Me and My Boi: Loblolly

Last week saw the release of a new anthology from Cleis Press, edited by the fabulous Sacchi Green, called Me and My Boi: Queer Erotic StoriesI’ve got a story in here – “Loblolly” – which is one of my favourites that I’ve written, and I’m glad to be sharing pages with the likes of Annabeth Leong, Summer Marsden, Sinclair Sexsmith and Kathleen Bradean. Here’s how the story starts…

forest path

Loblolly

“Wear something pretty,” she said. “I’m taking you out.”

I’m not great at doing pretty but when Jo asked for it, I wanted to do it right. I looked through my closet and picked a dress that used to be my sister’s—spriggy blue flowers that would bring out the blue of my eyes and a crumpled lace trim that would lead her eyes to my cleavage. It was short but that was good—I knew already how much she liked my legs—and I matched it with an old pair of sneakers. I couldn’t go too pretty, it just wouldn’t be me.

Jo came to the house to pick me up like it was a proper date, which I suppose it was. By the time I answered the door, she’d stepped back and was lighting a cigarette on the bottom step of the porch. She looked good to me—in dark jeans, baggy enough to need the black braces which held them up and a wife-beater that showed off her tan skin and the sharp jutt of her shoulders. She was skinny, boy skinny, but she was wiry with small, tight muscles that made me want to lick her. Underneath the white tank, I could just see the dark circles of her nipples, protruding from the flat expanse of her chest and the “Hello” I’d been about to say caught in my throat. Her bleached hair was cut short and shaved up the back but the bangs at the front were long enough for her to hide behind when she wanted to.

She looked up at me and took a drag on her cigarette.

“Very cute,” she said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. She dropped the cigarette on the path and ground it out with her heel. Then she stepped forward, took me by the wrist and kissed my cheek. “Come on.”

The brush of her lips on my skin left a small imprint of heat and the smell of her cigarette smoke up close turned me on no end.

“You my girl?”

“Maybe,” I said, skipping ahead of her on the path.

She drove a truck and I climbed up on the passenger side, feeling her eyes on the backs of my legs as I mounted the step. There were candy bar wrappers all over the seat and the ashtray was damn near overflowing with butts but the small space smelled of her—and I don’t have to tell you how much I liked that.

She got in and gunned the engine.

“Where’re we going?” I said.

“Out to the forest,” she said. “It’s too nice to be indoors.”

It was a beautiful day, though I’d hardly noticed it. The sun was sharp and Jo flipped down the sun visor against the glare.

“Should we stop and get wine?” I said.

“I got all we need, baby.”

I studied her hands on the steering wheel. Small strong fingers with clipped white nails that stood out from her dark skin. Her grip was relaxed but I loved to watch the muscles and sinews of her arms moving under the surface as she turned corners and straightened up again. On her right bicep there was a tattoo of a pigeon. Not a dove or anything symbolic. Just a common wood pigeon, strutting across her arm, drawn in sharp, fine detail. I don’t know why she had it. On our second meeting I had asked her about the fine white line that ran half an inch down her chin from her lower lip.

“This scar,” she said, fingering the mark, “is where this bird,”—she moved the tip of her finger to the tattoo—”flew into me. Right into me, here, with its beak.”

I laughed because I knew she was lying. If she had secrets she wanted to keep that was fine with me. I had things of my own that I wasn’t going to spill any time soon.

Several miles into the forest, a long way past the main parking lot where families with dogs and children were unloading, past the visitor center and nature trails, we came to the end of the road. There was a turning circle and some gravel standing for cars to park on but we were the only ones there. Jo pulled a basket out of the back of the truck and we set off into the trees.

Walking through dappled sun and shade, the only sound the buzzing and chirruping of insects, I could almost hear my heart humming. Jo was slightly ahead of me and I watched her shoulder blades slip-sliding up and down under her skin as her arms swung loose at her sides. I moistened my lips with my tongue. She turned and caught me watching her.

“Let me take the basket for a while,” she said.

