okay, enough of that.  I tried a bit of technical trickery this week, going from fast to slow back to fast.  Maybe it worked, maybe it didn't.  With more words, I probably could have pulled it off better, but that wasn't the assignment.  I suppose one could read it as visceral versus mental, the italics setting off the gut reaction, the brief interlude of perception as more traditional prose.

I hate stream-of-consciousness for the most part, which is why I'm somewhat amused at myself when I employ it.  For something short, I guess it's okay, but I'll be damned if I'm going to read Joyce again.  For one thing, I'm a big fan of sentences that scan properly, and spacing, punctuation, and capitalization go a long way to helping that.  Those of us who don't employ these simple devices to make things easier to read should really start (I'll even excuse spelling and grammar if people would start hitting the Enter key once in a while).  If you're one of the people who hate stream-of-consciousness too, I apologize.  But on the plus side, a happy ending and sex was had.  Not entirely bad.

Maybe you love stream-of-consciousness.  Maybe you'd like to prove me wrong and write the next stream-of-consciousness magnum opus which I'll read and love so much that I'll revise my whole weltanschauung (yep, I said it).  A good way to start would be to join in for Flash Fiction Friday next week.  It might help if more stream-of-consciousness featured sex.  Think about that as you're writing.

I Miss...

I miss the smell of her hair.  After the day has passed, after the scent of her shampoo has blown away, and it's just the smell of her hair, each strand brushing my face, the occasional end tickling my nose.  It's a light smell, quite unlike perfume.  She doesn't need scents to mask her natural smells.

I miss the delicate touch of her toes against mine as we sit facing each other, or as I hold her in my arms.  She has adorable toes, much better maintained than mine because she doesn't tromp around wearing combat boots all day.  They're not twee, but dainty, proportional and fitting but still delicate.  She danced when she was younger, and her feet have the dancer's look.

I miss the soft sigh of contentment she occasionally makes when she's sleeping, curled up close to me.  I even miss the heat of her beside me, though it sometimes makes sleep impossible.  I miss the little mumbling noises she utters when she's dreaming.  I don't expect her to dream of me; I just miss the dreaming.

I miss waking up, bleary-eyed as I almost always am, rubbing my eyes into focus and seeing her sitting at my desk, her back to me.  I miss her turning when she hears me wake up and giving me a grin which chastises me gently for being a sleepy head.  Then she turns away again, letting me make the decision to get up or stay asleep.  Guess what my decision usually is?

I miss the sound of her footsteps in the hall.  It's good to have someone in the house who doesn't tromp.  My family are all heavy on our feet; I'm probably the lightest on my feet, actually, and I'm far from graceful.  She can be heard, but in bare feet, she has light footfalls.  I miss hearing them, even if she's not coming toward me, even if she's going to somewhere else.

I miss that little smile that's just for me.  I miss the laugh that comes more and more easily and is for everyone, the laugh that erases damage and says things might be okay after all.  I miss the critical crinkle of her left eye that I swear she got from me, since she didn't do it the first time we met.  Or maybe I just didn't notice then.  It's not a nasty look, just a look which says, "Don't give me any bullshit, okay?"  I miss giving her bullshit just to see that look.  I miss how she's getting pretty good at slinging some of it back at me.

I hear her voice often enough, but I miss hearing it in person.  The slight drawl she affects when she's mocking my Southern roots.  The way her lips form vowel sounds suggestively when she's teasing.  The drop in volume when she says certain things, even now, like she's afraid someone might hear her.  That Valley-Girl thing she does when she's intentionally being ditzy.  I wish she'd stop talking quite so much like a moron sometimes, but I miss it anyway.

I miss her arms around me.  I miss her body against mine.  I miss all of it.  But that's okay.  I can wait.  I won't miss it forever.  Not forever at all.

The Joy of Sex

I'm going to go a bit philosophical because I've got nothing else going for me today.  Only a bit.

It seems to me that people are too focused on certain things sexual.  And this is not necessarily a good thing.  Consider: if your whole sexual routine always involves nothing but the head of the cock, the clit, the nipples, and maybe some light kissing, you're missing out.  Seriously missing out.  So if we can branch out physically, why can't we branch out psychologically as well.

For one, everyone goes for passion.  Everyone wants passion.  And I'm not saying that passion is necessarily a bad thing.  But sometimes, sex can be joyful.  What's the difference?  I'm not totally sure, but there is one; possibly that passion is but one aspect of joy.  Let's just say that I've had passionate sex with people about whom I couldn't have given less of a shit personally.  Passion is physical connectedness.  It's easier to come by, at least in my experience.  And I do love a hard, fast, teeth-rattling, bone-shaking, oh-dear-God-my-cunt-is-on-fire-type sexual experience.  I love passion.

