Straight

A Private Education

Maddy — Fri, 21 Nov 2008 19:19:36 +1030

I read somewhere that we learn instinctively to pleasure ourselves before we can talk and my earliest memory of the art of masturbation was at the tender age of four years old. I won't go into detail but I was aroused by the sight of two lions copulating to the voice of David Attenborough on a BBC Wildlife documentary which stirred something mysterious inside me. Clearly at such a young age I had no idea that what I was seeing, or my consequent response, was sexual. Still, it was an enjoyable sensation and subsequently I made sure I had regular practice.

Overtime

Maddy — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 19:29:01 +1030

I want to have an affair. I want to lose myself in a torrid, illicit, filthy encounter with a handsome stranger. Wait. No. Make that a string of handsome strangers.

I will find these strangers in any number of places…

…Behind the counter at Starbucks. He will whip me into a frenzy, using his fingers like stir-sticks, to whip my clit into a thick, creamy treat while sucking on the stiff peaks that my excited nipples have become.

The Vital Ache

marc angel — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 14:32:09 +1030

To part and welcome

The earnest magician, who

Unencumbered by formality

Bestows tickle after sweet tickle

Of love’s fondest emotion

The white gloves discarded

Relishing her scent on his fingers

Probing deep and meaningful

Into her every appetency

Scrupulous, masculine appeal

Alas, the abatement of such lust

Won’t wane by nightfall…

Her alleviation lies obscured

By the ardent wish to remain ladylike

Placating her good name as reputable.

Red Stilettos

marc angel — Thu, 13 Nov 2008 13:39:17 +1030

He was looking through the mail when he walked into the room; not noticing her standing in the doorway across from him.

“How was golf?” her soft voice drawing his attention, but only briefly. He does a double take, his eyes darkening with lust as they make their way down her body. He tries to set the mail on the table but misses, sending it scattering across the floor. As he crouches to pick it up, his eyes never leave her.

Pavlov Almost Got It Right

marc angel — Sat, 08 Nov 2008 09:02:47 +1030

The doorbell rang and I looked up at the clock. At 9pm we seldom have unexpected visitors. As I had just gotten out of the shower and was wearing only a short burgundy robe, I was a little apprehensive as I went to the foyer and peered out through the little windows, all neatly curtained, on the big front door.

It was Lou, dressed a bit neater than usual in pressed jeans and a designer shirt.

“Odd”, I thought.

Lou had picked up his dog hours ago.

Dry Humper Says

marc angel — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 09:21:14 +1030

The thought of rubbing up against a man’s groin makes me want to cum. Especially if that groin is all bundled up in jeans. I can picture it all so clearly: the scraping sound it makes, the burning of the skin, the temptation to put it in. It reminds me of being back in high school, you know, the days when you were convinced that making out in the bathroom stall at the mall with the school’s prime rib was the reason you were born. I don’t know about you, but back then I could dry hump for hours, or at least for as long as my pelvis held up.

Surviving Temptation Island

marc angel — Mon, 20 Oct 2008 20:45:47 +1030

Where does the voice of an erotic mind go when its occupant has taken a turn that’s led her to a cul-de-sac? Back to where she came from? Occasionally, while sitting at its edge she notices a mirage of forks popping into existence, dotting the empty space from which she came but the moment her eyes squint in an attempt to focus on a fork’s path, they all disappear. Surely she isn’t meant to go backwards. That’s ludicrous and as meticulous as she’s been, hardly can there exist too much she’s missed, erotic aspects too important to tread back into!

The Thing About Waiting

marc angel — Sat, 18 Oct 2008 14:17:10 +1030

I watch as Cam arrives minus his arty girlfriend, Sophie. We all meet Friday nights at Casey’s Restaurant and Bar. It’s a bunker at the end of the main drag on the Peninsula. Moody, expensive. Music by local talent. We’re fifteen some nights, but the rocks are Robbie and Mia, Justin and Em, Cam and Sophie, Neil, Bubba Ray, Gabbie, and me — Kat. We’re an eclectic bunch.

Buttons

marc angel — Wed, 15 Oct 2008 13:48:33 +1030

One button,

Two button,

Three button,

And so on

Until the rippled muscles are exposed,

Until the fingers can feel the hair

Scratchy, beautiful over his heart.

Her fingers trail to his shoulders,

Push the fabric back

Until it falls to the ground.

His turn.

Shoulders,

Breasts,

Waist,

And so on

Until the hem of her shirt is reached

Until the fabric is pulled up and over

And her beautiful, freckled skin is exposed.

His fingers trail to her spine,

Find the puzzle clasp

And make her secrets known.

Her turn.

One button,

Beltane

marc angel — Wed, 08 Oct 2008 14:06:30 +1030

It was five-thirty on a Friday afternoon, and I was having trouble concentrating on the sales figures on my computer screen. My eyes scanned the same page of the report three times before I decided that my brain just wasn’t getting it, and gave up. I let my mind wander where it wanted to: namely, the gorgeous spring weather outside my office window. The sun was high, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and according to the voice on the radio, it was warmer today than it had been in weeks.