Tag Archives: erotic fiction

True Sex Stories from Fleshbot.com: The Personal Touch


Posted by  in True Sex Stories .

Yummy Mister X,

Oh you are NAUGHTY. But I’m naughty too! And I love being the object of your teenage boy fantasies. How did you know I like to wear teeny bikinis, you monster? Am I that obvious? I hope so, because that’s the point of a teeny bikini, isn’t it? Since you still insist on being a funny mystery and not just coming over to my place again and seeing how my bikini fits for yourself, I will describe it for you.

Continue reading

Fleshbot.com’s True Sex Stories: I Am A Hot Wife


By G

My body sunk further into the extra-soft mattress as I played out the possibilities in my head. I peeled the sheet off and let my legs fall open. The air forced down by the ceiling fan rushed to my exposed pink parts. My fingers moved over my bare mound, and continued exploring every inch back to my ass, all the hair gone and so very smooth. I had prepared for this day. Quietly caressing myself, I was listening to my heart thump out its very own message in Morse code.

Why are you in bed alone? Just go out there and tell them you need to get fucked so you can go to sleep.

Then the door opens, and the footsteps were different, it wasn’t my husband.


After all these years, we thought that this weekend it would really happen. We would have a foursome, I would have sex with Tom and D would have sex with Olivia. D and Tom had joked about it a few times over the years, though nothing was formally discussed about this weekend. The two had been friends for a long time, in fact Tom was the first guy D experimented with. So there was a familiarity. The pictures sent from my husband to him over the past year made it clear we were open to exploring with them. The fun we’ve had in the past when vacationing with them (without kids) led us to believe they were fun, uninhibited, and open to exploring new things (remind me to tell you that story). Now, all of us under the same roof with kids sound asleep, and nothing was happening.

It was important to us to show our good friends a good time. Their drive was sweltering, having kids on a long trip is never fun. Our plan was to treat them to whatever food and drink they desired, keep the temp in the house cool, and do whatever (really whatever) they wanted to do…it was the least we could do.

Even though the first night of their visit nothing happened, D and I were still hopeful that Saturday night was our night. However, free flowing drinks and weed, and a hefty helping of Mexican food added to the wave of tiredness that hit us all hard. Proven by the moment Tom’s wife, Olivia, and I both fell asleep in our husband’s laps (me still holding my drink).


The moment my drink began to fall out of my hand I jerked awake. My movement woke Olivia a bit, but she continued to rest her head on Tom’s shoulder, then closed her eyes again. Embarrassed, and groggy, I got up telling the guys “I’m just going to go to bed now.” And then slightly stumbled down the hall.

After laying down a few minutes, light flooded the room as D walked in and to my side of the bed. “You know, Tom was staring at your tits while you slept and was rubbing his cock through his shorts. I know you were making him hard.” D quietly said, such excitement in his voice.

I perked up a little, sleeping didn’t seem so important all of a sudden. Though I was curious, “do you think Olivia is going to bed, should I go back out there?”

D caressed my stiff nipple through my tank and whispered “No, she’s asleep on the couch right now. I was showing him more pics of you. He was really getting hard you know.”

I smiled a little deviously, knowing that the original plan of a group thing was off the table. I knew it wasn’t going to happen with her. I read it all over my husband’s face that he didn’t think the game was over though. “Would you be okay with us coming in here if he wants to?” D asked, he was breathing so hard.

I contemplated my answer for a few swift seconds and decided that I wanted to see what Tom was packing. I wanted to know how hard I was actually making him. I giggled a little and said, “sure.”

I pulled the sheet over me, and fitfully rested my body and mind a few moments. I heard the TV on in the living room, and I heard them talking and laughing. Then, I began to get really curious if something was going to happen or if they decided to play video games instead. I devised a simple plan to get more information.

I tiptoed out to the living room and when I was noticed by Tom, I said “I need my water bottle.” I ran to the kitchen and back around the corner toward my room. My nipples were so hard that my shirt was stretched thin over them, and of course, my titties bounced. I knew both men had eyes on me, giving me a nice rush. Knowing he saw how visible my nipples were, I returned D’s cute smile as I ran back to the bedroom, then hopped back in bed under my cool sheet.

A minute later, my partner in crime came in. “He said he really loves your nipples, he was amazed” D shared. “I bet he would love to touch them.”

Hearing this made me get very aroused, confused, and tempted. “Tell him to come in and touch them. Tell him I want him to come in so I can touch him.” My chest was heaving with every breath.

I laid still and listened my heart thudding, and waiting for something to happen. Then I threw a leg over the sheet, and drew in a deep breath and invited the air to cool me. As I exhaled the bedroom door opened. The light was blocked by two men, Tom in front, my D behind him.

As they got closer, I could make out Tom’s face, his expression almost looked scared. There was no smile on his face and he walked slowly toward me with his hands on his shorts. His breathing was heavy and fast. D stood behind him and said, “pull your cock out so she can touch it.”

Tom slowly pulled his cock out and stepped closer to the bed, where I lay propped on one elbow. I reached for him with my right hand. Slowly I caressed him, my fingers noting every detail in the dark room. I inhaled his smell, the smell of every man is so different, yet even more arousing if my husband stands near. With a gentle touch I explored this new man before me, up and down, around and below. He was semi-erect at this point but he was getting harder by the stroke. I watched him take in every inch of my body with his gaze, I noted he paused a moment at my hips, then again at my breasts.

“Would you like to touch them Tom?” Of course I knew the answer and pulled down my shirt to release my DD breasts. His caress on my nipples was innocent and experienced at the same time. He let out a nice little moan of appreciation that made me purr. I went back to working his cock up and down, giving it a little tug here and there.

He stepped back from me and put his cock away. For some reason it felt right to me. I could tell we had reached the limits of what his conscience would allow. The moment ended as the men left the room. I was whirring, happy, but yet…I needed an orgasm before I was going to sleep.

I caressed my body, sheets twisted at my side, and began feeling only slightly sleepier now that I was exposed to the air blowing at me. I contemplated walking out naked, and saying, “I’m ready” or some porn-like statement. All these different possibilities stirred my mind, making it impossible to really relax.

But then the door opened, and unfamiliar footsteps entered. One set.

“I just have to put this away,” Tom lied. The darkness had overcome him (because he had closed the door after walking in) and I saw he was not walking toward the light switch. I hopped out of bed and switched the light on for him, then crawled back over to my side of the bed, exposing my ass to him.

“Are you guys going to bed now?” I asked him, wondering where D was.

Tom walked over to my side of the bed. His breathing was different now, faster and higher pitched. “I just want another peek” he managed to say, his voice wavering in nervousness.

“Where is D?” I asked, expecting that he had sent Tom in.

“Outside smoking. I just wanted another quick peek, to make the pictures more real.”

“So is he okay with this?” I was a bit curious, because it didn’t seem like D was in on this. “Does he know you are here?”

Tom barely lets a “no” cross his lips, and I sigh from sheer excitement. I hate that being secretive turned me on, but it did.

“Mmmm. Okay.” I whispered as I watched him stroking his cock, “I don’t have any pics of that, but letting me touch it makes it more real” (sexy humor is my defense mechanism when I’m nervous).

I scooted over to the middle of the bed and patted the mattress where my warmth lingered, flashing my needy eyes, and using my sweet voice to ask, “can you sit down here?” Without hesitation he slid in close to me. I pulled my top down and his hands were immediately on me. As he circled my nipple with a finger I put my hand on his leg. He gasped audibly, overcome by just a touch from me.

He bent down to kiss my nipple quickly. No sucking or licking, just a sweet innocent kiss. I noticed that he was much harder than before, his member standing at attention so close to my face. I needed to touch it again, I needed to do more than that, but I wasn’t going to do it without his permission. “Can I touch you again?”

He moaned out what sounded like “yes”, and I reached for him, feeling just how aroused he was. He felt so good in my hand.

As I began to stroke Tom, D swung the door open and said with a smile, “what’s going on in here?” I could sense his excitement, “fuck yeah dude!”

“Nothing,” I smiled and laughed, because I knew I wasn’t in trouble. I know D wanted to fuck Olivia, but if he couldn’t have that this is what he wanted. He wanted to see his wife play with another man. He loves his hotwife. D walked over to us to watch.

