Sweet Music, pt 1

A song on the radio stirs my excitement. All day my nipples ache, my cunt pounds, my body is wreaked with longing. I am sitting in a smoky bar, it’s late, the music slow, fierce, indie. Something about knowing you, feeling you, touching you. She is over at the bar, glowingly lit up by the soft lights, and I drink her up with my eyes, the enticing skin of her arms, the arc of her neck, her hair fastened up with a clip. The sensual lips in profile that causes a steady yearning in my gut. She can feel my eyes on her. All night, she has been sitting there with some friends, and I’ve been stuck in this corner, not even daring to use the bathroom for fear she will be gone when I return. My body a hard knot of arousal. No one should look that good.

Then, I can see her ordering two drinks, neat whiskys, saying something to the friend, taking a glass in each hand and getting out of her seat. As she walks over, her eyes are focused on the glass in her right hand, and my heart is pounding like crazy, the flow of her dress entrances me, the narrow legs in dark blue jeans, the well-worn leather shoes with rounded toes. Each step makes me want her more, like an invisible thread of energy running between us, pulling us together, but she won’t look, she is still too shy.

”I brought you a drink,” she says, standing at my side, finally looking at me. Her expression is intense, unsmiling. She looks serious, a red glow to her cheeks and temples.

I move over in my seat, make space for her to sit. She does.

We talk until closing time. Every time our limbs touch, a tremour of excitement courses through me. I want, I want, I want. So much. Too much. I can’t let her go.

Her friends go off, one after the other. They come over to say goodbye, have fun, call me. I can see them glancing at me, brimming with curiosity. She stays, not even a hint of getting up, it’s getting late, maybe I should go. Finally the keeper calls the final orders, and she starts putting on her coat, slowly, regretfully. I’ve got to think of something, quick.

”Would you like to come home with me? For a cup of tea, I mean! You said you…”

Then she smiles that full-blown, high-voltage, North Pole-melting smile that always gets me, that makes my ears start to roar, my whole body turn into a gooey puddle at her feet. Oh yes. That smile.

”I’d love to.”


But we never reach the kitchen. Instead, just inside the door, I turn to her, and her face is lovely, so open and inviting, I have to touch it, I take it in my hands, and then there is nothing for it, I have to kiss her, a light kiss that slowly goes deeper, and her hands are on me, around me, quick as mice, caressing me out of my jacket, going under my shirt to touch my skin. She sighs with pleasure, with longing, and I pick her up, it’s faster, and carry her, kissing and fondling me, in to the bed.


Riding the Train

Late night, the city lights trailing behind. The buzz of good jazz, even better whisky. She grabs my arm as we board the train, pulling me into a nook with two seats. She is beautiful tonight: alight with conversation. The glow to her eyes and face, the marked looseness of her body that promises… There is a flutter in my stomach, her arm casually around my waist, her thigh presses against mine. She leans her head on my shoulder, smiling serenely at the embarrassed conductor, checking our train cards. Then he’s gone, leaving the train set empty. Almost empty: there’s a teenager up front, eyes closed, ears encompassed by skullcandy headphones. His head moves slowly up and down with the train’s steady movements. Also, a woman, mid-fifties, engrossed by an evening newspaper. I am almost dozing off, yet the train’s insistent movement, the liquour making my crotch pound, helplessly.

“You’re aroused,” she whispers in my ear, making me blush further.

“Sorry,” I croak, not daring to look at her.

“Not sorry.” There’s a hint of laughter to her voice, and I realise that her hands have snuck down to my belt, unbuckling it. My jeans are loose, there is more than enough room for her fingers to sneak inside the lining, for her whole hand to disappear.


