Friends

~ a poem ~



I wish we were still friends.

The way you kissed me wasn't enough.
Even though, with the first brush of your lips,
my eyes closed.
My arms raised, wrapped around you.
Your fingers found my hair.
My knees buckled.
My body relaxed into your arms.
There existed no other world except your lips.
My lips.
Our kiss.
Even though I lost myself in your embrace,
your kisses weren't enough.

The way you touched me wasn't enough.
Even with your grip on my waist.
Your nails in my flesh.
The sway of my hips
reacting to your fingertips.
My gasps from your bites on my neck.
My moans from your flicks on my clit.
Your tongue. Your licks.
Even though I still yearn
for your hands on my body,
your touch wasn't enough.

The way we fucked wasn't enough.
Even though you felt so right inside me.
More right than any other has.
Your hips tilting,
driving your cock into me.
Your body pressed
against my flesh.
The way you made me cum.
And cum.
And cum.
The way you tortured me,
such sweet misery,
with your fucks.
Still, it wasn't enough.

We weren't just friends.
Whether you'll admit it or not,
we were lovers.
But you didn't love me,
not really.
I couldn't be your friend any longer.
Because I could feel myself
starting to love you.
So there was no way
we could be
just friends.

Heard

~ a story ~



I said it as we were leaving. The office was almost deserted. It was a Friday. A payday, no less. And it was Judy's birthday. Everyone loved Judy's parties.

So they all ran home to get ready. To put on their small dresses and tight shirts. To don clothes not appropriate for work.

But I had a project due on Monday. And I wanted to sleep in on Sunday. And Judy's punch had too much kick for my taste.

You were still here, though I didn't know why. Your project had gone well. Your presentation was praised by the partners, and there was talk of a possible promotion for you. You could coast for at least the next month, if not more. You had, after all, slaved away for half a year. Yet you were still here.

When I had gotten my outline to a workable fashion. When my slide show ran without fault. When the graphics were set and the last fact checked. When I was ready to go home, open a bottle of wine, and try to not allow myself to go to Judy's party. When I turned off my light, grabbed my bag, and saw you about to go as well.

"Good night, Joseph."

I gave you the coy smile. The twinkle in the eye smile. I gave you the cute that I normally held onto until a first date.

But we've never gone out on a date. Every time I spoke to you, the chorus in my head screamed, "Ask for my number."

But you never did.

Still, I said it, plain as day, in three little words.

But you didn't kiss me. You didn't throw me down to the floor, or splay me across the conference room table, or drop to your knees while I rested against a cubicle wall.

You strolled behind me as I made my way to the elevator, dreaming of your hands on my body.

Will you ever fuck me?

~

I heard it in your voice. The lilt, the plea. Heard the words you didn't speak. Your invitation as you left for the evening.

I heard it when you congratulated me on my presentation last week. When you passed me the creamer from the refrigerator this morning. When you held the elevator door for me a few days ago. I hear it all the time.

In your looks each morning and each night. When you didn't even know you were saying it, I bet. I've known what you've not said.

But you never heard it back.

Never noticed the way I brush your hand whenever you hand me the creamer. Never noticed the caress in my voice when I said "Good evening, Eloise." The business card tucked into your jacket. Or that I stayed late many nights so I could see you before you went home.

But tonight, you will notice.

That coy smile. That cute lilt. It's time to end our play, and start the real fun.

Tonight you will hear me, as I always hear you. You will say what you always say, but in the true words of your desire. And I will speak the words you long to hear.

In thirty steps, from your desk to the elevator, that will be the long walk til we both get what we want. When those elevator doors close, we will both speak what has only been said in veiled words.

Our desires will be heard.

Fuck Me, Please

~ erotica ~



The first time I asked you to fuck me was when we first met. You had this bright look in your eyes, a wide smile, and you shook my hand firmly when we were introduced. I found that refreshing. You were treating me as an equal, even though I was the new girl in the office, fresh out of grad school, full of hopes and dreams of saving the world.

It was a Monday afternoon. Karen, the head of HR, was showing me around the office and introducing me to people. You were only the third person I'd met, besides Karen and my cubicle-mate. You made me feel welcome, accepted.