I continued stroking Tom’s hard dick, pulling him slightly closer to my mouth. The moment where I taste him began to feel inevitable. His eyes moved fast over my body, back and forth, the curve and fall of my hips, my legs, my feet, my face; I felt him internalizing this, I knew forever I’m in his spank bank.

D walked closer to us, pulling off his pants, now standing close enough that his body is touching Tom’s. “Can she suck you?” D asked.

“That costs extra!” Tom quipped as he put his cock away again. “You two have fun now” he said quietly and walked out of the room.

D held me as I expressed every detail; the way Tom came in the room, what was said, and the order of the action. I was honest that it was a huge turn-on to have him walk in on me in action, it felt so good to be so naughty. This was a safe naughty, I knew I wouldn’t be in trouble, this time. He showed me how much he enjoyed it by pulling my legs up to his shoulders and jerking my ass down the sheets to meet his glistening crown, then plunging himself into my dripping pussy.

He pounded me hard, so hard. I muffled my moans by biting my hand as he fucked me through three orgasms. He pulled out and told me to stand at the side of the bed. As he pressed into me, I felt opened in a new way, stretched so tight around him. I raced quickly to the top of the peak; but having no way of muffling my moans, and D’s sexy voice in my ear saying things like, “you like showing off for my best friend, my best man, you like touching his cock” put me over the edge at light speed.

Yes, I said Best Man.

I fell forward onto the bed, then lifted to doggy style position. I felt my juices flowing down my leg. D entered me again, fucking me so hard that I couldn’t contain my moans, nor could I breath. For what felt like days he fucked me in this vulnerable position, making me his again.

“Please, honey, I need to rest.” I begged, “can I lay down for a minute?”

As I laid back and composed myself, I saw little sparkly white lights dance in my field of vision. I closed my eyes. I felt my heart. I smiled.

I felt the bed jolt as D returned to my side, and opened my eyes to find him holding the dildo. “We are going to have Tom’s stand-in finish the job.”

I was propelled into an oblivion with the dildo pushing away at my insides, flying high on orgasms. And I reveled in the way juices were splashing back at us upon each deep thrust. I took over thrusting the dildo into myself, and watched D quickly jerking himself until he erupted all over my chin and titties.

Satiated, I cleaned up in the bathroom, brushed my teeth, put on some pajamas, and laid back down in my wet spot.

As our breathing slows and the quiet returns we heard the sound of Tom laying down on his bed. Soon after I sensed a rhythm to the sounds, and said, “I think they’re fucking!” Laying quiet to pick up any sounds we can, D and I snuggle as we drift off to sleep.

Read more hot stories at Fleshbot Fiction. This story republished with permission from Filled and Fooled. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. See more hot smut at X-Art.

Fleshbot’s True Sex Stories: I Shave My Privates Bare for Him


By Hyacinth Jones

He played my body like an aged rock star, the strings of my body a part of his own, my notes his own voice and my reverberations deep in his bones.

I lay on my back and my lashes fluttered, the ceiling fan silently whirred.  I briefly thought, “I need to dust,” and then was jerked back by his soft tongue lapping at my pussy.  My newly shaved bare pussy.

I have resisted the trend to make myself look prepubescent for years.  I’ve ranted and raved about it, been stubbornly against it, but The Neighbor’s birthday was a couple of weeks ago and I wanted to do something special for him.  Something he’d never ask for and something I knew he quietly wanted.

“I’ve never been with anyone who’s entirely shaved,” he mentioned to me once.  “I know you think it’s nasty, but I think it’s kinda hot.  Forbidden.”  I’d listened patiently, snug in his nook, and played with his chest hair.

Lina was all shaved,” I said quietly.

“Ugh.  Don’t remind me!”

And that was the moment I made my decision.  I wanted to erase her from his memory banks and replace her with visions of my creamy, smooth cunt, shaved just for him.

I was surprised to realize that the decision felt good.  There was no pressure to conform or to “look like that.”  This was a gift for the man I love.

The night before his birthday I stood under scorching hot water and let the heat soak into my bones.  I filled my hand with cream and spread it on my little patch of hair.  My 5-blade razor made quick work on the top and I pulled and stretched the folds of my vulva to get all the little hairs hiding in the crevices.

Then, despite Dumb Dommes’ misgivings about shaving your own asshole, I bent forward, spread my cheeks, slathered on shaving cream, and carefully lay the razor in my crack and dragged outward until the blades came out hair-free.  I was smooth as a petal now.

As I toweled off I peeked at my handiwork and quickly covered back up.  It looked foreign, weird, exceptionally naughty.  I blushed and got dressed for bed, excited to see him later.  It was a good night, that first reveal.

But now his birthday had long since passed as I lay with my legs splayed as his wicked tongue stroked me.  The bristles of his beard — which he was growing just for me — were soft and scruffy on my inner thighs and plump vulva.  I was in motherfucking heaven.

He sneaked his right hand under my bottom and slipped a curved finger inside of me and my face sparkled with pleasure, my teeth chattered.  I gasped and bucked and writhed, his face clung to my center like a cowboy wearing the biggest belt buckle around.

“I need a break!” I whispered suddenly.  “Oh my God, I need a break!”  I was overloaded, on the brink of total torture, not release.  “Please, holy shit, you’re so good at that, I need a break,” I panted again as he stopped and slowly slipped his finger out.

His face was plastered with a grin and a sheen.

I closed my eyes and prepared to get a grip when I felt his finger slide back into me, only this time it was multiple fingers.  “No,” I squeaked weakly, “I can’t handle it!”  I felt both his hands on my knees spread me apart.  I opened my eyes and saw him standing between my legs, looking down at me like a hungry cat, his cock buried in my pussy to the hilt.  His dark pubic hair looked stark against my bare mound.

I imagined what he saw then: my bare body, white, with no interruptions, large breasts slightly flattened that jiggled with my giggles as I realized he’d done a switch on me.

“I thought that was your finger!” I laughed.

“I’m insulted!” he said as he thrust into me and smiled broadly.

“Multiple fingers!” I corrected myself.

He gripped my knees from underneath and hauled me closer to him.  My bottom hung off the edge of the bed.  He pushed deeply into me and the tingling from my face, which his talented mouth had begun, ebbed and traveled down to my center.  I moaned and floated away on more blooming orgasms  — pink and bright, soft, long, and cloudy — as he increased the tempo.  I let go and bounced along like a leaf on a rapid.

I wrapped my legs around his hips and locked my ankles pulling him closer.  He rammed into me and his giant cock slid up through my belly to my goddamned throat.

My hands twisted in the sheets and arched my back against him when he suddenly stopped and quietly stared at me.  I was confused.

He stooped to pick something up and held up my Hitachi triumphantly.

I shook my head No.  He nodded Yes then added, “You are going to cum with me inside of you.”

He flicked the wand on and handed it to me.  Defeated I draped my crotch with a sheet for a small buffer and pressed the head against me.  I jumped and began the climb and he started to move.

I lost myself then.  I couldn’t tell where he ended and the vibrator began.  He was my everything then.  My pleasure, my pain, my torture, my release.  He thrust again and again and I burst at the seams, light split me apart, my cells detached and I screamed and rolled my eyes like a wild mare as I was obliterated in darkness and light; his cock my anchor to Earth and to love and to life.  I was split apart like Neo with the Matrix and I began to sob uncontrollably as it went on and on and on.

Finally, I fell back into my shell.  It had released me.

He scooped me up and held me as tears spilled from my eyes.  I felt so, so small.  Eternally small.

I cried because I only ever felt this way with this man and it was always slipping away.  I cried because I didn’t deserve the pleasure.  I cried because I did.

He kissed and crooned to me and I buried my face in his chest and inhaled his sweet, clean scent.  I rolled to my back and he stroked my naked mound.  His fingers felt warm, honest.  My silly shaved pussy was worth every blush and every moment of post-feminist guilt I’d been experiencing.   A passport to 45 minutes of losing my mind will always be worth it.

He told me he would be leaving soon and I squeezed him tightly.  Happy to have made him so happy.  He loved it and I loved that he loved it.

