Forbidden Kiss: the Erotica Series

[Sex Scene] 

by Severine Feist

Chrome Banister

by Cheryl King

I turn right

Hand glides down, chrome banister,

Chrysler Building staircase

to the subway

in my mind

your cock, hard, and beautiful

in my hand, I smell you

olfactory memory conjures you up

you are mine

breathe your breath

balance your chin on mine, your lips

fill me with your personal scent

fill my ears with your voice

own me

Card through the slot

and on the train, I play it back

hotel room, a breeze

ruffles your hair

your cock rises, I am wet

we mingle

you turn me

over, and over and over again you enter

I cry with joy. My eyes open

Upon the seat across from me

A man watches

He sees me

Sees me seeing him see me

His cock quivers, he wants my eyes and

I see him, I see him

And shut my eyes, these thoughts

Are for one man only.

I don’t want to get up.

I’m staring up, tracing the outline of the lamp’s projection on the ceiling, comparing its yellow quality of light to the white glow of the opaque sky out the window.

I’m tired, but not sleepy, so I allow myself a few minutes to relax after the orgasm I just had, the one that’s still echoing in the back of my throat.

“I have to get ready,” I finally tell Kelly. “I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t really care, she just lays there while I get up and put on my favorite after-sex robe (the short, red, fake silk kimono).

I go to the bathroom so I can clean up the gallons of natural lube that’s leaked out my pussy and down the insides of my thighs.

I hate it when I sit down and my robe sticks to me, then to the chair, so I make sure to do a good clean up job.

An hour and a half ago, I was thinking to myself that I had just enough time to get to the gym and make it to the dentist by 2:45.

“You want to get ready to go?” she asks me, with her hands inside my robe, her palms against the outsides of my breasts, her thumbs brushing against and around my nipples.

They answer for me.

“You’re not really helping,” I say on my way to the bedroom.

She follows.

Now I’m on top of her, taking turns licking around one nipple, then the other, pulling on them with my mouth, waiting for her body to rise, for her skin to get humid, for her breaths to get fast and short.

“Use the small one,” she says, after I ask her if she wants to be fucked, not knowing that in fifteen minutes she’ll request an upgrade.

The problem with not having an actual cock is that you have to stop what you’re doing, go get the harness, dildo and lube, get all strapped in, and then resume fucking.

It’s a good problem to have though. The stepping in, the tightening of straps, and the adjusting as necessary to properly fuck her gives me more than enough momentum and motivation.

She’s watching me, laying there on her back, legs spread, one hand absently on her breast.

One of the best perks about fucking with fake cocks:

you can put on a bigger one at any time.

There comes a point after I start fucking her slowly and end up fucking her hard and fast, both of us sweating and dripping, when she wants more.

“Get the bigger one,” she says.

So I slow down, pull out, unstrap, and repeat the earlier process.

The three minutes it takes to go from smaller cock to bigger one allows a few breaths, and a deeper space of anticipation, like a tide going out and rushing back in.

Each time it rushes back in we are both completely drenched.

I’ve got the bigger of her preferred dildos on (but not the biggest, that one’s more for display than anything else) and manage to fuck her somewhat diagonally, in order to put my mouth in nipple range.

She can only take so much of this, because even though she’s telling me how good it feels, and not to stop, and to fuck her hard, she never comes when I’m inside her.

“I want you to fuck me with your pussy,” she says.

This is my cue to get back out of the apparatus, and come back to her the way we started.

It doesn’t take long for either of us at this point.

I tuck my body into hers, and we kiss each other as we attempt to position ourselves perfectly.

We don’t get it right away, we’re both so slippery we could fall on the floor at any second, but when my clit finds hers, it’s all that exists in the room, on the island of Manhattan for that matter, and nothing has ever felt this good.

My orgasm comes within minutes, and I rest on top of her for a few seconds before rolling over so she can get on top.

We reposition, and she begins to fuck me the same way, our clits rubbing together, until her orgasm comes in about another minute or so.