We walked for half an hour and never saw another soul. We were far deeper into the woods than the day trippers went. Jo was striding forward like she had a destination in mind but I remembered, she always walked fast in the city, head down, cigarette in hand. I saw birds but I didn’t know what sort they were—I wasn’t a nature lover and I only ever came out into the forest when somebody else suggested it. But today it was nice, walking through the trees with Jo in companionable silence.

Finally, she stopped and cast about herself some before dropping the basket down at the base of a tall, thin pine. She pulled out a plaid blanket and spread it on the needle strewn ground under the tree and invited me with a gesture to sit.

“This is a loblolly pine,” she said.

“Is that rare?”

She laughed, the sun glinting on her white teeth, a string of saliva glistening between her dark lips. “Commonest tree in the forest, practically. But I just love it for its name.”

I lay back on the blanket and looked up into the branches above me and at the small chinks of azure sky I could see through them. My heart was pounding hard and fast. I wanted her pretty bad.

“Loblolly,” I said slowly, letting the word roll over my tongue. I closed my eyes.

A metallic jangle made me open them again just as Jo straddled my waist. Above me she was holding a pair of shiny steel handcuffs in one hand.

“You’ll be okay with these,” she said. It was more of a statement than a question and with her other hand she caught hold of one of my wrists.

My heart skipped a beat. No, make that several beats. I’d been hanging with Jo for maybe five or six weeks, having sex with her for the last two or three, but I had no idea she was into handcuffs. Or anything kinky like that. I’d never been handcuffed or tied up before.

“Jo?”

“Shhhh…” I felt the cold hard steel of the cuffs being pressed against my lips, crushing my unformed words of protest. I wriggled slightly but, although she wasn’t any heavier than me, she had me pinned down.

“You need this, Ava,” she said. “I could see it in you the moment I met you. You need someone strong to take you in hand.”

 

Me and My Boi cover

BOOK GIVEAWAY

Anyone who comments on any of the posts in the Me and My Boi blog hop will be entered in a drawing for one free copy of the anthology. You can comment on more than one post and be entered more than once. The winner will be announced and notified by July 5, if not sooner.

Visit the rest of the stops on the tour:

June 12—Sacchi Green— www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com

June 13—Annabeth Leong– http://annabethleong.blogspot.com/2016/06/me-and-my-boi-not-just-hair.html

June 14—Anna Watson— www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com

June 15—Sinclair Sexsmith– www.sugarbutch.net  

June 16—Jove Belle– https://jovebelle.com/

June 17—Tamsin Flowers– www.tamsinflowers.com  

June 18—Victoria Villasenor— https://breywillows.com

June 19—J, Caladine— http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com

June 20—Victoria Janssen– http://victoriajanssen.com

June 21—Dena Hankins–  http://denahankins.net/my-summer-of-boi/

June 22—D. Orchid— http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com

June 23—Pavini Moray– https://emancipatingsexuality.com/

June 24—Melissa Mayhew— http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com

June 25—Jen Cross— http://writingourselveswhole.org

June 26—Kyle Jones– www.butchtastic.net  

June 27—Gigi Frost–www.facebook.com/gigifrost

June 28—Aimee Hermann— http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com

June 29—Sommer Marsden— http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com

June 30—Axa Lee— http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com

July 1— Kathleen Bradean— http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com

When love leaves…

trapped

When love took its leave, what was she left with? The crackle of dried leaves underfoot, turning to brittle dust. The dregs from the bottom of the wine bottle, scouring her tongue and leaving a bitter taste. A stain on the sheets, still visible after they’d been through the wash and not conjuring any sort of memory she wanted to cherish.

She had thought, from reading novels, that the death of love, the demise of a love story, would be a slow process. A long, drawn out affair. And in a way it was. Except she didn’t realise it was happening most of the time. Then the sucker punch to the gut. The moment it hit her. Whatever they had was gone. The glue that bonded them had dried out and flaked away.

And she knew, with a ghastly sick feeling, that what seemed so obvious to her was not at all obvious to him. He was still whistling through the day. Only now, what was once endearing to her was anything but. She wanted to flee. She made plans in secret but she felt trapped by her own good manners. Conflicted by the need to leave and the equally strong desire not to cause pain. Not to crush or mutilate his belief in himself and the life they’d built.