And I felt motherfucking lucky.

It’s not every day I have someone for whom to shave my pussy bare.  He’s one lucky motherfucker.

See more hot stories at Fleshbot Fiction. This story republished with permission from A Dissolute Life Means…. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. See more gorgeous smut at X-Art.

Creamy With a Cherry and Scotch Straight Up

Like a wire: slim, dark, and running through and around the pedestrian traffic. His target is an office building at 17th and Welton. He’s a nine-to-fiver sometimes. I’ve observed his drill week after week.

The legs of his slacks flap as he strides-swaggers, really. The navy jacket looks fitted, professional, but it’s too warm today for formalities. I wear a loose cotton skirt and a silk blouse and even so, or despite that, or because of it, I feel warm. Warm like him. Warm beneath the sun.

I smell grass, trees, nearby flowers, and the sidewalks hot as cookie sheets. I smell myself, too. Anticipation. I haven’t picked a name for him yet, but I think I like Gabriel Rodriquez. My tongue flicks over my bottom lip, tasting beads of sweat mixing with my lip balm, cherry.

* * *

This morning, Blue Eyes sold fruit. She watched me turning an apple over in my hands, the skin as red as a stripper’s lipstick. The stiff little stem twisted between my fingers. When it snapped, Blue Eyes asked me, “Does he love you or love you not?”

“When he knows me, he’ll love me.”

Meanwhile, Gabriel disappears inside an office building, swinging the briefcase in his hand as if he’d like to throw it, and the last watery chunk of apple slides down my throat.

* * *

The bookstore is where he goes when he exits the office building, the revolving door that spins like a carousel. He’s snakes through, around the throng of pedestrians like an ‘S’ while I press through the crowd, following, flicking my hips, head up, eyes on the back of his jacket. Gabriel swaggers. I flick. Swagger. Flick. Swagger. Flick. He shrugs out of his jacket. No briefcase now.

I feel my blouse pull against my breasts, no bra, bouncing. The nipples stand up and the buttons long to unravel from thread. I imagine silk blowing in the wind I create.

Men pass me. They look at the woman in motion: medium height but feeling leggy. Strands of my hair-not quite brown, not quite red-stick to my throat, all frizz-tangles.

* * *

I trail Gabriel down the magazine aisle; my low heels click on the floor. I slide up on his left, still a few feet away, but definitely in line with his peripheral vision. He flips through the pages of New Mystery magazine. I sense him looking in my direction just about the time I reach for my own selections wrapped in plastic: Penthouse, Hustler, Gallery, and Playboy. I line them up in front of him, one at a time.

“Recommend one, please?” I let my gaze meet his blue-brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.

Gabriel appears off guard, like he’s wondering whether I’m kidding or not, trying to decide if he should tell me the truth. New Mystery goes back on the shelf and his finger points to the Penthouse. I study his choice for a moment, and then nod, picking it up, thick cool weight in my hand, before I tuck the magazine under my arm.

“Thank you.” I move to the cashier’s line, detecting his indecision like an electrical current. I think of the apple, the twist, the stem coming off.

I’m outside when he catches up. “I was wondering,” he speaks quickly, “why you wanted to know about the magazines?”

“Research,” I state simply.

“A feminist thing?”

I lean into my hip, shrug; my blouse pulls against my nipples. His gaze unravels the thread from the buttons, and then his hand pushes his glasses up; his eyes return to my face. He doesn’t say anything.

“There are all sorts of feminists,” I tell him.

Gabriel scratches his head, oblivious to the strand that sticks up like a wire, a wing. “I can never figure it out.”

“Don’t try.” I smooth down the strand of hair, and it feels thick and a little coarse. My fingernails pierce plastic and rip. It’s sundown now, so I hold the centerfold up to the glow of a streetlight. “Does she turn you on?”

“You mean right this second, or if I were alone?”

“Either. Both.”

Gabriel reaches for the magazine and our fingers bump into each other like two strangers in the street, hesitating, stalling, and then moving on without wanting to, polite. A shard of streetlight catches his glasses and bounces. He studies the color photograph of a woman with her legs parted lasciviously, purple tipped fingernail parting the Red Sea. He flips forward to a black and white pictorial. A pair of lovers with limbs entwined: mouths pressed together, yards of lustrous skin. Surreal.

I remove the magazine from my companion’s hands, tracing a bare thigh, a buttock with one finger. “They’re like poetry.” I look at him through the streetlight.

“You write?” he asks.

I nod, smiling.

“Same here. Mostly mysteries.”

“What sort of mystery are you writing now?”

“I’m still researching possibilities.”

“We’re both busy then.”

I notice a man and a woman coming toward us. The young man’s loafers hit the sidewalk heavy while the woman’s sandals flap beneath her thin heels, ankles. The pair strolls side by side, arms dangling and chins pointed in opposite directions. I’ve seen these two before and know they are together. The man’s hip collides with the woman’s waist. He glances at her and mouths something. She nods, distracted, beside me now, almost missing my stare. Then she stops. A curious smile spreads her lips. Her companion keeps moving and then pauses, befuddled. Penthouse shines beneath the streetlight.

I tell her, “We’ve decided on pages twenty-three through thirty. Take it. See what you think.”

The woman accepts the magazine, gripping it by the spine. The glossy pages flap in a breeze, and I catch a glimpse of breasts, a hip, the slope of an ass. Her companion stays where he is, craning his neck, furrowing blond brows. He calls out to her and she turns then looks back at me. With one quick motion she kisses me on the mouth. The woman returns to her lover. Their fingers interlace, bodies pressing through the crowd.

“Will that work for them?”

I almost feel Gabriel’s breath on my cheek. Heat on top of heat. Close.

“We might never know,” I answer.

Gabriel smiles in a way that piques my interest; his blinking eyes give nothing away. “Do you know them?” he asks, fingers pushing up his glasses.

“I’ve seen them around.” I glance up the block, and then at back at him. “I have somewhere to go.” And I walk. He follows.

* * *

We’re flicking, swaggering, inhaling block after block of persuasion: strip clubs, sex shops, and hard-core movie theaters. The air whistles, catcalls, whispers, and giggles. I feel eyes on my body, on his. At the corner of 47th and Broadway, I spot the cream exterior walls and a fuchsia marquee, a low rooftop. Pink carpet like a tongue leads to the doorway. Doors part like thighs. My partner stands beside me with a half-amused, half-intrigued grin.

“More research?”


Gabriel follows me inside. It feels warm, snug, low light. Sara Mclachlan is singing, “Building a Mystery.” I scan the room for a strategically positioned table with excellent eyeshot but in shadows. When I find what I want, I touch my companion’s wrist, guiding him further in. We sit across from each other in bread-plump chairs. We meet each other’s eyes.

“Tell me something no one else knows about you,” I prompt him.

“I’m sitting inside a strip club right now.”

“First time?” I smile. “I would have guessed.”


“A few times.”

“You don’t think it’s degrading to women?” Gabriel grins at me.

“Degrading? This place is a woman’s womb. You’re at her mercy now.”

Gabriel rests his chin on his hand. “I’ve never heard it explained that way.”

“I’m using this place in my book.”

“Right. You’re a writer, too. Would I have read anything of yours?”

“Pretty soon, I bet.”

“What is the book about?”

“I’m not telling you that.”

More grins and a low chuckle.

I let my eyes drift to his mouth, chin, and then back up to his eyes behind the glasses. “Your book will be the second in what will end up a trilogy: tortured detective thing. He’s chasing something internal. What is that?”

Before Gabriel answers, the waitress poses herself beside our table, tray balanced on a thin, jutting hip. She wears a salmon spandex dress.

“What can I bring you?”

Gabriel and I peer at each other. I wait. “Bring her a scotch, straight up,” he says.

“Bring him something creamy with a cherry on top.”

The waitress departs. “I can’t wait to see what you get,” I tell him.

“A mystery?” he asks.

“Have you ever noticed that behind one mystery lurks another?”


I lean across the table. “So the two of us have wandered into a strip club and ordered each other drinks. What do you think we want?”

“Does this loop back to my detective?” Gabriel’s glasses slide down his nose. I push them back up.

