Paramour
Paramour
By Lindsay F.
Isabel ran her hands through his honeyed curls, arching her back a bit, drowning in a pool of ecstasy. The first moan had been feigned, for her nerves and self consciousness forbade her handing herself entirely over to Jasper’s charms. But the second bottle of Veuve Clicquot, now sweating on the nightstand, had begun to take hold. The next moan was quite legitimate, but interrupted by the chilling sound of the front gate at the end of the driveway. He was home. Several moments passed, Isabel stunned at her own plan. Lost under the sheets and between her thighs, Jasper hadn’t heard the car rolling over the loose gravel just outside the window. Isabel lay still for a moment, cold with fear. She’d planned this, after all- why the sudden shock?
Of course she hadn’t consulted Jasper. As powerful as he was, he’d always been terrified of consequences. It was true, she loved both men. The question as to which would make her happy was silly to her. She could obviously be happy with either Andon or Jasper. The issue was the degree of her happiness- and Jasper’s. And Andon’s, for that matter. What suddenly occurred to her, as if for the first time, was the pain she was about to inflict on her poor husband. Sweet, simple Andon. He’d never have suspected.
The sound of footsteps on the hard wood hallway floor sent Isabel’s heart pounding as though it would burst through her bare chest. It took only an instant after a plan that had taken days to change her fickle mind. In a sudden flurry of sheets and sticky, delicious sweat, she’d pushed Jasper from the bed, and signaled him to him underneath. Used to potential trouble, he did it with great ease, looked to her eyes in a shared second of panic, and was under the enormous bed in an instant. His toned, yet slim body just fit. Andon was right outside the door. In one graceful movement, Isabel stood, panting, and swept her sheer robe around her shoulders. She raced to the door, swallowed hard, and opened it just before Andon’s hand reached the antique knob.
“My love! I am so glad you’re home. You look absolutely famished! You simply must come with me to the kitchen, Gertrude has made the most spectacular dinner.”
Andon smiled at the goddess he was married to. How fortunate a man he was. He kissed her throat, naïve to the scent of another man all over her body. “Why are you so warm, darling?”
“Oh, yes, isn’t it hot? I tried our window but it seems to be jammed. No matter. Come, let’s go to the kitchen. I’m just starving, aren’t you?”
Andon nodded, grinned, tossed his small leather bag onto the bed from the doorway, and put his arms around his wife.
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Just Fall and Miss the Ground
Just Fall and Miss the Ground
By Sean H.
As I fell out of the twelfth story window the ground rushed at me and I was hit by a force that threw me back up towards the heavens. I panicked for a moment, a moment I had not panicked before, but then, the wind rushing through my hair and my coat slapping and flapping behind me, I realized that, no matter what the reason, I was flying over the city, over and unaware people down below.
The human race evolved on the African plains millennia ago, no predators in the trees, no reason to look up, not worth the processing power. Robots, all of them. Heads on a pivot. Side to side. Except me… and that one there, she looked up; I could see her mouth the famous line under her breath.
“It’s a bird, it’s a plane.”
I was fucking Superman… and if she was willing she would soon be fucking Superman, but first I would have to figure out how to get down… or maneuver at all for that matter, without finishing what I had planned for earlier. Before.
But before what? What had happened? I mean really. Was I flying? Was I being abducted by aliens? Was I still alive? Was I lying on the pavement back at the bottom of that building, people milling about my crushed and decomposing corpse? Was this real life or was it just fantasy? For all I knew I was still standing in that building, looking out across the city and wondering “what if?” That would be almost worse somehow. Worse than being dead? Worse than being crazy?
I looked back to where the woman stood, still looking at me, and my whole body turned and started moving towards her. She was pretty this one. The kind of pretty you see on the cover of Jane Austen novels. Pale skin, dark, curly hair and this one had light blue eyes to set off her other features. She smiled when she saw I was coming back and my heart warmed.
I don’t even remember landing that first time, but I remember looking her in the eyes and without a word taking her for a ride over the city. No one looked up, African plains and robots and all. We couldn’t cared less.
Reality or Not
Reality or Not
By Dave C.
I run my hands through her long and lustrous hair. I kiss her forehead, her cheeks and then her neck. My tongue emerges to lick a roadway from her neck to her tiny earlobes and back again. After I nibble on her lobes for what seems eternity, I follow the straightest path to her beautiful face and those plump ripe red lips. I bite those lips that hold the taste of her and suddenly press forward for a strong deep kiss. The kiss is returned with equal fervor; we mingle our tongues and continue this way for many minutes.
We pull apart and both sets of eyes lock onto the other. We stare at each other and gently tease with the knowledge of what is yet to come. I press her down onto the bed and as I hover my tongue begins its downward journey along her well defined body. Chin, neck and oh those beautiful breasts. They are small but firm and afford me much pleasure. After paying them their rightful homage I resume my roadway of exploration.
In a sudden and unexpected move Cathy manages to flip me onto my back and begins her assault on my body. The suddenness and virtuosity of her onslaught caught me unaware and aroused me to a new intensity. We play at this back and forth power shifting until we are ready to explode. At that point we pull back and recharge ourselves. This game of pleasure/torture goes on for at least an hour until we can no longer wait for the ultimate joining of our bodies. Cathy rolls me onto my back again, mounts and losses herself screaming in wild abandon.
Later as we are relaxing, staring at the ceiling and letting our breath return to normal a loud clanging noise forces me into a sitting position. I turn toward the direction of the noise and looking me squarely in the face is my alarm clock demanding my attention.
Simultaneously through the locked door the dulcet of Cathy, our maid. “Sir, please wake up, remember, it’s your first day as a high school senior.”
At that I glance toward the pillow next to mine to find nothing.
How to Write a Story
How to Write a Story
By Arvin W.
Begin with an idea. It doesn’t have to be good, but it’ll seem ingenious at the time. Scramble to y our desk while the idea is still fresh in your mind. Fumble through the mess of papers, whiskey, and Chinese takeout boxes in search of a pen and a clean sheet of paper. Find a pen with its tip exposed. Attempt to write before realizing that the pen is empty. Lick the tip, trying to revive the pen. When that fails, curse and toss the pen at the wall. Search through your room for another pen. Find one in a takeout box.
Begin writing your story. Initially, the words should flow freely; you may even complete a page in a few minutes. Slowly notice the flaws in your writing. Convince yourself to continue, everyone says it is better to revise after. Find a huge flaw in your story. Let it stop you. Contemplate various ways to rework the story. Fail and let your mind wander. Wonder how that stain got on the wall. Look out the window and count the cars passing by. Think about other things you could be doing: the friends you could be annoying, the TV you’re missing, the whiskey you’re not drinking. Take a swig. Take another, and another.
Wake up in a puddle, with paper stuck to your face. Crumple the paper and toss it near the trash bin. Try to remember what you were doing. Head to the bathroom. Vaguely recall your story idea. Adjust your aim. Flush the toilet. Look in the mirror. Ignore the mirror. Flop down in the front of your desk. Recalled a failed idea form the past. Confuse it with the story you’re working on. Shuffle through the papers on your desk, looking for your recent story. Eventually give up and search for a clean sheet. Grab the pen on the side of your desk.
Begin writing your story.