How do you do that to a person? After all, she owed him some consideration.

And herself? What did she owe herself?

 

As salty as his cum…

Abstract woman

The tear that ran down her cheek was as hot on her skin as his touch used to be. As it passed the corner of her lip, her tongue slid out to intercept it. It was salty, as salty as his cum used to taste at the back of her mouth.

She sighed, remembering kisses and blow jobs, and the way she used to laugh with the pure joy of fucking him.

But no more. When was the last time she’d laughed with him? When had she last kissed him, properly kissed him, mouth open, almost trying to breathe him in? Not for so long. Not since he was more essential to her than oxygen. Now he wasn’t essential to her at all.

Love dies slowly. It was a slogan from a t-shirt she sometimes wore to the gym. But it hadn’t been that slow actually, the death of their love.

She wiped her eyes and put the car into gear. She looked up at the house. Their house. The home they’d shared for five happy years and one painful one. Happy memories now tarnished with the death throes of a failed relationship.

She reversed out of the drive and pulled away into the future. New opportunities, new love, new stories were out there waiting for her. She felt good. She was ready to go.

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Best sex on the net – Elust #82

Elust 82 Header
Photo courtesy of Teachers Have Sex

Welcome to Elust #82

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #83 Start with the rules, come back June 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Take Me

How Do I Love Thee:On Comparing Relationships

Asking all the questions…

 

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Erotic Fiction: Fishnet Queen

I Manage My Expectations

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

Wanna Have Sex With Me? – Here’s how
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

 

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Maybe I’m not a pervert after all
Bad Excuses
Engaging with Sexuality: A Personal Perspecti
I wish there were more porn
Cock Size: Does it matter?
Blue is not a “boy color.”

Erotic Non-Fiction

Watching My Wife With Another Man Story
Afternoon Cunnilingus & Birthday Sofa Sex
Why You Should Shave Your Partner
Oct 2014 Session – Mistress Claire
Two Days Later
Roping a cougarling
Divining Rods
Dorabella’s pink-velvet spanner

Erotic Fiction

Puppy Love
Quick & Dirty
She Says My Voice Changes for Her
THE BLINDFOLD – fear of the unknown
U is for undress…
Stay Baby…Stay.
kink of the week–glasses

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Slutfest Reflection
Love and Fairness
Winnowing
V is for……..
My heart turns blacker: the new rules

 

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Blast from the Fetish Video Past
The whole person approach to Submission
Down on my knees
Dominant Doppelgangers, Dominant Opposites
Four eyes
BDSM and Depression: Therapy or Self-Harm?

Poetry

Eden, Revisited: A Lusty Limerick

Writing About Writing

Stepping Stones
Centering Disabled Characters in My Erotica

 

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Dream lover

Dream Lover is a short story which first appeared in Go Deeper Press‘s flash fiction anthology Dirty Little Numbers. And it seemed like the perfect piece to form part of the wonderful Tabitha Rayne’s Self Love is in the Air blog hop. Enjoy yourself!

She woke up with a smile on her face and the shiver of an orgasm receding through the pit of her stomach.  Wow!  Who’d been that man in her dream?  The shadowy stranger who’d first finger fucked her, then full-on front fucked her, then taken her up the ass and caused her to smash the orgasm ceiling and float off into orbit?  She couldn’t remember his name or his face.  She couldn’t remember any of the details of his body, whether he was fat or thin, old or young, light or dark skinned, tattooed, circumcised, bald or bearded… nothing.  Not a single detail of him remained in her mind.  But it didn’t matter.  What mattered was what he did, how he did it and – hell – the effect it had had on her.

She floated around in close-to-orgasm bliss all day, re-running the dream in her mind until it became ragged around the edges and started to fade.  Goddammit, she hoped she’d be able to get back there when she went to sleep tonight.

Late in the day, she realized there was one thing she could remember about him.  Alone, in the elevator, she became aware of an aroma, a smell of man – sweat, cologne, sex.  It was the scent of the man who’d fucked her, she was sure of it.  Even though he’d only been in her imagination and the smell was definitely real.

The person who rode this elevator right before her was the person she’d dreamt of fucking.  Of being fucked by.