The waitress returns with our order. Gabriel pays her quickly, as if to hurry her off. I read her nametag: “Mary,” and flash her a grin.

“Sit for a moment. I have a favor to ask.”

Mary plops into a chair between us.

“What do you think is under the table?” I ask.

Mary thinks a moment and then announces, “Your hand on his dick.”

I smile. “That’s a fine guess. Try again.”

“His hand on your pussy?”

Gabriel tosses back the cherry and then swallows his drink whole. The glass hits the table. It’s empty except for trails of cream that stick.
There’s cream on his lip, too. I look at Mary. “Unfortunately, you’re wrong again.”

Mary bats blond eyebrows brows at me. “But you’re definitely wet down there.”

“Definitely,” I agree.

“And he’s got a hell of a boner,” Mary asserts. “You can see it in his eyes.”

“Thank you, Mary.” And I give her an extra tip.

I edge my chair around the table, closer to my companion, dipping my finger into my scotch and then pushing it through his lips. I feel the soft scrape of teeth, his hot tongue, slowly wiggling, wrapping around my nail and knuckle. The sides of his mouth massage my fingertip. His lips kiss my finger, my hand, my wrist. I shiver as he leaves trails of saliva on my skin. I lean forward to push my glossed lips against his cheek and leave pink on him.

“Is anticipation the best part?” I wonder aloud. “Not knowing?” I study his hands. I pick them up. I imagine the callous free skin, his fingers with the short, square nails touching my face before sliding down the front of my blouse, over the buds pushing at the silk, undoing the buttons, clasping my breasts as they tumble into his palms, kneading them, making me moan before he releases the bread-soft flesh to push my skirt up. He bends me over the table and grasps my hips to impale me. I open to him like soft apple. I come for him. He comes for me, too, deep inside, against the warm, cozy walls, cream sticking.

He’s watching me, and his eyes are glowing.

“I’ve made up a name for you,” I tell him.

“What is it?”

“Gabriel Rodriquez.”

“Good pen name.”

“Gabriel was an angel behind his tough guy image.”

“I thought Michael was the tough angel?”

“All angels are tough and tortured.”

Gabriel nods, getting into this. “I guess I should make up one for you.” After thinking he says, “Avalon Terry.”

I tilt my head. “Like the myth?”

“Avalon was a magical land controlled by women, or witches depending on your interpretation of Camelot. King Arthur went there to die.”

“Does this mean you’re going to die in my arms tonight?”

“Wasn’t that a song?”

“Cutting Crew.”

“Cutting what?”

“The name of the band.” I look to center stage. It’s lighting up-diamond shaped platform glowing pink.

Lenny Kravitz sings, “I Belong to You” as the dancer walks onto the stage: timed strides, flicking hips, arms arched above her head. Jet-black hair cascades down her shoulders and back. She wears white leather. Her lips are painted red. Men gather around the stage offering dollars. Her smile looks dreamy, her eyes sharp as stones. She’s a stem twisting. When she finishes her set, she sees me. She knows where to look. Within moments, the dancer kisses my cheek, and I inhale cinnamon and something else I don’t know.

“Would you dance for my friend?” I ask.

Cinnamon’s red mouth parts as she begins to sway, first in front of me, and then in front of Gabriel. She removes her bra, gracefully and lets the strap of silk drop to his lap. His hands gather it up while Cinnamon braces herself on the arms of the chair; her breasts topple forward, dangling, swinging in front of his face. Gabriel’s mouth moves; he says something to her. Cinnamon leans further in, and black hair blankets the bulge in his pants.

I breathe quicker, pushing my crotch against the plump cushions of my seat. Not firm enough. Cinnamon removes all her leather and bends over, inviting Gabriel into the Red Sea. I grab a firm corner of cushion, pushing, pushing, and if he looks at me, touches me…. Cinnamon swings around, hair flying. She dips her face to kiss Gabriel, and I see what he saw a moment before. Red Sea. Cinnamon stands up and the tide rolls in. Gabriel pays her. She blows us a kiss off her palm before dissolving behind a curtain.

Gabriel’s eyes are bright behind his glasses. A clump of bangs flops into his forehead. “I have somewhere to go,” he announces.

I follow. He’s an angel after all, gripping my wrist, pulling me out of the club, across the parking lot. But when Gabriel turns to head up the block, I stop.

“Where are we going?”

“Do you really want to know before we get there?”

“No.” I continue following up four blocks, down two, and then into an alley: a dark alley and silent, except for our footsteps on the concrete. I’m suddenly overly conscious of my situation: a man I don’t really know, a secluded alley. My heart starts to bang rather than beat; a chill goes up my spine. Then the chill turns to a zing between my legs. I’m turned on by the risk I’m taking.

Gabriel points to the building beside us. I look into a large window, two stories up. Curtains are pulled back. Several candles are lit. A couple moves into view. They embrace and kiss, removing each other’s clothes. The woman is petite and brunette with brown skin and crimson nipples. I know her-from the street, the couple. The man is the also the same. He’s thin and light-skinned and slightly taller than his lover. They’re beautiful.

“You know them, too?” I blink my eyes at Gabriel, breathlessly giddy.

“I’ve seen them around.”

The man kneels before the woman, burying his face in her belly, kissing her navel, then lower and lower as her head falls back with cascading hair and an arching neck. I imagine her moaning, telling him what to do. He stands up and pulls her into his arms. Hands travel across smooth stretches of back, down sloping asses. The man guides the woman around, bends her over a table, maybe a dresser, and enters her.

I hug Gabriel’s side, burying one side of my face in his broad shoulder. I smell him: cream and male musk, heat from the afternoon still clinging to his clothes, and heat from the moment lifting off his skin and into the breeze that smells like moonlight. My nipples press out like buds behind my blouse.

The man in the window moans loud enough to be heard in the alley. I lift my eyes. The woman echoes her lover’s cries; I see her body shaking, shuddering, before collapsing into the man’s arms. They hold each other and kiss. They move away from the window.

I turn my body all the way into Gabriel’s. I lift my face. His mouth touches my forehead, my temple. How does he see me in this light? I think he sees everything right now. My breasts press his chest. Buttons pull. Our mouths hover, share breath.

“What would you say if I told you I’ve been wanting you for months?”

“Authors often fall for characters.”

“Then you’re falling for me, too.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to catch up.”

“I knew that.”

“You didn’t.” He laughs.

I hear car horns, people calling out names, flirtations, far away. Stars hang over our heads. Gabriel’s mouth touches my tangles, pushes me against the wall of the alley, and kisses me hard. Finally. I taste his heat.

I moan. He moans, too: “Jesus,” into my hair after pulling away from my lips. Gabriel looks up at the window.

“Are they watching us?” I ask.

“Later,” he says.

“What’s next?”


“What are we having?”

“We’ll know when we get there.”

“I bet that’s delicious.”

Lana Gail Taylor is lost in Colorado with a laptop and her salacious imagination. She has published several times in Playgirl Magazine, and has also contributed fiction to Dare for Women. Her stories appear in Sheiner’s Ripe Fruit, Leslea Newman’s Pillow Talk III, Cara Bruce’s Best Bisexual Women’s Erotica, and Girl Play, edited by Stacy Reed.

Fleshbot’s True Erotic Stories: I Had Tears In My Eyes

I Had Tears In My Ears

20130603tssOn a bright spring afternoon in March we met The Greens. He was tall and dynamic, she was short and vibrant with a sheet of shiny brown hair to her waist. The Neighbor and I arrived first, ordered our cheap beers and picked a spot facing the door. I was nervous and excited.

That afternoon I flirted with a taken man and watched TN flirt with another woman. He and I sat shoulder to shoulder as he animatedly discussed Crossfit with her. Her partner and I rolled our eyes at their workout comparisons and smoked his hand-rolled cigarettes.

I couldn’t tell if I was doing any of it right. I felt at once natural with Mr. Green and also highly unbalanced with TN. Watching him engage with another woman and to show interest while theoretically ok with me wasn’t going down as sweetly in reality. Then I felt his leg press against my thigh and with it a swell of assurance; the grip of worry I’d begun to feel relaxed and I was able again to wonder what this new man would feel like between my thighs.

