Turning Up the Heat

When I got to my car, I saw her sitting in hers, opening a pack of cigarettes. I pulled up beside her, driver-door to driver-door.

“Hello, I noticed you in the store a few minutes ago.”

She smiled, “Yes, I noticed you too, bold statement, ‘Not yet’.”

“Give me the pack of cigarettes.”

She offered them and I tossed them onto my dash.

“By 9 o’clock send me your list of other bad habits, and two things you want to improve,” and I gave her my business card.

She looked off-guard, confused, but nodded her agreement, and I pulled away.

The Heat of Summer

I was looking for Gatorade and trail mix. Rounding the corner heading to the checkout station what I found was a lovely raven-haired girl. She was wearing skimpy volleyball shorts, barely covering her well rounded buttocks, and a deeply slit cotton tank top.

We got to the line at the same time. Nodding, I stepped aside. She smiled softly, and silently stepped forward. I placed my items on the conveyor belt and looked her over. My eyes were drawn to the complex compound curves of her cleavage.

The cashier glanced at her, then addressed me, “Are you together?”

“Not yet.”

Violence and Sex

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Do or do not . . .

. . . there is no try

I can't hear you

She’d been all for this game when my hand was clamped onto the back of her neck. And also when I had harshly squeezed her breast, although she'd grimaced and squirmed. And when I’d teased her navel and combed through her pubic hair, she was fine, giggly even.

Now she was balking. She held my wrist, pulling down. But I continued to push up forcefully, fingers pressing in against her throbbing veins.

“Let go of my wrist.”  Her body shuddered in response but her grip slackened.

I put my lips to her ear and whispered, “Are you ready to continue?”

with or without

I was settled in my favorite Adirondack chair, reading a book. It was late afternoon and there was a breeze rustling through the trees, sending leaves skittering across the patio, against the house.

She was on a chaise-lounge, legs tucked up to one side, working on a needlepoint project. She was absent-mindedly humming an indistinguishable tune.

Suddenly I rapped my knuckles on the arm of the chair and she looked up.

Indicating a spot directly in front of my chair, I spoke softly, “Come here.”

She got up and came over.

I leaned back into the chair, “Lift your skirt.”