The next time I asked you to fuck me was the very next day. I showed up to work in my nicest suit, the most professional thing I owned, and the most expensive, with a skirt that hugged my thighs and a blouse that was silkier than my sheets. I felt very professional, very adult, walking in that day. But you made me feel like a young girl, my heart a flutter at the sight of you.

I was trying to recall everyone's name, trying to remember faces from the tour Karen gave me. I stumbled often on my second day. But I remembered your name.

As I made my coffee in the break room, hoping the caffeine would kick start my brain, you came in to fill your water bottle. I looked over at you, said, "Good morning Brandon," and you smiled back and said, "Good morning Julie." I loved hearing you say my name.

I often imagine you whispering my name in my ear between kisses on my neck, my cheeks, your arms wrapped tight around me. You moaning my name into my ear as you first enter me. Screaming my name throughout the office as we cum while fucking on the floor under my cubicle.

We easily fell into a daily routine. Every morning I make my coffee, say "Good morning Brandon" to you as you fill your water bottle and say "Good morning Julie" to me, and silently, desperately, I ask you to "fuck me, please". But you never hear me.

~

My favorite, and worst, part of my day are the same: saying "Good morning" to you.

Since the first day I met you, and saw a blind optimism, a hope that you could do more than anyone ever had before, I took joy in just the sight of your sweetness.

But my joy was laced with an edge of caution. Too often I've met girls like you, fresh from grad school, with hope that, day-by-day, grew dimmer. Most didn't last past a year. I don't want to see you falter, don't want to see the glimmer in your eyes diminish.

Because a part of me wants your gaze, your joy, to be about me. I want your happiness to be given to me in a dark corner of the office, when everyone else is gone. Your blouse opened, skirt pushed up to your waist. I want to hear your hurried breathing with your back pushed against the cement wall of the lonely back stairwell, which no one ever uses. I want to kiss in your happiness, breathe in your hope, and give you back joy and ecstasy in kind. I want to be the reason you smile each morning.

Each morning, when I say "Good morning Julie", and I see your belief that you are doing something right, something good, a part of me wonders, dare I say hopes, that one day your joy will be because of me.

All I ever wish is that one day you will look at me while making your coffee, with a smile on your face and in your eyes, say, "Good morning, Brandon" , but add a "fuck me, please" to our daily routine.

Three to the Third

I may never forget his birthday.

I love numbers, always have, and as soon as he told me his birthday, I smiled and said, "Oh, cool; three to the third." He smiled at the nerdy way my brain had branded the date into my memory.

Now, having not seen or spoken to him in months, it dawned on me about a week or two ago that his birthday was soon approaching.

I've kept myself from contacting him. No texts. No calls. Every day I think about it, either in a passing moment or in the struggle of an addict trying not to get just one more fix. But now, the irony of a text to him on his special day just seems fitting.

I don't know if I'll do it. Something in me wants to if for no other reason than it is the perfect excuse. No other day of the year lends itself to my self-destructive tendency to keep this man in my life. And considering how shitty my special day was, why the fuck not inject a thought into his brain?

But the logical side of me, the part of me that wants to protect myself from myself, is resistant, realizing the harm it could bring, the further damage I could inflict upon myself.

What would I get out of such a message? Opening the Pandora's box of contacting him. Placing myself back on his hook. Splaying my wants and needs out again, knowing most likely he will not fulfill them.

Something in my brain sees this as how it should be. The constant unknowing, hoping for what can never be, what he will never want or allow. Something in my brain nudges me to act in ways I know will not be in my self interest, ways that will do more harm than good. Because my brain believes he will change. My brain believes it can be different, he can be different.

My brain believes things I know, more likely than not, will never be true.

So I try to tell my brain to shut up, which Doc insists is not the way to tame my urges.

Then I try to listen to the voice behind my thoughts, which Doc encourages. I listen to her, the little girl who just wants to be loved. The little girl who believes if she just does this or says that he will want her, he will change for her. The little girl who wants the attention, the approval, the care he never gave.

I hold her. I caress her hair. And I tell her everything will be alright. I tell her I love her, no matter what.