We all ordered another round and kept talking until TN and I had to leave to catch a flick. We hugged, said we wanted to see each other again, and made tentative plans in a few weeks.

In the car TN fondled my breasts as we raced down the highway. I told him how confusing it was to see him flirt with another woman, but how I wanted it to happen, how it needed to happen in order for this whole thing to leave the ground. Mrs. Green was the wildcard in the group, mercurial and sensitive, and she would require a lot of attention from TN. And I would have to be ok with that.

TN told me how proud of me he was, how beautiful and awesome he found me. He said things men should never say if don’t intend to stay. “You will always be preferred, Hy. Forever.”

After the movie, we went home, to my home, and peeled off our clothes, found each other in the darkness, and flew away on the wings of his giant, magical cock. He mounted me like a rutting animal and pinned me to the mattress until my head swam with many orgasmic fireflies. “You’re such a good girl, Hy,” he growled.

My heart burst and I came under his tutelage and my angry Hitachi and sobs ripped through me. How is it, I wondered, I continue to be stuck in this lovely purgatory with him? How can I get us out? I cried and cried as pleasure swept through me like an asshole, as if to say, This is why. You are weak and can’t give this up.

Not yet recovered he demanded I have another one. He hooked his fingers inside of me and I burst around his hand like a berry. Dazed and confused with lust I felt him press the wand back into my hands. I shook my head, but he nuzzled my neck and said, “Yes.”

I flipped the switch on and bucked under the vibration. When it ripped through me my heart ached again in equal measures and I cried more fat tears which pooled in my ears like little petals catching morning dew.

I lay there and heaved, clawed for composure, and thought about this strange relationship I’ve built around our fears: his fear of my life, my fear of being left. If I keep it like this, just outside of real, then when it goes away it won’t matter as much, right? If I offer him everything he could ever want, it won’t be personal when it ends. I cried some more at my own sad cognitive acrobatics.

We hung out with the Greens once more after that; they made us dinner. TN got high for the first time and I watched the night go from next to nothing to completely nothing. True to form, Mrs. Green was the deciding factor and I knew the second I laid eyes on her that night that nothing was going to happen between all of us. Mr. Green and I watched it flicker away despite our efforts and chemistry, and the kiss he gave me on the corner of my mouth was a sweet farewell.

I’m still looking for something more with TN. More commitment, more spice, more sex, more partners, more everything. Without it all, it’s easy to keep wanting it.

See more hot stories at Fleshbot Fiction. This story republished with permission from A Dissolute Life Means…. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. See more hot photos and videos at X-Art.

Erotica for Couples: The Letter, by Olivia Glass

The Letter

x-art_kiera_seth_late_for_work-13-smlAn excerpt from Fleshbot Fiction‘s Five Stages of Grief.

Dear Caroline,

The last time you fucked me, I was on the piano. Do you remember? You pressed me up against it and my palms slammed into the keys, the white ones and the black ones and the notes bounced all over, frenzied and high. And when you slid the fabric of my skirt away from my legs, the hand of mine that had steadied itself on the smooth expanse of wood slipped and struck the keys, again, and the chord that rang out was ragged and loud and followed the contours of my want so closely that I gasped.

You used your fingers, then. You didn’t have to search, didn’t have to wander; as soon as I gasped you slid them into me, two of them, down to your knuckles, and worked them in and out. I begged for a third, a fourth, and you gave them to me, gladly. You are a generous woman. I wrapped my legs around your hips as the notes of the piano died, wrapped a free arm around your neck, and watched as the muscles in your arm flexed with your fucking. I pulled you in and out of me and your hand was like a cock, warm and pulsing, but smarter, better. The sound of it: your groaning, the moans being dragged from my throat, the faint, wet noises of your fingers deep in my cunt that echoed between the floorboards and the ceiling.

So lost were we in that moment that we worried that your next student was going to knock at the front door, that middle aged man from upstairs who you were teaching to play “Für Elise” but he was bad, so bad. I would hide in our room while he played that goddamned arpeggio and chromatic descent over and over, that one that climbs like he’s orgasming and drops like he’s coming down from it, but then he’d fuck it up, Caroline, and plunk out some bad notes. It was awful. The third or fourth time he was practicing that damned section I decided that I’d try to get off to the sound, that if he could make that ascent and descent I’d come and everyone would be happy. So when he’d come over I’d disappear into our room, lie down on the bed that took up most of the space, slide my hand into my pants, and wait. I could always hear the muffled sounds of his voice on the other side of the door. I’d hear you ask him how his week was, offer him some water, the chatter of glasses in the cupboard, the sloosh of the tap. I could not actually hear him drink but I imagined it, imagined his throat undulating with each gulp. It was dry because he wanted you, wanted to bend you over the piano and pull his thick cock from his pants and slide it into your wet, hungry cunt. His cock was one of those wide ones, not terribly long but the kind that could fill, and roped with veins as big as the ones on the back of his hands. And the head of it, Caroline, the head that he wanted to push inside of you, it was a knot of sensitive skin, purplish and hot to the touch. He wanted to take that cock and take you over the piano, hear your voice, normally reserved for mild admonishment and mild praise, tumbling around in the gutter. I bet he could even smell the sex in the apartment, the fevered heat of us clawing at each other, mouths on puckering nipples, that heady smell that fills the room when two women, soaking wet, furious, fuck each other, like no other smell in the world. And he would drink and drink, all of that water, and sit closer to the piano than he was supposed to in order to hide his growing erection, and play. And of course he fucked up, Caroline, because you distracted him, and I would slide my index and middle finger around my swollen clit and pull at it like it was a tiny cock and imagine hisard-on, and each time he would fumble I would give myself a brief respite from my growing arousal, and when he started again so did I. I would think to myself how, even with my clit, even with the fake cock in the drawer that we play with on Sundays, that I was more of a man than him, the only man you could ever want. And on the day when he finally did it, banged his way through that section with perhaps less subtly than the masters but striking all of the notes in the correct order and then moving through to the next part without pausing, that, Caroline, was the day that I reached the greatest orgasm that I had ever experienced, less a mountain ascent and a tumble from the peak than a long, drawn-out gasp, like I was being pulled behind a moving horse and every bounce knocked a different limb from my body. Whoops, there goes an arm. Uh-oh, now a leg. When I came to and the haze cleared and my vision returned I had all of my parts but I had soaked the bed with my coming.

And so, that last time you fucked me, we were half-waiting for him to come in, but he didn’t, Caroline, because in our passion we’d forgotten that he canceled his lessons with you the month before, for reasons that you claimed not to understand. I think we both knew, in that moment of anticipation, where in some past time the room had been occupied by a man playing the piano and a woman teaching him to do so, that he had stopped coming because you were both too aroused by the other person to continue. Maybe you’d been thinking about violating our relationship, and had, in your own way, subtly encouraged him to give up playing by telling him that he wasn’t making progress. The day that he came to the door and gave you a check for the rest of the month and said that he was no longer interested, I got off balanced unevenly on the toilet seat because I knew that you would return to me, in full force, soon. And now, this last time, on the piano, the middle-aged man from upstairs only a potential force and not an actualized one, that was my greatest triumph, Caroline, because you were all mine in that last instant, before you weren’t anymore.

Caroline, I have a confession. I sought out the middle-aged man that lived on the floor above us, and I did have sex with him, which is how I know the shape of his prick, the veins that circle it, the head that is broader than most. I sought him out because I was jealous, Caroline. When I lay there in our bedroom while he played I could hear the desire in every note, every fuck-up, and I knew, deep inside, later, when we had sex, that you were thinking about him, that behind your
eyes was not my reflection but rather his aging, stubbled face. So I went upstairs and knocked on rows of doors until I found him, living alone. I introduced myself and came inside and immediately slid his hand into my bra. He got hard and kept stuttering, seemed confused. I asked him if he wanted this, and he said yes, but he kept asking “Why?” even as he sunk his cock down my throat—not just my mouth, Caroline, but the muscled tunnel of my throat—and thrust and thrust. As I
sucked him off, I imagined that I was doing my part to keep you safe, Caroline, to keep us safe. If I sated him, like this, maybe he wouldn’t desire you so much, and maybe we could last a little longer. He came inside of me, and it tasted like bleach and vaguely of pineapple, and I confess, I did get off then, with my fingers, but I promise you, Caroline, I was only thinking of you, because I love you. I wish you would have done me the same courtesy, when we fucked—to think of me, that is. aroline, I miss you. I regret how things ended between us.