But passion is only one aspect of sex.  There's also playfulness.  I was speaking with a friend recently about playful sex, and I confessed that I love to giggle while I'm making love.  I like to get a bit silly sometimes, with the right partner who doesn't mind getting a bit silly too.  I think it stems from my childhood, from the fact that I had a stage in my sexual development where sex was just like any other play.  It didn't have to be perfect, it didn't have to be anything but fun and experimenting.  I think people can even take "experimenting" too seriously, like they're forced to experiment, like they worry that if they don't, sex will stop being any good.

There's also tenderness.  Sex doesn't always have to be intense.  Sometimes, it can be good just to be with someone close, feel them against your body, not even worrying about whether it's sex or just cuddling.  It doesn't have to be romantic love to be tender, either.  I've had sex with friends while sitting around a fire in the winter with nowhere to go, nothing to do, just time to sit there and make love, but they were friends, not romances.  I don't know where you draw the line there, but again, I think there is one, and both sides of the line can have tender moments.  Sometimes you just want a friend with a shoulder to cry on.

And that leads me to sad sex.  I've had tragic sex, where we knew we were leaving, where this was probably goodbye.  I had some of that last night, actually.  It's like a goodbye kiss; joy and sorrow all wrapped into one.  Sometimes it's crying, and sometimes it's just an empty ache that you're trying to fill but you can't.  Some of my most meaningful times with people have been at the end.  I'm not sure that's a good thing, but it's not to be discounted.  It doesn't always have to be fierce either; sometimes sad sex is soft and heavy like an old quilt, sometimes it's almost as if you're already separated even though your bodies are still together, and you're reaching out to each other through the distance.

The other side of that coin is reunion sex.  This can, of course, be quite passionate, but sometimes it's like that first hug after you're back together.  I often think the passion of reunion sex comes from the fact that you missed the sex more than you missed the person (that sounds a bit nasty, and I'm not saying I don't miss the sex), so when you miss the person more than the sex, sex is just a way of saying how much you missed the person.  It has a different vibe to it.

I could keep enumerating different types of sex, but it all boils down to the idea that sex should be more than just raw passion and desire.  Sex should be joy.  I think pornography teaches us wrongly in this regard; most good porn is passionate, sometimes even loving, but seldom joyous, at least to my mind.  Amateur porn tends to be made by people who have the idea that porn should be passion, and sometimes it winds up being really unintentionally silly.

But sometimes, you get a sense of joy.  And I encourage everyone to have fun with sex, come to it with joy in your heart, and I bet you'll find yourself enjoying it more.  It shouldn't be a chore, it shouldn't be a necessity, it should be a joy.

In that spirit, here are four videos, all of the same couple, that I've been sitting on for a while.  I think they're pretty joyful, and they feature people who look real and who are obviously enjoying themselves, but not pretending that they're doing something deeper than having a good time.  There's passion there, but also some silliness, and I think they're sexy as hell.

http://www.xvideos.com/video403801/naughty_busty_gf_part_1_4_

http://www.xvideos.com/video403820/naughty_busty_gf_part_2_4_

http://www.xvideos.com/video403836/naughty_busty_gf_part_3_4_

http://www.xvideos.com/video403852/naughty_busty_gf_part_4_4_

Enjoy.  Laugh.  Love.  Don't drop passion, just add something to it.  Want the person, not the act.  Discover your joy.

Yes, I am only doing this because I'm a bit down today.  You're lucky I'm not writing my FFF today, I guess.

Let's Make a Picnic of It

Mike's leaving again tomorrow to go and visit Sheri, then off again to a possible job opportunity somewhere too far away.  I'm somewhat bummed, obviously, partially because I can't go with him to visit Sheri, a little because Sveta wasn't able to come back while he was here, but mostly because he's going.  It's natural.  You'd think I'd be used to it by now.  Actually, I am, as used to it as I'm likely to ever get.  I no longer cling to his leg, try to sabotage his car, trick him into being late for trains... okay, I never did any of those things, but I used to make his leaving a lot harder on him because I was being selfish.  I know he knows I want him to stay.  I don't need to make it any harder for him.

I realize I haven't been telling too many stories while Mike's been here, and that may be because I don't want to talk about it because I know he's leaving.  Or maybe I've been busy.  Combination of the two.  We have been having a fine time, and I've been getting more than my fair share of lovin'.  Mom's been getting a certain amount too, which is good.  I only wish Sveta had been here because she would have loved being here while Mike was here.

The weather has been glorious the past few days, no longer raining or muggy or hot or any of the things I don't like about summer.  Sure, in the evening it gets a bit nippy to be outside in short sleeves, but I like the autumn chill.  So yesterday, since it was the last chance and the weather was definitely cooperative, Mike and I talked Mom and Dad into going out back with us to have a picnic, the last one of the season.  We put on enough clothing to be decent and lit the grill up and had steaks and roasted vegetables.  I was grilling when Mike started fooling around, slipping his hands into my bathing suit bottoms and fingering me, tweaking my nipples under my shirt (I wore a t-shirt over bikini bottoms, so maybe I wasn't that decent), until Dad had to step in and prevent us from burning the house down, so he finished grilling while Mike and I found our favorite backyard spot and he pulled down my bottoms and pressed in.