So whether or not I send that text on the 27th, whether or not I open up Pandora's box again, I try to continue to love myself despite myself, whatever consequences my swirly brain's decisions elicit.

A Little Motivation

So I was in my car, driving from a gig to my house, listening to NPR the other day. I was only a minute or two away from home when a local news segment came on. The feature: decision day for medical school students. This was the day when they all learned at what hospital they'd be working.

One of the students featured was a woman who had changed careers mid-life. At the age of thirty-five, she transitioned from a career in theatre to attempting a career in medicine. In the years since she started medical school, she'd gotten married and had children; she had an entirely new life.

As I listened to this small news story on my way home from the job I am trying to transition out of, I started crying. Right there, in my car, over a small news story, tears trickled down my face. I was grateful I was most of the way home. I pulled into my driveway and pulled myself back together.

There it was. There I was. There was where I could be. A person with a similar background as me had already done what I am just starting, the long road to a career in medicine.

I've been pretty up front with how scary and nervous making this whole process is for me. There are a number of hurdles I need to jump through before I can even apply for medical school. At least two years of community college. Studying for and taking the MCATs. Figuring out how I'm going to pay for all the learning I will need. All the while I know I will have to stay in my job, make sacrifices with my time, with my friends, with my family, and, sadly, with the many kinky adventures you read about here.

But this one little news story of how someone else, someone I don't know yet who is somewhat similar to me, that one news story is what I needed to hear.

I'm sure, in the years to come, during the struggle, during the not-so-fun times, I will remember those five minutes on my radio. I will remember that someone like me, someone who didn't come to medicine early, made it there anyway.

Sometimes you just need a little motivation, a little reminder, a glimmer of hope along the way.

CCon Fantasy

~ erotica ~



The beginnings of this story happened while I was in bed at CatalystCon, awake Sunday morning, even though I didn't want to be, horny beyond reprieve, trying to find a way to calm my passion filled body and mind. Enjoy...

~

He hovered behind me, the heat of his body increasing the wetness of my sex. Leaning down, he hooked a finger into the skirt of my dress and slowly pulled up. Over my thighs. Over my ass. Passing by my non-existant panties. Finally resting at the cleft of my waist, where he stopped, and squeezed my pelvic bone. The instinctual sway of my hips came, and I deliciously, inadvertently, brushed my ass against his cock, which had since grown hard and thick below his towel.

I smelled the musk of his bath wash, felt the slight dampness of his skin through my dress. I had hoped to slip quietly out of his room before he finished bathing. I didn't want to make a big deal out of his kind gesture the evening before, didn't want to make the morning awkward, didn't want to reveal how much I wanted more than just kind gestures from him.

His hands traveled up over the cloth of my dress, caressing each curve as he traversed my body. This time he slipped his hands down from above, deftly unhooking my bra, but also unsecuring its straps. He slipped the undergarment from beneath my dress, and whispered into my ear, "You will not wear this today." I bit my lip, feeling a twinge of excitement in my loins from his words.

Bent over the bed, hands planted on the mattress, I expected, no hoped, no dreamed, no desired...

Fuck, I wanted him to fuck me from behind. I wanted his hand planted on my back pushing me down. I wanted his other hand in my hair pulling my head up and pounding my pussy senseless.

When I felt his hands against my thighs, encouraging my legs open, my newest fantasy seemed like it would soon be a reality.

But, instead, he knelt down, turned around, and sat on the floor, his back against the bed, positioning his face just away from my pussy lips, his mouth ready to taste my folds. He hooked his arms around my thighs and pulled my crotch towards his mouth.

First, I felt the kiss of his lips, and then came the flick of his tongue over my clit. I was grateful for the bed's support. My knees buckled from the pleasure, resting on each side of his head as he continued to devour me.

"Please, oh God, please. Please let me fuck your face. Please, please. Please may I fuck your face?"

He stopped eating my cunt, tilted his head up, caught my eye, and said more than I had hoped for in such few words.

"Don't ask; just do."

His mouth and tongue returned to my throbbing lips. I used my hips to rock against his face, circles and tilts gyrating my sex against his mouth. His eating grew more fervent, his nails sinking into my flesh, holding on tight to my thighs as he plunged himself into enjoying my sex.

