Excerpt from a Bloomington Freecycle Acquisition
I love the Bloomington Freecycle group. A week or so back, I got 2 silk lampshades of some 50 yrs+ age, they're so nice. Some books came across last week, and I was intrigued. In there was a book of 300 crochet stitches, which was gone already when I wrote (drat!) a book by anais nin called Delta of Venus which I haven't started, and (woohoo!) The Mammoth Book of Erotica, edited by Maxim Jakubowski.
The FIRST story in the book, which I started before bed last night is called "A" by Alice Joanou. An excerpt follows:
"Early on in our game, his wife had tried, in a rare display of strength, to frighten me away. Sadly, the weapons she used had no effect on me. I didn't give a fuck about compassion, or morality, or what she called "the sanctity of marriage."
"There's no going back now," I said without any expression on my face, while I stroked his hair. I was holding his head on my breast.
"He's my husband!" she screamed at me over the phone one night. I could tell she thought her words were going to change the fact that he was putting his cock deeper and deeper into my life every day.
With every push, the mutability of her world was more remote. She didn't realize that we could hardly hear her voice over the rain of sweat pelting the sheets of my bed, couldn't hear her over the orgasms that were washing the wooden floor of my house.
His body was like morphine, and he had become this particular addict's attraction. The way we came together, the way that gravity hurled our bodies at one another, seemed predetermined.
Without hesitation, I took what I wanted.
Her attempt to wrest his attention, to turn his gaze away from the maze of my flesh was weak-hearted, while the purposefulness, the single-minded focus with which I straddled and attacked his body with the lips of my mouth, the teeth of my sex, the way I held his shoulders between my fingertips, the way I wanted him had a honed quality to it. I felt expert when I was fucking him, I knew the pleasure of a murderer's discipline when we made love. And some portion of my psyche knew that the existence of his wife allowed for the intensity of our pleasure. He denied this. He wanted to attach the desire, the dizzying draw of one another's body, to love.
"Don't be silly, darling. You don't love me. You're just going through a mid-life crisis," I said to him.
He protested louder. He protested too much.
But I knew that the orgasms, the wild flowering orgasms that shattered windows and tore holes in the walls, in my lungs, in my heart, were hinged on his wife's existence.
His wife flinched and backed pathetically away like a wounded animal, trying to hide her face from the bestial truth of his desire for me, his unnatural attraction to my pussy. When she recognized the lunacy of his desire, she threw herself upon him, begging him in clumsy girlish pleas to stay. He instinctively moved toward me when she showed her weakness, as though the power of my sex could shield and preserve the perfection of our affair from the disease of their mutual weakness.
Our trancendent moment was reached when anything was possible, when finally any false morality had dissoved, when reason and compassion and pity were nothing more than weak excuses to keep him from my bed."
The FIRST story in the book, which I started before bed last night is called "A" by Alice Joanou. An excerpt follows:
"Early on in our game, his wife had tried, in a rare display of strength, to frighten me away. Sadly, the weapons she used had no effect on me. I didn't give a fuck about compassion, or morality, or what she called "the sanctity of marriage."
"There's no going back now," I said without any expression on my face, while I stroked his hair. I was holding his head on my breast.
"He's my husband!" she screamed at me over the phone one night. I could tell she thought her words were going to change the fact that he was putting his cock deeper and deeper into my life every day.
With every push, the mutability of her world was more remote. She didn't realize that we could hardly hear her voice over the rain of sweat pelting the sheets of my bed, couldn't hear her over the orgasms that were washing the wooden floor of my house.
His body was like morphine, and he had become this particular addict's attraction. The way we came together, the way that gravity hurled our bodies at one another, seemed predetermined.
Without hesitation, I took what I wanted.
Her attempt to wrest his attention, to turn his gaze away from the maze of my flesh was weak-hearted, while the purposefulness, the single-minded focus with which I straddled and attacked his body with the lips of my mouth, the teeth of my sex, the way I held his shoulders between my fingertips, the way I wanted him had a honed quality to it. I felt expert when I was fucking him, I knew the pleasure of a murderer's discipline when we made love. And some portion of my psyche knew that the existence of his wife allowed for the intensity of our pleasure. He denied this. He wanted to attach the desire, the dizzying draw of one another's body, to love.
"Don't be silly, darling. You don't love me. You're just going through a mid-life crisis," I said to him.
He protested louder. He protested too much.
But I knew that the orgasms, the wild flowering orgasms that shattered windows and tore holes in the walls, in my lungs, in my heart, were hinged on his wife's existence.
His wife flinched and backed pathetically away like a wounded animal, trying to hide her face from the bestial truth of his desire for me, his unnatural attraction to my pussy. When she recognized the lunacy of his desire, she threw herself upon him, begging him in clumsy girlish pleas to stay. He instinctively moved toward me when she showed her weakness, as though the power of my sex could shield and preserve the perfection of our affair from the disease of their mutual weakness.
Our trancendent moment was reached when anything was possible, when finally any false morality had dissoved, when reason and compassion and pity were nothing more than weak excuses to keep him from my bed."