“You have to be real quiet,” she admonishes me, her voice still a whisper, tinged with urgency now, as she begins to massage me through the thin fabric of my panties. “Oooh, honey, you’re soo wet…” she croons, her fingers fervent now, pulling my panties to one side so that my cunt is peeking out through the leg opening, fondling my wet parts in her hand in a way that would make me groan out loud, but I can’t, the pleasure shooting up from my crotch, making me buck with the effort to be silent. My tits are standing to attention, craving to be touched, nevermind the time and place, but she holds me back, leaning against me in the seat, feeling every jerk through my body as she continues her rhythmic, unrelenting treatment. As she pushes two fingers inside me I have to gasp, I bury my face in her hair, my cunt contracting around her. She is breathing heavily, fucking me fast and furiously, her body tense with her own arousal. “God, you feel good – don’t speak – you’re so good – I want you to come for me…” Her voice in my ear, insisting, her hand down my jeans, insisting, the teenage boy slowly opening his eyes, the mid-fifties woman’s head turning as if there’s something in the air she can’t put her finger on, something that tells her, but it doesn’t matter, I am good and ready, I am all liquid pleasure and ecstatic abandon. My body shakes helplessly with the force of my orgasm, her hand still working, I crush her to my chest and almost faint with the effort not. To. Make. A. Single. Noise.

It feels like falling.

Her hands go up to my head, holding my face close to hers, kissing me quietly, over and over.

“Our stop…” I say, still dazed and confused, but remembering, somewhere, that we’re on a train.

“We passed it,” she whispers, smiling, placing her head back on my shoulder, pulling me into her embrace. “With flying colours. Give it another try?”




Suddenly there is snow outside, the roads frozen over, traffic impossible. Her eyes are glazed, nose blocked up, goose bumps pricking over her bare arms as she lifts the phone, makes the call. “Sorry. Can’t come in today. Too sick.”

I am in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. Selecting chamomile, honey, her favourite mug and spoon. As I come back to bed with the tray, she looks peaceful, half-asleep, a small curled-up ball under the cover.

“Honey.” I say. “Tea.”

She sits up, the cover sliding down, and I try not to look. She sips at the mug of tea, then puts it to the side.

“No,” she says, “don’t look away. Please, I need you here. For warmth.”

I slip under the cover and draw her gently, carefully, into my arms. She is shivering. “Closer.” I put my lips to her hot face, as though I could kiss the fever away. “Bad cold,” I say, “bad, bad cold.”

Her head slips onto my shoulder, her breathing hot on my neck. I draw my fingers along her spine, caressing her into a healing sleep.


I wake up from a wet kiss. She is flushed, close, smelling sweetly of sleep and sweat. Her lips against mine, eyes so close they are out of focus, but still, steady, locked on mine. “Love me,” she mouths into my mouth. “Make love to me.”

I stroke her hair, lay her down on the pillow. “Honey, you’re so ill.”

“I know,” she breathes. “Make love to me.”

I hold her close, kissing gently, stroking my hands over her skin under the cover. She presses against me. Slowly I move my lips, carefully making sure the cover is still over her, moving down her body, as if each kiss could draw the cold out of her pores. Her nipples are sensitive, I let my warm tongue glide over them, comforting, as her body tenses up, a soft sigh slips out. Carefully, I spread her legs, make a little space for myself, a warm nest to settle in. Under the cover, the smell of her is over-powering, sharp and sour and sweet in a heavenly, gut-tingling mixture. I put my arms up around her, holding her up to me, and sink my lips to her swelling labia, placing little kisses up and down them until she is relaxed in my arms, breathing steadily. Her hands squeeze mine. A warmth moves through me, as if her fever has spread to me, as if we were one. My tongue is warm and wide and wet as I lick her, not parting her, not just yet, just licking steadily, luxuriously, slowly, until she is squirming, her body mutely begging me for more.

“Ah,” she breathes. “Oh, yah…”

The tip of my tongue slides between her labia then, and for a second I am overwhelmed by the taste of her, I put my whole mouth over her, continuing this slow, gentle, steady lovemaking, deeper still, her legs encircling me, pulling me into her, her hands in mine. I want more of her. I want it all. I push my tongue inside her, then out again, move up to her clit and kiss it, stroke it, play it with my tongue, faster now, my whole face covered in her wetness, my own clit moving rhythmically in tune with hers, craving her release.

How long? It feels like eternity and no time at all, writhing around each other, soaking the sheets, my whole body shaking when she finally comes, and I can’t let go, it is everything, but she pulls me up to her, fits herself inside my arms, her slow smile and warm, sweaty hug telling me yes. Yes.



“I need a shower!”