I gripped the sheets, threw my head back, and screamed my ecstasy as my first orgasm riped through my body. And then another. And then another.

I fucked his face til my thighs ached, til my muscles shoke, til my pussy was sore, til my clit pulsed in rhythm with my heartbeat, til my skin was drenched in his spit and my cum.

Quickie

I kept checking the time between my feverish typing of tweets.

11:10am. 11:18am. 11:23am. 11:38am.

Each instance I checked the time was a reminder of what soon awaited me; a gorgeous man and his hotel bed.

When the presentation ended, I dashed from my seat into the hallway. After a quick cursory glance and no sight of him, I hurried towards the elevator.

Floor 3.

Getting off, I speed-walked down the hall, pulled out the key card he happened to have given me the night before, and opened his door. He was there, in his bed, already naked, sheets up to his chest.

"Did you take a nap?"
"No."

I smiled and feverishly disrobed. Down to just my boots, I told a fun little antidote about another instance where I fumbled with my leather because of sex.

Completely naked, I sat on his bed, a huge grin on my face. He pulled down his covers, revealing his already hard cock, as well as a bag of condoms. He placed the prophylactics on the end table.

I paused our advancing intentions for an STI testing and barriers conversation, as well as mentioning a few of the things I love done to me while fucking (biting, hair pulling, fisting). All the while, I kept seeing the flick of his dick in his lap taunting me. I made sure not to lick my lips; we only had ten minutes.

We both gave satisfactory answers, as well as little tidbits of information (as much as you can impart in three minutes).

And then I said, "Hi." And he said, "Hi." And we were kissing.

He'd been lying back, so I loomed above him, my loose hair falling beside our faces. His mouth soon found my nipples. I let out my first sigh, and realized I'd forgotten to warn him about how vocal I am. He didn't seem to mind as he continued to bite and suck on my nipples.

Reaching down, he stroked my pussy lips and played with my clit; another sigh.

Getting up, he repositioned himself behind me. Grabbing my ankles, he tried to pull me down the bed. His hands slipped, so I tried to turn around and move. He pushed my hips back around and pulled me into position; doggy style, my favorite.

His hand found my cunt again; my sighs returned. I felt him reach over to the end table, and then I heard the ripe of the condom.

As soon as he entered me, my sighs turned into moans. His hands gripped my hips, thrusting forward as I pushed back. My arms stretched out towards the headboard as my face sunk into the bed. My fingers struggled for purchase, wanting to take hold of something, anything, needing to claw and squeeze the sheets, the pillows. I screamed my ecstasy into the mattress.

And then there was a hand on the back of my head. He pulled the pillows away from my mouth and pushed my face into the mattress. My screams not muffled enough, he pulled my hair, repositioned my head, and pushed my face harder into the bed. I moaned while struggling to breathe until he released his pressure.

He pulled out, and then I felt his fingers again. Only a few at first, dancing against my clit and one playing inside of me. And then another. I pushed back still, fucking whatever phallus he chose to give me. But I wanted more, much more.

"More fingers, please, " I breathlessly gasped.
"What?"
"More fingers, please." I raised my voice.
"I can't hear you."
"More fingers, please...!" The desperation in my plea was absolutely pathetic.
"Because you asked so nicely..."

"Oh, fuck! Thank you," I moaned as save one of his digits played inside me. My hips responded in kind as I bucked back vigorously. He played with my clit, stroked my insides, and massaged my G-spot; he knew exactly what to do.

Soon I felt a delicious warmth bubbling up inside me, ready to burst forth. And the obscenities came. And I screamed his name, telling him I was cuming. He grabbed my hair and held my head up as my orgasm surged throughout my body, across my abdomen, down into my legs, and tingling up my torso. I screamed and cried, "Wraith, oh God Wraith" as my cum overtook me.

As we hurriedly put our clothes back on, breath barely enough in my rush to put myself back together, he mused, "I want more time with you."

"I know," I sighed, smiling, trying to grab all my things as we scurried to get to our next class.

More than ten minutes with Wraith would have to wait for another day.