We lay there, catching our breath; we have a drink of water.

I don’t want to get up, so I continue to stare up at the ceiling, tracing the outline of the lamp’s projection.

Ho Lesson

by Cheryl King

I went with him. Don’t ask me why. I knew it was crazy while I was doing it. I was lonely, sure, but I knew how to deal with loneliness. I love to read, I had books. I could have left that concert and gone home. But I was restless. I saw all those people hanging out with their friends, and I had this hunger for association. So when that man said to me, “Hey, white girl, you lookin’ good,” I did not walk away. I walked toward.

He was a pimp. He told me so. He told me so within a few minutes. Still I lingered. Why? He was not thrilling, he was not beautiful. But he was confident. Maybe that’s what appealed to me. His confidence. He confidently said to me, “I can make you a ho.” I said, ‘Why do I want to be a whore?” He said, “Not a whore. A ho. It’s different.”

A ho. There is no reason on earth why I wanted to be a ho. Or a whore, for that matter. But when he invited me to his crib, I went.

And I got an upfront, firsthand lesson in pimping.

P De fus thang is you always fuck your woman good. Better than anybody else ever fucked her.

C You fuck your whores?

P Ho’s. Get it right.

C Ho’s.

P And yeah, you fuck her better, because you gotta be her everything. You get to a woman through her pussy. She do whatever her pussy want her to.

C Oh.

P And while you fuckin’ her, you teach her to fuck right. I can teach you to fuck right.

C I think I know how to fuck, thank you.

P Oh, yeah?

C Yeah.

Inside my head a voice is getting louder. ‘What the hell are you doing, debating the fine points of fucking with a pimp? Get up and walk out the door, white girl. You are flirting with disaster.”

P I can teach you how to suck a dick better than you ever imagined.

C I know how to suck a dick.

P Show me.

And I watched myself unzip his pants, and pull out his cock. Hard, long, ebony shaft. His teeth glowed in the darkness. I watched myself lower my mouth onto it. He practially purred as my lips enclosed him. His voice got low, caressing.

P Now ease up. Yeah. Get it real wet. Yeah.

C Like this?

P Yeah. Now use the top lip to put pressure on it, but not the bottom.

Inside my head, the voice is saying, “Hm, I never tried that before.”

P Now lick your hand, and use that to make the pressure, and keep your lips easy.

He sweet talked me through the best cocksucking lesson I ever had. And when he was done, he fucked me. Fucked me good. Was the best goddam fuck I ever had.

His eyes took me in, disheveled, gasping, as he pulled up his jeans.

“So, you wanna be a ho now, baby?”

“No, I already have a job.”

His laugh echoed in the hallway as I left.

Jailbait

by Annette Guarrasi

"How old are you?"

"17," she cooed.

Shit. Jailbait, he thought. Who makes these laws? If a woman's got tits and thighs like that, she's mature...enough...ripe for...picking. Juicy.

 "Why?" she asked, coyly.

"Never mind why. Pause "When do you turn 18?"

"I'm here to see my friend - she's the lead. Isn't she terrific?"

 Normally, Jack hated the theatre, but his wife dragged him in. Idle chatter at intermission was never so...arousing. She had already moved away from the topic of herself, so he tried to bring it back.

 "Oh the lead? Yeah, she's OK. Got nothing on you, I'll bet."

 Jack was a betting man. He also bet her sweet, 17 year old mouth would feel really great around his -

 "Oh! I'm not an actress. I have done some modeling, though, but whatever. It's stupid. Mostly swimsuits."

 She seemed to perk up when she said that last part, headlights poking through her sheer sweater. Ok! Now we're talking the same language, Jack mused. He already silently thanked her for that beautiful glimpse of tongue when she said, "though" and pursed her lips when she said, "stupid."

 "That doesn't sound at all stupid," he found himself saying. "It's rather important work, in fact."

"Are you making fun of me?" she laughed, while her finger caressed its way from his wrist to his forearm.