By the time Mike gave me my second O and then pumped his seed into me, the grilling was done and we could all sit down on the blanket and have dinner.  My bottoms were somewhere in the grass and I didn't give a shit, and the sun was warm enough that Mike and Dad both wound up pulling off their shirts, and finally Mom grinned and pulled off her shorts and we sat there, not really caring about decency any more.  Our backyard is secluded; no worries about being seen, really.

I was finished with my meal first, as usual, and I reached my hand into Mike's shorts and started stroking his cock, which was already rock hard.  He wolfed the rest of his meal, put the plate aside, and lay back so I could pull his shorts off and then mount him and sit on top of him, rocking him in and out of me.  We kept chatting with Mom and Dad; picnics in my family are for fun and talking and we don't stand on ceremony.  Pretty soon, Dad was giving Mike joking pointers, then my shirt came off too and the kids were naked and making love with their approving parents looking in.

Once Mike rolled us over so he was on top, Mom came and lay next to me, naked too, and Dad got between her legs, and the boys went to town on us.  I had a brief instant of wishing that Mom was interested in bisexuality, a brief temptation to reach over and try something.  I won't lie; I would love it if my Mom would have sex with me.  But I know better.  I've talked with her about it; that's something I love about my family: we can talk about these things without hurting feelings or things being off-limits.  I know she's not interested.  She loves me, but she's not attracted by the idea at all.

Mike finished off inside me, sat back on his haunches a minute, then said to Dad, "Hey old man, why don't you let me take over for a bit?"

It had been a long time since Mike and Dad and me and Mom had had a proper foursome.  When Dad laughed and pulled out of Mom and switched over to me, I was blissed out.  I came almost as soon as his cock touched my pussy, watching Mike get between Mom's legs and start licking her.  She hadn't orgasmed noticeably while Dad was fucking her, but she actually reached over and took my hand as I was cumming and then I felt her fingers tighten around mine and she gasped, so Mike must have been doing something right.

It wasn't long before Mike was up and letting his mom suck him back to readiness, when Dad pulled back and asked me if I'd mind getting on my knees for him so he could finish.  I would have offered to do about anything to get his cock back inside me at that point.  Since my head was at the right level, Mike moved his cock over to my face for a suck, and I got as close as I ever get to actually being with my mother.  I really don't mind, it just struck me at the time.  Then it was back to her, and soon we were side by side again, as Mike gripped Mom's hips and began pressing into her from behind.

Dad didn't last long after the change of positions; I felt him tighten his hands on my waist and then press deep and lean into me with a groan, and then it felt like a floodgate had opened and I was suddenly rushed full of jizz.  I love it when Dad explodes like that; I always feel so close to him, so full.  Maybe it was the added loads I'd had before, but whatever the reason, I came as he filled me, collapsing to my face, just my ass held up by him.

I lay there enjoying the feeling, my pussy elevated to let it run as deep into me as it wanted.  Dad eventually softened and pulled out, and then I felt Mike's hand playing with me, reaching over as he kept fucking our mother, pulling out juice and when I looked over, he was letting Mom lick it from his fingers.  It was really sexy.

After that, Mom and Dad were getting a bit cold and stiff from sitting on the ground, so they took the plates in and left the kids outside.  That was fine because I simply lay there on the blanket, legs open, and let Mike scoop out cream from my pussy and feed it to me.  Eventually, he was up for one final romp, and this time, since there was no danger of cross-contamination, he slowly, lovingly inched his hardness into my anus with just spit and juice to lubricate.  He was gentle but firm, pressing in and out a little each time, then he flipped me up onto his chest again and I lay on him, just our pelvises moving together, kissing.  I only came once, a very small O, but the feeling was wonderful as cum dripped out onto his body, kept warm between us, and his cock pressed up into me again and again until we finally had to finish up because it was getting chilly and dark.

He started moving more forcefully in and out, gripping my buttocks in his strong hands, until finally he grunted and released.  I could only feel the tensing and relaxing of his muscles; he might have been a little boy cumming dry for all I knew.  But when he pulled out, there was actually quite a volume of liquid which came cascading out, down my legs and onto the blanket.  We left my bikini bottoms in the darkness and went inside, and then went to take a shower because we needed one.

Foursomes in my family, real foursomes, not just four people having sex at the same time, are something of a rarity.  So I think this was a fitting way to send Mike off.  It will join my memories of other family fun, which I may tell at some point, or maybe not.  Anyway, a good evening, a good picnic, a good story to tell.