She rushes in, sweaty, dishevelled, dropping her bag and coat in a mess on the floor. Off work, finally, she kisses my neck softly where I stand, stirring a pot, preparing dinner. Then she’s gone, I hear the drizzle of the shower, the faint sigh as the tension eases in weary muscles. I can’t help myself. Her kiss still burning on my neck, I turn off the stove, put the pan to the side. On tip-toes, I sneak out of the kitchen, down the hallway. She’s left the bathroom door ajar. She always does.

I bought a see-through shower curtain on our last trip to Ikea.

She is leaning her forehead against the cool tile wall, her back to me. The water pours down the smooth line of her back, trickles in quick-flowing drops down the round cheeks of her ass. My mouth is dry as I watch her, shampooing her hair, soaping her wet, gleaming skin. The foam glides down her slender shoulders, over the supple muscles of her arms and thighs. As she half-turns to grab the conditioner, I get a glimpse of her left breast, framed between her out-stretched arm and side. The curtain is fuzzy from the heat of the shower; I can feel beads of sweat forming on my own temples. Abruptly, the water is turned off, the curtain pulled. She stares at me, the hint of a smile playing on her lips.

“You were watching.”

She steps quickly out of the shower, picks up a towel. My tongue is tied. I nod. She is standing very close now, I have backed up against the doorpost, and as she leans in to kiss me she leaves wet marks all over my clothes. She tastes of sweet water. A melting sensation rushes through my body. All I can think of is tasting the water on the rest of her skin, and then I do. I lick her jawline, glide my tongue up to the nook of her ear, then down her throat to the contour of her keybone. She sighs, impatient, her hands going under my shirt. As she finds my tits she grunts approvingly: I’m not wearing a bra. She glides away from me to pull the shirt over my head. I can’t see a thing, but I can feel her greedy lips closing around my nipple, her tongue teasing me, the pleasure that rushes to my cunt. Her hand is already inside my loose trousers, and finding no panties, she pushes her finger inside me, still licking and sucking my tits. I moan again, finally finding my way out of the shirt, and catch her in my arms. She is blushing with arousal. I think briefly of the bed, then I am on the floor, wet naked woman on top, fingerfucking me as my hips lift off the floor to take her deeper still. Her hair is still dripping, but I am more interested in her pussy, level with mine, and dripping too. I cup it with my hand, let my finger enter her as abruptly as she seized onto me. She cries out with pleasure, presses down on me, her wet tits rubbing against mine, her hips against my hips, her wet pubic hair, she rubs her clit against the palm of my hand, pressing her own palm against mine, and I gasp “it’s impossible” or some such crap before her mouth is over mine and the spasm through her body makes me come too. She can feel it, laughing, her hands snake around me to grab my ass, press me against her, her lips against my ear whispering “fuck yes.”


Hard work

Stressed out, the workload pressing down on me. Phones ringing, messages beeping, people shouting for assistance. The boss on leave, co-workers missing. I sneak into the bathroom, lock the door, sag down against it. The cell in my pocket, buzzing: “How R things? :-)”

“Hell.” I text, then “Help?”

“Where R U?”


The phone rings two secs later. Her voice:

“You ok?”

“Stressed out.”

I pick myself off the floor, sit on the closed lid of the toilet.

“Wanna play?”

I know that tone of voice.


“I’m at my desk. It’s so hot in here. I’ve had to open up my shirt buttons.”


“My bra is scratching against my tits, making my nipples stiff.”

“I see.”

“I wish you were here to lick the sweat away from them…”


She sighs. The way she sighs when she stretches herself to give me easy access.

“But since you’re not, could you do something else for me?”

“What’s that?”

Pulse throbbing unevenly, I can feel my stomach tightening.

“I want to put my hand down your panties. But since I’m not there, could you do it for me?”

I follow her instruction, unbuttoning the trousers, my fingers finding their way inside the lining.


“Is it there?”


“What does it feel like?”

I swallow. “Soft. Sticky.”

“What does it smell like?”


“Nah,” she whispers, breathily, “I bet it smells like heaven.”

“Will you touch your tits for me?”

There’s a rustle of fabric down the line. “I’m doing it.”

“What do they feel like?”

“Oh, honey, they want you so bad. They need you.”

“Oh,” I breathe, my fingers back in my trousers, finding my throbbing clit.

“Is your pussy all wet? Are you touching yourself?”