 He threw her against the wall, right there in the theatre, inches away from everybody - her back to him. His hand found its way up her skirt, slowly, inconspicuously moving up her inner right thigh, pressing against her so it only looked as though they were accommodating passersby. He was immediately touching the flesh on her ass. She was wearing a g-string, that naughty little - this skirt is short. Risky. He couldn't find the waist of her g-string and that's when he realized - she was actually wearing nothing at all. Risque!

 Her head turned towards him with a smirk. It was their little secret. She was moist and he was ready for her.

 "Hey! Yoo hoo? Where'd you drift off to?" she asked, furrowing her brow in disappointment at someone who had clearly not been paying attention to her. "You didn't listen to a word I've said, did you?" she pouted.

"Oh, I was with you," Jack replied. "More than you realize."

Walking in the Wood

by Annette Guarrasi

She loved walking in the summer nights with just enough moonlight to shine a path before her, making her feel safe and bold enough to walk alone in this strange town.

 

The trade winds brought up her skirt at intervals, caressing her thighs and tickling the backs of her calves. She loved the way it flipped her hair away from her neck and felt it gently fan her shoulders left and right, left and right as she walked. The trees, outlined against the almost purple sky dotted with silver stars, loomed above her, yet reached down to her as she drew near. She touched a branch lightly with her fingertips as she passed and thanked it for its protection from the road.

 

How she wanted to walk deeper into the wood and become like a nymph flitting in the moonlight from tree to tree. She turned her head away from the road where cars were barely passing at that time. When they did, they couldn’t see her as she skirted the wood, hugging it w/ her hips. It called to her and she submitted to its muffled outlines, wanting to get lost in its darkness.

 

Her long, white skirt caught on a branch here and there in the wood and she heard a tear but it didn’t bother her. She felt a breeze on her upper right thigh where her flesh had become exposed to the night air. The torn skirt had fallen away from her body and flowed behind her, lazily.

 

A twig snapped behind her and she stood still, hearing the wind and her breath mingling, wondering if it was a forest creature or whether walking off the road had been a foolish mistake.

 

When she turned around, she could make out a tall figure standing maybe 6 feet to her left, his fair hair glowing in whatever moonlight reached through the trees and his clothes phosphorescent in the darkness. What he did have on seemed to be white linen pants and an open button-downed shirt. He appeared broad in the chest and shoulders. Her eyes became used to the darkness and she didn’t have to strain to see what pleased her. She could see his teeth glowing in a smile.

 

“Are you alright?” the stranger asked. His voice was welcoming, friendly and genuinely concerned. “I didn’t expect to see anyone else here.”

 

“I…,” she paused and restarted. “Do you come here often?”

 

This made them both laugh. She was embarrassed at what came out of her mouth but she was so surprised to see him.

 

“I actually do come often, since I live about ½ mile from here. I like to take solace in the darkness and – immerse myself in nature.”

 

They stared at each other in silence. She could now make out his eyes and saw that he was looking at her skirt. “Your dress is torn.”

 

“Yes, it just happened now. I wanted to come away from the sound of the cars and…well, immerse myself in nature.”

 

“If you’re a tourist,” he said, “it’s not very safe to walk through here alone. Although there’s usually nothing more than a deer or rabbit, you should still be careful.”

 

“I don’t feel threatened,” she replied. She imagined his mouth on hers. She felt attracted to this perfect stranger and she walked up to him, put her hand on his chest and whispered, “I’m Celina.” Her mouth near his ear asked, “Will you escort me through these woods?”

 

They lingered like that – her mouth near his neck, his mouth near hers, waiting. Each waiting for a move. His smooth chest was expanding and contracting beneath her fingers. A broad, muscular torso beneath that light shirt and she imagined him chopping wood and working with his hands.

 

She was drawn to this soul.

 

“I’m Brad,” he replied as he kneeled to her exposed right thigh where she felt his breath.

 

She found her hand touching the back of his head, guiding it towards her body. His mouth grazed her outer thigh and his left hand went to the back of her leg with a familiarity that made her moan.