I want you, Caroline. I want you, and only you. Come back to me. Find me, Caroline. If you find me, if you come back to me, wherever we are, Caroline, I will fuck you. If I am at home, even if my husband is around, I will take you into the bedroom or the kitchen or wherever you please and I will let you take me, or take you, or whatever it is that you want. If I’m out at the supermarket, I will go down to my knees and lick your cunt that way, pressed up against the cereal boxes while people walk by. If I’m at work, fuck, I will cancel class, I will cancel office hours, I will cancel all appointments with all of my students, even the undergrads, even if I’m thinking about fucking them and/or planning on how I might be able to fuck them, and I will crouch on my desk on my hands and knees and let you take me from behind with whatever you want, your hands or the strap-on or the cock of a stranger from the street because I know how much you love that. It can be like it used to be, Caroline. Let’s have children. Let’s get married. Let’s find what we had, again.


Read the rest of Fleshbot Fiction‘s Five Stages of Grief for only $1.99! Find more hot erotic fiction at Fleshbot Fiction–and more hot photos at X-Art.

Fleshbot True Sex Stories: “Pull,” by Dark Gracie.


x-art_baby_tyler_afternoon_snack-13-smlMy phone chirped when I was about to pull off the freeway to his place, “Home now. Door is unlocked.”

I had been waiting for this moment all week. Due to the nature of the beast I hadn’t come since the last time with him. I was clawing at everything.

Carefully I walked up the stairs. My right side was still tender from acupuncture and I’m pretty sure the Dr. told me to take it easy the rest of the day. Pfft. I can’t seem to stop nor slow down unless I’m really sick or post surgery. The thought escaped my mind when I opened the familiar door, leading to the familiar entryway, to the familiar hallway and to the familiar bedroom. He was in bed wearing just boxers and I smiled shyly at him.

I pushed off the flip-flops, put my bag down, stood up, turned around and he was right behind me. I was scared and let out a low whimper as I looked up at him. His hand reached up and tangled into my hair and pulled my head back. My mouth fell open and my eyes were heavy. I thought he was going to kiss me but his pull yanked me downward and I fell to my knees where his hard cock greeted my mouth. His right hand joined his left hand in my messy hair; he shoved himself all the way into my throat and held me there. My hands found their way to his thighs as I swallowed the full length. He let out a sigh. He controlled my mouth on his cock. Sometimes he would yank me back and forth but he would shove and hold more often. My eyes watered and I would gag lightly at the intrusion. Usually I had this control but not now. I felt his body start to tense and I thought he was going to come in my mouth. I felt my panties getting wet as he fucked my mouth.

His hands pulled my hair upward; I hesitated and still felt attached to his cock. He turned my body towards the foot of the bed and he bent me forward. His hands reached around, unfastened my jeans and he tugged everything down. I felt the cold, black iron frame dig into my thighs as my right hand grabbed the metal bar while my left hand gripped the sheets. I started to breathe heavy as he pulled my hips back on to his cock. I let out a loud groan as he pushed the full length inside me. He started to pound and the whole bed moved to his rhythm. The bar dug into my thighs and I loved it. My head was buried into the mattress and I felt like I was being used. I couldn’t have been happier.

Abruptly he pulled out of me.

“Get on the bed.”

All I could see was a blanket of my hair as I pushed off my jeans off to the floor, walked around to my side of the bed and lay on my back. He wasn’t in his spot but sat at the foot of the bed. I spread my legs and his head fell between them. His tongue found my hard clit and I started to speak loudly in tongues. I felt a cold bite push against my cunt and it was the Njoy Eleven making its way inside me. I started to pant at the coldness and the excitement. His tongue swirled as the metal inched inside causing me to stop breathing and my body convulsed. I gripped at a bar in the headboard. I was holding on for dear life. My body violently erupted with orgasm after orgasm. My cunt bucked at the metal dick, every so often my hand would find his head and thrust against his face. I was hardly breathing the whole time his head was between my legs. My skin grew hot and wet. It was a beautiful chaos that felt out of body.

Slowly the invasion stopped. The metal bulge was removed and his face backed away. He found his spot in the bed and I curled into him. His arms wrapped all around me and for as much as I want this man to abuse me, I always find safety in his arms.

For more hot stories, visit Fleshbot Fiction. This story republished with permission from Dark Gracie.

Sliptongue.com Erotica: The Other Woman, by Gwen Wilson

This story comes via our favorite erotica website, Sliptongue. We advise that you visit this fantastic destination for titillating stories in every genre…

The Other Woman

by Gwen Wilson

Are you married? Lilac69 asked.

Thomas had met her late at night, playing, of all things, online Dominos. He won the first two games and she won the third before either of them wrote anything in the text box at the bottom of the screen, a shy “hi,” submitted by her.

Hello, Thomas wrote back.

And so it began. Lilac69 told him that she had a husband who traveled often and three kids whom, she joked, she wished her husband would take on his trips. Thomas was surprised to learn that she lived in Baltimore; he was a mere forty minutes away, in Annapolis.

Are you married? she had asked.

Thomas knew that he had no reason to be truthful or, for that matter, to believe anything told to him. For all he knew, Lilac69 was a thirteen-year old boy from Pennsylvania, a transvestite from Texas, maybe a college student in Taiwan. Or she could be what she said she was: a 39-year old Baltimore woman contemplating divorce from a man who had, she was relatively certain, spent the last year screwing one of their neighbors.

I’m divorced, Thomas lied.

I wish I was.

Their conversation continued. Thomas hadn’t met anyone online with whom he shared as many similarities as Lilac69. Location and age, for starters, and he discovered even more: they had both moved, at young ages, to the east coast from the west; they listened to the same music (both had been introduced, by their children, to the White Stripes); they enjoyed the same food; they went to the same web sites. They were insomniacs. They were bored.

Do you ever come down to Baltimore? she asked.

But one of her children needed attention before he could respond. I’ll be right back, she wrote. She wasn’t. Thomas waited, watching the Dominos blocks that hadn’t fallen for hours until he began to suspect that she had logged off. He stayed online for another hour, idly looking at news web sites and checking his e-mail until he gave up, shut down his computer, gave sleeping Julia a guilty kiss good night and fell to sleep himself.

He had been spending a lot of time on the Internet recently, playing Dominos and writing to strangers. He was usually online both at home and at work; he had even started skipping lunches and eating at his desk just to stay on the computer even more. His new addiction was wearing; he woke up tired the day after his conversation with Lilac69, fixed breakfast and walked Julia out. His office, where he worked as a managing copywriter, was a short ride from his house and Thomas was the first one in. He immediately logged on to the Dominos web site and was delighted when, minutes later, Lilac69 again appeared.

Sorry about last night, she wrote. Family drama.

No problem, he wrote back.

She wanted to know more about him: where he worked and where in Annapolis he lived, but Thomas didn’t feel comfortable revealing such personal information. Lilac69 didn’t share his reservations. After a few of Thomas’ vague responses, she freely began to discuss her frustrations with her marriage.

We barely even fuck anymore, Lilac69 wrote. Thomas stood from his desk, hurried to his office door and shut it.

That would depress me too, he replied, when he sat back down.

What’s the longest you’ve gone without it?

Depends…how long was I a teenager?


The turn in their conversation to sex didn’t surprise him; most of Thomas’ online conversations were sexual. At thirty-seven, he wasn’t entirely clueless with what was happening in the world, but it did seem that he had missed a couple of years when women had grown more sexually reckless. I want you to fuck my ass, they wrote to him, or they asked him to cum on my face or in my mouth or on my tits or on my back or in my pussy or between my toes. They wanted to be spanked, fucked, smacked, slapped, strapped, licked, bit, they wanted every available opening filled and fucked soundly, this invisible land of anonymous woman. Their sexual experiences ranged from risky to bizarre: I had sex in the back of a movie theater, one woman told him; I sucked off a horse once, wrote another.