Eric the Fruit Bat

In keeping with today's apparent theme of silly, I just thought I should share this wonderful research which won an Ig Nobel prize this year.

Fellatio keeps male fruit bats keen

Female short-nosed fruit bats have been observed performing fellatio on their partners during copulation. Mating pairs spent more time copulating if the female did so.

Yes, it seems that, to mangle Cole Porter, birds do it, bees do it, even fruit bats who eat fleas do it.  Well, no, they don't eat fleas.  But they do give head.  I wonder what it would be like to have a tongue that could lick a cock while it was inside me.

Anyway, congratulations to Libiao Zhang and colleagues for documenting this and winning an Ig Nobel.  I will be performing some documentation myself on the subject later, and maybe I'll win a prize too.  But they can keep the money; it's the research that makes it all worth while.

No, on second thought, I'll take the money.  I mustn't be ungrateful.

Whatever Happened to Sister Solidarity

I don't know, I think she and Bobby Seale opened up a restaurant in Houston.

If you got that reference, welcome to a very rarified circle of congnocenti.  Dues are every first Friday of the month, and I'll mail you your pin.  If you didn't, don't feel too bad; I had to look up the exact wording.  It's NewsRadio.  S02E13 - Friends, to be exact.  Funny.  You should watch it.  Now, back to the real world...

Yes, I really did this on Thursday, but it took me forever to get it up because I don't have the technology like all you whippersnappers with your iPhones and your moblogging and such.  Me, I've got to do it the old-fashioned way, like ice cream.  Also, I wanted to leave Friday open for Flash Fiction.

Anyway, I couldn't stand the peer pressure, so I did snap a pic of my pigtails.  You remember, from Thursday.  And after I finished giving Sephi a hard time because hers weren't high enough, I finally looked at my picture and realized that it's ugly and mine aren't terribly high either and they appear to be slightly lopsided as well.  Way to go, me!  See, thing is that I don't usually wear pigtails, I wear pigbraids, and I didn't really think that counted.  Not for solidarity purposes anyway.

But pics or it didn't happen, and it did, so there.

See.  I know, you were all hoping for pigtail sex.  Not happening this time.  Didn't feel up to it.  But I've actually already posted one with pigtail sex (pigtail is really starting to look weird), so you can go there and look at it if you want.

Flash Fiction Friday - Illuminated

He found her as he did every morning, walking barefoot along the railroad tracks, face to the sun, eyes lost in a golden haze. She claimed the light was best there; he begged her to consider the danger. And every morning, she smiled at him, turning her face momentarily from the light, looking down into his eyes, and he knew she was his for another day. One more day.

Later, after he bundled her back to his loft, holding her close in a vain attempt to stop her shivering, they made love, always the same way, always with his hope to tie her to him but his knowledge that she belonged in the sun. Later still, as the sun went down, she seemed to glow for an instant in the fading light, then in the darkness she cried out in pain every night.

But he went on waking at dawn, staggering out down the street to look for her, to look for the sun. He couldn't stop seeking, and she couldn't stop being found, and the world turned as it always had and always would.

---

"Why is she there?"  I believe those were my first words when I saw this picture.  Why the hell is she there?  I mean, aside from the obvious reason that the photographer thought it would make an interesting composition.  There were probably sexy answers to that question; maybe she was trying to pick up hobos.  But I couldn't really think of a reason.

She's come to the railroad tracks at dawn, or thereabouts, because the light is good.  I understand that it could just as easily be sunset, since sunset usually connotes more golden hues and dawn more rose-colored ones, but dawn or sunset makes no difference; she's there because the sun is there.  Thus, the genesis of my little tale.

So, she's there for the sun.  But she's in a precarious position.  Someone should tell her to get her ass off the railroad tracks before she becomes the latest in a far-too-long line of train deaths.  But by removing her from the tracks, that person would be taking her away from the sun.  Then I thought of the myths I know, certain of which revolve around the sun, one of which is that the sun flees across the sky because it's being chased by wolves.  Is someone chasing her?  Is she the sun?

But then, let's also consider Persephone, who is pursued in a more gentle way, who is taken from light into darkness and then back into light again.  Our sun-worshiper's pursuer is benign; he doesn't realize that he's doing anything but saving her from being run over by a train.  But she'll come back, every morning, just as every morning he'll "rescue" her.

Just some random thoughts on the subject of myth.  I don't claim that my story is anything but two people who don't completely understand one another but make sacrifices to be together all the same.  He follows her, she allows herself to be found.  And it neatly avoids introducing hobo sex into things.

If, on the other hand, you would like to introduce hobo sex into things, the place to do that is definitely Flash Fiction Friday.  Who knows; there may be some hobo sex already there, so you'd be in good company.  Actually, I'm half-tempted to write another involving hobo sex now.  See what Flash Fiction Friday makes me do?