 

As he stood up, his hand moved up her thigh, her ass, following her silhouette from hip to waist where it lingered as his right hand made its way to her sex where her panties were dissolving in her moisture. It excited him when she murmured, “I’m so wet,” and she reached for him, finding him to be as wood in this wood.

 

She would soon be hanging on that branch. She had always enjoyed climbing trees.

 

Can't Stop Remembering

by Alithea Howes

I’m back in San Francisco, the city of my birth, and I’m really not sure why. I was first dragged here naked and screaming, why should I return any other way?

I came here of my own accord though. I thought it would be fun. I’d see some old friends, fuck some old flames, what’s not to love? I’ll tell you what’s not to love: My friends are all busy, my flames all have girlfriends and my goddamn cell phone’s dead. So all there is to do is wander around this tired out city and marvel at it’s fuckshop of a subway system. This city feels haunted to me. But the person who haunts it is still very much alive.

Dylan Fox with his gasflame eyes, greaser hair and indelible smoking habit. He’s around here somewhere.

And he never wants to see me again. It hardly seems fair. I see him everywhere, in every boy I date. His eyes in this one, his smoking in that one, his rampant workaholism in each and every one of them. The problem with a sixteen year old dating a 23 year old isn’t that he’s taking advantage of her, it’s that he’s creating a sexual archetype in her mind and she doesn’t get to return the favor. It’s just not fair.

Don’t look at me like that. He wasn’t taking advantage of me. He moved to New York for me I think it’s fair to assume his intentions were honorable. If only mine had been. That’s not fair, my intentions were honorable, I wanted to marry him. At some point.

 But not when I was 22 and not after I realized that I’d never be happy only loving one person for the rest of my life. I loved him deeply and I still do but not so much that I would trade it for all the other loves I’ve had because we broke up.

Of course, the way this trip is going I’m certain I’m going to run into him. I’ll walk into a comic book store or, sit down to lunch, or crash into him while walking from one place to the other. And as I’m about to start screaming at a BART subway map I’ll see him and involuntarily exclaim “Oh give me a break!”

“Althea?” He’ll say. He never could say my name right.

“Yep.” I’ll reply. “I told you, I fucking told you!

You can’t cut me out of your life because we are destined to run into each other. Our paths do not part, not really. We’re always in the same place, running into the same people. Two guys I had a threesome with bumped into each other in YOUR favorite bar ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE COUNTRY for christsakes!

This is how shit goes down in our crazy little world.

So did you do what I told you to? Did you make your life so good that it took the sting out of losing me?

Because that’s what I did and though I still miss you and love you I’m able to move on with my life and still speak to you without breaking down and questioning my whole existence. So, did you do that?

Dylan: Yes. In fact,this is my fiancee.

Alithea: Well fuck, I didn’t mean do THAT!

Or maybe it’ll be more bittersweet and he won’t have gotten his life together or he will have just enough to not, like, run when he sees me and he’ll be all.

Dylan: Althea? What are you doing here?

Alithea: Umm... shopping?

Dylan: No, I mean, what are you doing HERE?!

Alithea: Um, well, I wanted to come out for the week and, like, catch up and see old friends and stuff.

Dylan: and you can afford this?

Alithea: Yeah, um, my financial situation has changed a lot since I last saw you. I’m a dominatrix now and the money isn’t amazing but it’s pretty good. I’m getting by and I still have time to do art and perform and stuff.

Dylan: Really? Wow. So you’ve been in plays and stuff?

Alithea: Well, no, burlesque mostly, and I read my stuff at an erotica night.

Dylan: Oh, but you’re getting your stuff into galleries?

Alithea: Well... you know bars mostly. But it’s a start.

Dylan: Oh, well, that’s good.

Alithea: Yeah. And what about you? What have you been up to?

Erik: I’m about to have a baby actually.

Alithea: Oh fuck!

These meetings never really go well in my head.

Something horrible and depressing always happens. I still want it to happen though. I want to know he still exists. I want him to know I still exist.