Did sex have anything to do with your first wife leaving? Lilac69 asked.

Thomas considered her question.

No, the sex was always good.

Then why did she leave, if you don’t mind me asking.

Thomas had only one memory of why she had left, one that replayed over and over in his mind, in his dreams, coming to him suddenly during the day at work or driving home; everything else from that night three years ago–the phone call, the rush to the hospital, the halting way he explained what happened to their daughter, the funeral–were single snapshots, empty of anything but the physical moment itself, an album of images he never opened.

She met someone, Thomas wrote.

Were you ever with anyone else? When you were with her.

Once, he lied. You?


Was it worth it?

Oh god yes.

Why’d it end?


Thomas remembered waiting for word on his wife as he tried not to think about the terrible phrase the doctor had used (“…pried her body from the car…”), hoping to a God he had never much turned to before that she would be okay, worried more than he could have ever imagined being worried when a man had approached him, an older man with wet blue eyes, holding hands with a smaller elderly woman.

“Are you her husband?”

Thomas was confused; it was hard for him to focus. “What?”

“Are you her husband?” the old man asked again.

“Of the woman in the car accident?” the smaller woman added.

“Oh, yes.”

“We’re so sorry,” the old man said, brokenly. “We didn’t see her. We didn’t even see the red light. It was our fault.”

“We were driving the other car,” the woman explained.

Thomas looked around. Everyone in the waiting room was watching their little drama.

He turned back to the old man, the woman leaning over his shoulder, whispering into his ear. And Thomas suddenly felt something he had rarely felt before. His pain wasn’t gone, far from it, in fact, but he knew that he wouldn’t want someone else to suffer the way he was, the way he would. It was as if a path had opened before him; inherently, he felt it was the correct path, and he leaned toward the old man and whispered, “I know; I forgive you.”

I don’t know if I could do it again, Lilac69 wrote. Maybe. I wouldn’t want to have another affair, though. Did your wife find out what you did?


Was it worth it?

Yes, Thomas wrote, and there was that guilt, floating around him like a fly. He wished that, like a fly, he could bat it away.

What would you want? he asked her. If not an affair?

I just want to get laid.

Thomas laughed, and he glanced at his office door and adjusted the computer monitor so that it faced him entirely.

Glad we have that in common, he wrote.

You too?

Well, I am a man. It’s always a priority.

A sudden e-mail reminded him of his lunch plans.

Hey, he wrote to Lilac69, I’ve got to step out for a moment. Are you going to be around later today?

I’ll be here, she replied.

He logged off.

A minute later he logged back on and returned to the Dominos web site.

I thought you had to go, Lilac69 wrote.

My plans changed, he answered. He couldn’t leave her.

* * *

I’ve always had this fantasy, Lilac69 wrote, near the end of Thomas’ work day. Want to hear it.

You have to ask?

lol…okay, I just meet someone somewhere, some stranger…I always imagined myself in a park, and I see myself waiting at the railing, wearing a short skirt, and a man would come behind me and slide my skirt up. I wouldn’t even turn around, would never see his face…I might feel his arms around my waist, or his hands over mine, or him kissing my neck, but I would definitely feel his dick. Real fast, rough…you want to hear something?


i started fingering myself.

Thomas was already wiping cum off his keyboard and hoping that no one walked into his office. He crumpled up a wet paper towel and threw it into the trashcan next to his desk.

Same here, he typed.

You’re fingering your penis?

Not exactly.

Look…do you want to continue this conversation later? Lilac69 asked.

Later tonight?

Later in person

* * *

They planned that the sex would be anonymous. No real names, no conversation, no formalities; afterward, they would delete their IDs and they agreed to never look for each other. The hotel would be the Renaissance in Baltimore’s inner harbor; the time of their rendezvous, one o’clock P.M. Thomas took off the entire next day before he left his office and, as he did every weekday afternoon, drove to the Wilson’s house.

“She’ll be out soon, Tom,” Karen Wilson told him, standing in the doorway. Thomas could hear Julia and Karen’s daughter, Rebecca, talking in high voices somewhere behind her. “They’re washing off makeup.”


“Is that okay?” Karen asked, suddenly alarmed. “They came home wanting to try some on, and I didn’t think it’d be a problem.”

“It’s no problem,” Thomas assured her, although the idea did make him uncomfortable. “Besides, it’s probably better that you supervise something like that instead of me.” He meant it; Thomas trusted Karen, and her husband Paul, a great deal. Friends of his wife before she had died, they insisted on doing whatever they could to help raise Julia, including watching her for these hours between the end of her school day and his work day.

Julia appeared at the door, her cheeks red from scrubbing, faded blue over her eyes.

“I’m ready,” she announced.

“You’re clearly not,” Thomas replied, and Karen laughed.

He fixed her dinner when they arrived home, chicken and rice and a small bowl of vegetables, and then she did her homework while he logged back onto his computer and searched for Lilac69. He didn’t find her, and Julia finished her homework early so he turned off the computer, reviewed his daughter’s schoolwork and they watched television for a bit. She fell asleep next to him around nine, as she always did, and he carried her to bed, logged back on and was greeted with an IM.

Are you excited? Lilac69 asked.

I am beyond excited, Thomas pronounced.

I wish I was fucking you right now.

They masturbated together, and Thomas didn’t fall asleep until five. The alarm woke him at six-thirty and he groggily climbed out of bed. He staggered down the hall to Julia’s bedroom and knocked on her door.


“Yeah, dad?” Julia had turned twelve a month ago and he had witnessed, and been somewhat alarmed by, the changes in her behavior. A curt “dad” had replaced her endearing “daddy,” and she had started demanding more privacy; Thomas no longer felt comfortable walking into her room unannounced. Their conversations had also changed; Julia used to talk with him about anything, even topics that he couldn’t imagine she cared about, such as his job or childhood or favorite summer vacation. But now she was only interested when he asked her about the boys in her class, or her girlfriends…and he knew, ruefully, that those topics would soon become her private concerns as well.

Thomas walked to the kitchen, flicking on lights along the way, and remembered his secretive plans for the afternoon. He felt immensely happy at the thought, especially since he hadn’t been with anyone since his wife had died…and then he grew a little worried. Disease, scam, lies; there were a number of things that could go wrong. For all he knew, he could end up in a bathtub with his better organs carved out. And he had a responsibility to Julia. These thoughts panicked him, and he did his best to ignore them.

He had finished making eggs and was setting down her glass of orange juice when Julia walked into the kitchen.

“Scrambled eggs?” his daughter asked. “What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion,” Thomas said, as she settled in her chair. “Just know you like them.”

“Thanks,” Julia said, her fork already in her mouth. Every day she looked more and more like her mother. Thomas had also been an only child and never privy to observing someone else change and grow, and it was remarkable for him to watch Julia mature; sometimes it seemed like the changes happened overnight, as if she shed a skin every dawn. She had always been thin, gaunt even, but her cheeks were getting rounder, and her stomach and breasts had begun to fill. It wasn’t because of a lack of exercise; Thomas took her to soccer practice on Saturdays and, until she had expressed a recent desire to quit, tae-kwon-do on Sundays. It was her mother’s inherited body. Thomas often wondered what traits, if any, Julia had taken from him.

She set her fork down. “What are you looking at?”


“You’re staring at me.”

“I didn’t realize I was.”

“Well, stop it,” she said, irritably.

Thomas hurried to the computer after Julia left for school. Lilac69 wasn’t online, but she had sent him an e-mail. A sense of dread rushed over him; he hoped she wasn’t going to cancel.

I can’t stop thinking about this afternoon, she had written. Renaissance, 1:00.

Thomas logged off and promised himself that he wouldn’t use the computer again; he didn’t want to appear overeager if Lilac69 saw he was online. He spent his morning on the couch, comfortably rebelling against the notion of doing anything productive. He ate a lot of crappy food, he watched and enjoyed some terrible television and he fought the urge to masturbate.

At ten o’clock he took a leisurely long shower and headed to Baltimore. He parked at a shopping pavilion near the harbor and bought and wore a new outfit–slacks and a polo and brown shoes–and sat near the harbor, watching the water, until he remembered that this was a place his wife had enjoyed. He stood and left. It was almost one o’clock.