“Yes,” I say, “yes.”

“Will you rub your lips against your clit for me? Make yourself come?”


“God yes, your pussy is so lovely. Right there in your fingers. I can almost taste it. I wish I had my tongue there, I would lick and lick and…”

“Dear God.” Her voice makes me dizzy, I can see her before me, sprawled out over the desk chair, one leg up over the arm rest, her shirt open, her breasts beckoning me. There’s an expression of bliss on her face as she lets her own hand …

“Are you touching yourself?”

“Yes,” she says, “God yes, I’m so wet for you.”

My clit just seems to explode then, like a cheerleading team, standing ovation. The heat moves through me in waves. A drawn-out moan down the line tells me she’s right there with me.

“Better?” she gasps.

“Like heaven.”


She is leaning over the kitchen table, filling up the toaster. Her hair is a morning fuzz, her bum in the air an enticing hill under the thin layer of cloth that makes up her favourite tunic.

My clit stirs. As she stretches I can see the fabric pulling up, inch by inch, and nothing underneath except this: her glorious cunt, framed by slender, round thighs, the soft dark curls of pubic hair doing nothing to hide it from this angle. A rush through my belly, and my own underwear soaking.

I come up from behind, put my hands over her ass, massaging it.

She glances at me, coyly, her held breath going out of her in a long, luxurious sigh. I move my fingers up to the small of her back, underneath the fabric, kneading in small circles. The urge is already raging inside me, but I try to draw it out, make sure she’s ready. She presses against me, still stretched over the table, and I feel the hot wetness of her through my own underwear. Tease. I lean over to kiss her neck, hearing her “oh” as my hand snakes around her to hold her belly, arching her bum up just a little further to give my fingers free play.

My second hand glides down from the small of her back, in between us, to cup her dripping cunt as my own presses against it. Her breathing stops. I stroke a slick finger around her labia, circling my way in, as my first hand moves down from belly to pubic mound, then further still, my own clit pounding with need as I find hers.

“Yes,” she exhales. “yes.”

As I trap her clit between two fingers, the index finger of my second hand pushes into her, stroking her vaginal wall. She gasps, moving against me. I find a rhythm, playing her two-handed, feeling my own cunt pushing and moving against her thighs in response. Her hands are grabbing the table, her breath coming in little “ohs” and “ahs”. I let my middle finger slide in too, our pace increasing, the shudders moving through her pre-hailing the release to come. A final push to take her over the threshold and her cunt is grabbing hold of my fingers, she is crying out, her body shaking in my arms, her hand suddenly squeezing my arm until I stop and let her fall into it. I sit down on one of the chairs, and drag her down into my lap, holding her firmly. She wraps her trembling arms around my neck, leaning her head on my shoulder.

“Dear God,” she whispers, her breath hot on my skin, glowing.

“I’m sorry about the toast,” I say. “Pancakes?”


In a rush. The store closing in ten minutes.

I’m on my way out in the hallway to remind her to get a package of ciggies for me.

But I get off track.

She’s bundled up: completely covered, it was raw and wet out

last night.

Against the wall, I take it all off again. Scarf, hat, gloves and coat. The shirt missing a button, her belly-button peeking out. My fingers are hot as I unbutton the rest of it, kissing my way down.

Her startled gasp turns into a low moan. Her breath catches as I unbutton her jeans, pulling her panties down with them. I kiss my way around the fuzzy line of her pubic hair, a demi circle, until I reach my destination. She is already dripping, a needy groan escaping from her, telling me, yes, there. Now. My tongue slips along her labia, a light lick over the opening of her vagina, before I reach her clit. She is shuddering. My lips close around it. My tongue flicks, waiting for her hips to move against me, urgent, finding a rhythm, kissing and sucking until her knees turn jellylike, her moans turn into muffled yelps. I put my hand to her side, steadying her against the wall, not stopping, not for a second, as I can feel it now. She is close. I pull her against me, my tongue and lips pressing against her clit, my hands around her hips as the spasm moves through her, until her yelps become a definite scream. Her knees give way. She sinks down to the floor, into my arms, and I hold her there, her moans becoming weaker, her spasms fading, giving her time.

“Do you think they heard me, the neighbours?” “No, no.” Of course they did.

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