Who the hell was it?

“Did you see who came out of the elevator before me?” she asked the guy on the security desk in the lobby.

“No one,” he said.  “It’s been quiet all afternoon.”

She could smell the man on the bus ride home but there was no one who owned the scent.  Office girls, middle-aged women, a teenage boy, an octogenarian… but they all had their own aroma as she brushed by them.

She lay on her bed and the smell became stronger. She hitched up her skirt and pushed her panties to one side.  Her cunt was wet.  Ready for the guy who knew how to fuck her, knew what she wanted.  She pushed a finger up inside and then sniffed it.  It was her own smell, like a dog on heat.  The man was imagined but her fingers knew what to do.

She smiled when she came.  He was out there somewhere and when she met him, she’d know him by his smell.

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Z is for zeitgeist…

Peeling paint

Zeitgeist. I love to roll that word around with my tongue. Time. Spirit. The spirit, attitude or general outlook of a particular period of history, according to the Collins English Dictionary.

Does it only apply to the age or can one apply it more personally? What for example is my own particular zeitgeist at the moment? What mood, feelings, thoughts dominate my world currently?

What do you think, you cunt?

Anger I found that text message. Anger wraps around me like a scarlet cloak, scratchy and hot, making it hard for me to breathe. It covers my face. I can’t see where I’m going as I blunder towards you with arms outstretched. I want to punch you.

Hurt. What you did, what you’re doing, cuts me to the core. Not a simple stab wound, but a serrated blade being dragged down through me. Again and again. Why is my anger so red? It’s drenched in my blood.

Fear. Where do I go from here? What happens now? ‘We’ are a thing of the past. I want nothing more to do with you, but how do I extricate myself from the ties that bind us? And then it will be ‘I’, all alone, a unit of one when I’ve spent so many years as part of two. Maybe it will be better. I’ll tell myself that. Piece. Of. Fiction.

Pain. It gnaws. Sharp teeth grinding at me with questions. Why? How could you? When? Where? Details I’m desperate for but don’t want to know. Have no right to know. Would be far better off not knowing. But rodent teeth dig deep and the pain is fierce and unrelenting.

Sorrow. It came to this. All that we invested in ourselves, and it came to this ignoble ending. Perhaps I invested more in us than you ever did. The saddest, timeworn tale. I should have known that love was finite and that we wouldn’t last forever. Salt stings my eyes. My mouth tastes of bitter gall. My heart is swollen and raw.

Despair. Desolation. Desperation. 

And how do you feel today, my darling?

Y is for yes…

Woman sitting under tree

Can I get you a coffee?

Yes, please, that would be lovely.

Can I buy you a drink?

Yes, thank you.

And another?

I shouldn’t, but…

Can I kiss you?

I thought you’d never ask.

Can I kiss you again?

Please, go ahead. You needn’t ask…

Can I touch you there?

Yes, yes.

Can I take you home?

Yes.

Can I fuck you.

Yes.

Dinner? Yes. And sex? Yes. Again? Yes.

(x100 or so)

Marry me?

Yes.

Carry my child?

Yes.

And another?

Yes.

Care for my children?

Of course.

Cook my meals.

Yes.

Do my laundry?

Yes.

Sew on that button?

Yes.

Sort out my mother’s birthday present?

Yes.

Sort out the plumber?

Yes.

Sex.

Yes. At last.

The dry cleaner? Parents’ evening? Book my flights? Get the car serviced?

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes…

Love me?

NO.

I ran out of yeses.

The answer is NO. Not anymore.

Don’t ask me for anything else.

X is for xenopus…

Frog

 

Sometimes you kiss a frog and they magically become a prince.

Sometimes you kiss a prince and they magically become a frog.

I kissed a prince. At least, I thought he was a prince but I was wrong. It took a while for me to realise, but my beautiful prince was, in fact, a frog. Xenopus, the clawed frog.

This was the creature I’d taken into my heart. The creature I’d made my home with.

How long did it take me to realise? Far too long. But these frogs are clever. They cloak themselves in a layer of charm. My frog, in particular, had charisma. He wooed me and swept me off my feet. His light shone bright and it dazzled me. I didn’t see what lay beyond. I only saw what he wanted me to see.