The hotel was a short sunny walk from the shopping center, and he asked the front desk clerk if a key had been left for a mister Bottomley (not my real name, Lilac69 had assured him).

The clerk looked through the desk, and Thomas realized he was going to tell him no key had been left.

“Room 606,” the man at the desk said, and handed him a small envelope.

A woman shared the elevator with him as it whirred up from the lobby. She wore shorts and sandals and had French-manicured toenails and was startlingly attractive. Thomas wondered if Lilac69 resembled her…or was her.

The doors opened to the sixth floor, and he stepped out alone. Room 606 was three doors down.

Thomas was nervous, nearly shaking, but he fumbled the key card into the lock. He pulled open the door when the lock light turned green.

“Lilac?” Thomas asked. He wasn’t sure if he should add the sixty-nine.

“I’m here,” she said, her voice high and timid. He was relieved that she sounded as nervous as he was.

Thomas stepped into the room. He could barely breathe.

“Should I turn on the lights?” he asked. He could see a small bathroom on his right, and the edge of the bed around the corner.

No deliberation in her answer. “No. But close the door.”

Darkness enveloped him when he did. Thomas walked slowly toward her voice, his hand pressed against the wall, and lay next to her shadowed form. He tried not to sound clumsy as he settled on the bed. His hand accidentally brushed her body and he felt a coarse lace and realized she was wearing a negligee; given the novelty of the situation, he had imagined that, like him, she would be cautious. Her readiness surprised him. They lay side by side for a moment, not speaking, each looking up, and he was starting to think that nothing was going to happen when she turned to him, swung her leg over and mounted him.

Her body wasn’t heavy but it pressed down on him and the rush of sensations–the feeling of her thighs over his, her pubic bone grinding down–excited him. He could see a little, only a little, of her in the dark: a small protruding stomach; short curly hair; the curving outline of a shoulder as she bent and kissed him; the smell of perfume on the side of her neck. Her lips were chapped as their mouths met.

His excitement was growing and her hips adjusted and pushed down even harder. She lifted the lingerie off her body and he took off his shirt. His fingers traced up her sides and she inhaled sharply and squirmed; she was ticklish. Her breasts were smaller than he had assumed; each felt in his hand like a soft small bun of warm bread. She leaned over and, again, they lay side to side, her legs now circling his waist, her nipple now between his lips. A moan escaped her mouth. She reached down and undid his slacks, roughly, and his dick spilled into her hands. He pushed his pants off and, both naked, she pulled him hard, too hard and too high, and he held her wrist and guided her hand slower and lower. He reached for her and his hand disappeared between her legs and he felt hair, and then wetness. She was so wet that his hand slipped and his finger pushed inside of her too quickly. Her back arched and she murmured “ow” and he responded with an “oops, sorry” and, simultaneously, they stopped and laughed.

They massaged each other more genuinely now, kissing deeply, and Thomas remembered a time, after he had been married almost a month, when he had thought, not unhappily, that he would never kiss a different woman again. He enjoyed kissing Lilac69, touching her, feeling her nipple expand under his hand, her pussy opening and closing over the tip of his finger, the way her hips started to swing back and forth…

“I know we said we wouldn’t,” she said, speaking softly, her lips an inch from his; he felt her breath. “But…” Her voice dragged.


“Can I go down on you?”

He nodded, and their noses touched. “I’d be okay with that.”

“Good,” she said, and her body turned, curved, and she curled by his legs. Her hand wrapped around his penis again and she kissed and caressed the head. Her lips closed over it and he felt her suck, and he heard her lips softly smack when she released. Her tongue slid over the tip, thirstily. His rush was starting–a low sound left him, surprising him, and her lips wrapped around his shaft. He felt himself fill her mouth.

“I’m going to come,” he told her, urgently.

She stopped and pulled back.

“Did you bring a condom?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Put it on.” And she rolled away from him and off the bed.

Thomas waited a moment to let the rise settle, and then he fumbled around the sheets until he found his pants, took the condom out of the pocket, tore open the packet and pulled the slippery condom on. He saw her silhouette lean over the base of the bed.

“Get behind me,” she said.

He did. She leaned over, her ass a dark heart in front of him and he slipped inside her easily, too easily…she’s had kids, he thought. Thomas realized she was playing with herself while they fucked; he could see her arm draped on the bed and he felt her other hand, felt her fingers firmly rub her clit as he disappeared inside. Her moans were louder now, timed with his, turning into cries as his hips pushed against her ass. He was so close to coming that he nearly pulled out but, sensing his state, she bent her lower back and lifted her hips and pushed into him. “Come in me,” she implored him, her voice high. His thoughts were everywhere, as uncontrollable as if they were slipping on ice…and then they were all wiped away by a moment of sudden surprising tenderness, as if he had found whatever had been missing in him, whatever had been lost, here in this dark room, in her. Thomas came like he was trying to drown her, and he leaned over her body and reached around her hips and squeezed her body closer to his. The intimacy of his arms seemed to surprise her, and she said a faint “oh” and her muscles relaxed, accepting him.

He pulled out of her and shuffled around the bed. They lay next to each other, breathing roughly, exhausted, holding hands. The room smelled of her sex. She squeezed his hand briefly, released it and stood. The woman dressed. He watched the shadow of her leg lift as she slipped on one shoe and then the other, slightly off balance, leaning on the bed for support.

“Can I see you?” he asked.

She hesitated. “I thought we said…”

“I mean now, with the lights on, before you go.”

“Oh, no.”

The door opened and the light from the hallway spilled in, but she ducked out so quickly that Thomas saw nothing but a moment of dark, curly hair.

And then she was gone. The condom was cold on him.

* * *

There was a parents-teachers conference later that week, and Thomas couldn’t help but feel that he was the one in trouble as he talked to each of Julia’s teachers. He wondered how they would react if they knew he had had sex with a stranger he met online–the idea seemed grossly irresponsible now that he had done it. But none of the teachers had anything negative to say about him or his daughter: “Julia is a good student but a little quiet, which is certainly understandable…given the circumstances.”

He was surprised that they characterized her as quiet. Thomas had thought, from her excited conversations with her girlfriends and her seemingly endless list of boys, that Julia was chatty in class. To learn that the opposite was true, and probably because of the reason her teachers suspected, disturbed him. His idea of his daughter was wrong. He was even more distant from her than he had feared.

And, even worse, over the last week he had essentially ignored Julia because he was obsessed with Lilac69. He wanted to see her, or talk to her, but she was no longer online, and the e-mails he sent to her were returned as undeliverable. He had no street address to go by, no idea of where she lived other than the city of Baltimore. He called the hotel and made up an excuse to try and track down the person who had reserved the room, but they refused to give him any information. He even considered going from row house to row house, knocking on doors until hers opened. The more time passed during which he didn’t hear from her, the more desperate he felt.

Thomas couldn’t believe that she had abandoned him this easily.

He couldn’t contact her again; he knew that, he knew that…but he was so goddamned lonely. He wasn’t sure what he had expected – some sort of relationship or maybe just an occasional meeting – but he hadn’t thought that it would end this quickly. He felt like he had been drinking from a fountain and the water had suddenly stopped. And he knew that he would never hear from Lilac69 again; she had too much to lose. He, on the other hand, had nothing.

His life was spiraling down. A daughter growing estranged from him; a job that he didn’t care for and, at best, was adequate at; now, adulterous sex with a stranger. How different life turned, all because of one night.

“You okay?” Julia asked him, as they drove out of the school parking lot.

“Sure,” he said.

“You don’t seem okay.”

“Why’s that?”

“I can tell,” she told him, as the car’s headlights cut into the night. “I’ve been watching you.”

“Have you?”

“Sure,” Julia said, and she crossed her little legs and ran a hand through her hair the way her mother used to, and Thomas felt his heart fill and ache at the movement, like the moment when you think you see somebody you once loved, “you watch me, and I watch you. That’s the deal.”

“That’s the deal,” Thomas agreed, gratefully. His daughter leaned into the crook of his arm and they drove home.


Gwen Wilson is a freelance writer currently lost in New Zealand.