There’s something bizarre about being this close to him but not close at all. To be two ghosts moving in the same space almost but but never meeting.

I should know where he is. I can almost smell him. I should be able to just sniff him out the way a displaced junkie sniffs out heroin. Because when you love someone, when you fuck them, your body tracks their movements. When they walk into a room you’re already in your eyes involuntarily dart to them and you don’t just know, you feel where they are in the room. And having loved and fucked him so much and so long that I feel like I should feel him somewhere in this city and he should feel me. So I look for him.

I court this collision. I go to places he might be or frequent and every time he’s not there I want to leave some unmistakable and irrefutable proof that I was there. I want to leave some thing, a note, a

scent, a ghost. Some kind of communion with him.

The same way you feel that chill in a historic building as you think “100 years ago someone touched this very window sill before they jumped to escape the shirtwaist fire.” I want him to touch a book or a bar top and know “Alithea was here. I missed her by a day, an hour, 10 minutes.” but even if he did I’d never know.

Everything in my life now that I love he would hate.

He would hate the fact that I’m a dominatrix. He would hate the fact that I have a burlesque show where I poledance and flirt with EVERYONE till all hours and he would hate the people I’ve loved by virtue of the fact that I loved them. He would hate this show if I ever wrote about someone other than him. And I totally have.

 

He would think all these things were awesome if someone else did them, but not his girlfriend. Not the little girl he loved and that’s what I was when he loved me. A little girl.

Some part of me is still his little girl though and that part of me want his approval. I want to hold up the finger-painting of my life and say.

“Daddy, isn’t it pretty?!” and I want him to say yes.

 Instead he says “You ruined my life, never speak to me again!”

 There’s one scenario in my mind that doesn’t go wrong. I mean, in my head it doesn’t go wrong. I’m sure it would if there was some bizarre world in which it actually happened. And in this scenario he sees me and I see him and we cant help but walk towards each other and both of us are too flabbergasted to speak, all we do is kiss. Instantly, irrevocably, as though we have absolutely no say in the matter. And it kind of seems like we don’t. He pushed me against whatever we’re up against a building, a bookshelf, a picnic table in his favorite beergarden. I feel his permanent erection through his tight blue jeans and feel his teeth scraping my tongue. And it’s sad and comfortable and angry and hot as all fuck and things are knocked over in the process and we’re suddenly fucking on a table or desk or stack of comic books.

And just like when I was sixteen I suck his cock better than anyone else and just like the first time we kissed he holds me tighter than I’ve ever felt.

There is no sound in the world but the ones we make, kicking things over, knocking into walls, moaning, screaming, pounding and crying. and I taste his tobacco smoke breath and feel at home against his skinny ribs and bay blue eyes. He is buried in my hair, I am locked around his waist. It’s hard and harsh, it’s new york city fucking, it’s gritty and hungry, hot and cold. And it feels so goddamned good I think I might die.

When he comes it’s like a punch in the gut. He makes a short hurt sound like a sob. My orgasm is clenching and tearstained, his is more a loss than a release.

His teeth are like rusty blades in my skin as he shutters against me sobbing aftershocks rocking his body, tears collecting in my hair.

I light a cigarette for him and wait for him to take it. I am both lonely and at home in his arms. I am familiar in the loss and longing I’ve always felt with him or at least whenever things were good which I suppose is a relatively loose term in this situation.

My love for him has always hurt in some way and the cure was always in his poison. And it’s a poison I find I still crave. He takes the cigarette and sucks it quickly, brushing tears away from his stubbled cheek. I envy the tar in his lungs. They will never be parted.

I guess that’s not really a good way for that scenario to go. My fantasy got a little... realistic there.

It was as big a surprise for me as it was for you, trust me. But, strangely that’s what I want. I want him back in my life, painful though it may be. It seems preferable to pretending he doesn’t exist. It’s like pretending part of me doesn’t exist. I feel like his cells are still inside me and they’re knocking around in my veins like ghosts in an abandoned house.

I want him to remember me. Because I physically can’t stop remembering him.