For the longest time.

Yes, he was clever. But over the years, the veneer began to peel and crack. I got the occasional glimpse of what lay behind the mask. So fleeting that it was easy for me to close my eyes to it. To pretend I hadn’t seen at all, to keep up the pretence.

The charade of the perfectly happy couple. Happily perfect together.

Falling in love can happen fast. Falling out of love can take a lot longer. When you fall out of love, you feel like you’ve failed. You pretend it isn’t happening. At least I did. Disillusionment crowds in, clouds all thoughts of the future.

My prince, it turned out, was nothing but a frog. A big, fat old frog. Prince of his pond, nothing more than that. Unpleasant. Ugly.

But I was the fool.

I had been from the start.

 

W is for whetstone…

Whetstone

I watch as you stroke your blade across the whetstone. I listen to its metallic grate with my eyes closed. I tremble. I anticipate. I wait and I want.

Cold, biting steel. Across my skin. You tease and torment me with it.

You’re my whetstone. You make me sharp and sensitive. When I’m with you, I’m bright and keen, glinting and bold. When you’re gone, I’m blunted and dull. Tarnished.

I hone my fierce edges against your flat, steady planes, and you anchor my brittle existence.

But diamond acuity comes at a price. You wear me down, little by little, with each pass, just as your blade is worn away by the whetstone.

For now, I’m still sharp. But I won’t always be. What will you do then?

V is for virginity…

Wave

Virgins were her special interest. More precisely, the claiming of virginity, the corruption of the innocent, the defilement of young-ish boys. (Though she always made sure to check their id for their date of birth. She wasn’t going to risk jail time for her pleasure.) (You might ask if there were any men over 18 who were still virgins – but when it’s your special hobby, you know where to find them.)

Of course, she’d slept with more experienced men but found the whole ‘experience’ thing overrated. Just because a guy had done it 10 or 100 times, didn’t mean he got any better at it. At least not the guys in her bed. But nothing could beat the beatific expression of joy and wonder when a box-fresh cock plunged inside her for the very first time. Eyes wide with surprise, head thrown back, mouth gaping, some of them came in an instant, while some of them savoured the pleasure for, oh, perhaps a minute or three before the explosion happened.

Some, naturally, didn’t even make it inside her before they came, but she was forgiving. She knew how to get them hard again and thereafter would supervise more closely to make sure they got inside her. And they always came more than once.

Like lovesick puppies, they all wanted to see her again. But she wouldn’t. Once she’d claimed their virginity, her interest in them deflated as rapidly as their cocks. She sent them on their way with a lingering kiss and a maternal lecture about being good to the women they slept with.

So how had it come about, her fetish for virgins?

It started when she was in college. There had been plenty of virgins there, ripe for the picking. In fact, she’d been one herself when she’d arrived, though obviously not for long. The guy who took her virginity claimed he only ever slept with virgins – he was, in fact, a lying little shit, but the idea took hold in her mind before she found out he actually slept with everyone.

After that, she’d slept with a few other men, which was fine and dandy. But then she found him. Her virgin ideal. A broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped aesthete, charmingly nervous around women, with a sweep of blond hair that kept her awake at night. She wanted him. She wanted to be his first. It didn’t matter to her to be his only – she wasn’t looking for a long-term relationship. She simply wanted to be the one he’d remember, always.

He lived in a house in the woods with two other aesthetes with whom she became close friends. She suspected – and later found out – that these two were also virgins. But it was her blond Adonis she wanted most of all and so she laid her plans for seduction. The right music, the right wine, a roaring fire, candlelight…

He was putty in her hands.

She kissed him passionately and then watched his face as she guided his cock into her cunt. Surprise, delight, fear, wonder, adoration and perfect joy all wrapped in a few seconds, all caused by her. Like a class A drug, she was addicted from the first hit. She seduced his housemates on successive weekends and after that widened her search around campus. She couldn’t get enough soft virgin flesh and hard virgin cock.

Virgin flesh. Virgin cock. It made her the author of transformative experiences. The one they would all remember. Always.

She had discovered her own brand of immortality.