This is the third week of dalliance in Sinful Pleasures (the anthology, lol) and today I've got an excerpt from Tony Fyler's short story Lazy Sunday.
There are times when you should allow an “Elaine having a crisis’ call” to disrupt your plans…
And there are times when you shouldn’t.
I stare at Carrie’s pussy, the distance between us maddening, and as Elaine begins to pour her latest woes in Carrie’s ear, I wink, reach down and slide a fist around my cock, remembering times when the distance disappeared:
The first time we fucked, in her single student bed, when I was trying to be Mr Sensitive, and all she wanted was the heat, the friction, the definite push and presence of my cock inside her, the oblivion of fucking like scratching an infinite itch. I’d been…honoured. Even as I felt it, I knew it sounded odd, but that’s what it was – an honour, that of all the guys who wanted her, she had chosen me, found enough in me to be the man she took to bed.
The second time, half an hour later, all about her, the grind of her hips, and rubbing her clit as she rode me, and came with me inside her – the first time I’d ever felt that with a woman. The third, fourth, fifth times – each different, each learning, each making me want her more, making me want to never be without her.
The time I discovered her poetry weakness, outside, in the park, with my back against a tree. Reading French poetry, being desperately pretentious. She was doing the sun dress thing that Summer, and she looked like something from a watercolour in the yellow dress with strawberries on, and a broad straw hat. As I read, she closed her eyes, her breathing getting heavier.
“Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit,” I read.
She reached over, letting her hand lie, as if testing a theory, in my lap.
I looked down, surprised but thrilled, and flared a welcome to her. She took off the sun hat, then unzipped me, pulling out my cock and covering her hand with the hat. “Keep reading,” she said, the Summer thick in her voice.
I did, the words, the intonations rising and falling along with her fist on me. I’d just started “La vie est une fleur dont l’amour est le miel” when she squeezed the base of my cock, I thought to make me stop.
“Le miel,” she repeated, seeming content and yet frowning.
“Life is the flower, and love is the honey,” I translated. She nodded, as if to say she wasn’t an imbecile.
“Oui,” she said, releasing me from her grip and letting the hat cover my modesty. “It’s no good,” she decided, her voice quavering. “Was gonna wait till I got you home, but that can’t happen now.” She reached quickly up both sides of the sun dress and drew her panties down, letting the dress fall quickly back into place and handing me the sodden scrap of fabric. That was it, that was the word, it was absolutely sodden, like you read about in stories and don’t believe until you experience it for yourself and realise you underestimate a woman at your peril.
“One day, my darling,” she said, her voice raw and thick as she pulled the hat away, exposing me to the breeze and any wandering eyes, “I’m going to sink down your body while you read me this stuff, and I am going to suck your cock and blow your tiny mind to the sound of the French poets.”
I looked around nervously as the light summer breeze played over the flesh of my cock. I needn’t have worried. She put the hat back on her head and straddled me, the sun dress disguising nothing of what we were doing, should anyone walk by.
“But for now,” she said, taking my shaft in her hand underneath the long skirt, “don’t you stop. Don’t you fucking stop, my darling man.” And with that, she sat back on me, and it was like nothing I’d ever known, barely a form around me at all, more like some living, pulsing, demanding part of her was taking what it needed, like it needed to be earthed, through my body, through the tree, through the grass and ground itself, like the poetry was taking her up and she needed the vicious thrust all the way back down on me, her nails digging into my shoulders. The heat of her pussy, the slick hot barely-friction of her movement was like an engine on my cock, like it was turning her into something else, some expression of everything urgent in the world, like Summer and life, like sap and beework, like—
“Andy!” she yelped, her pace not slackening. “I’m gonna…Oh God, Andy, come with me! Come in me! Come home!”
I read a few more lines, my eyes blurring with the sweat of Summer and her heat. I saw the scarlet flush along her neck and in her cheeks, and she flung one hand from my shoulder and dug it into her groin through the fabric of the dress.
“A—”
And then there was no sound; no birds in the trees. Just the bellowing of heartbeats as her muscles clamped, as my flesh could stand it no more and surged in shuddering pulses inside her. Eventually, I knew she’d put both her arms around me again, holding me, cradling. I was deaf, dumb, numb, not really me, and the first sound I could make out when I came back from the soundless somehow pure white world was her soft, soft sobbing into my neck. The first sensation not sexual, but her fingers, stroking my cheek, her kisses on my face.
“I love you,” she cooed, over and over, as though reassuring me that she was still herself. We’d said it already by then, but this…this was different. Special. Real.
“Je vous adore,” I said, pulling her lips to mine for a soft, grounding, reconnecting kiss. “Je vous adore…”
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Tony Fyler is a Welsh journalist, professional editor and aspiring writer. He writes across several genres, including comic fantasy and YA sci-fi, despite being properly trained as a historian and journalist. Lazy Sunday, in the Sinful Pleasures anthology from Sinful Press is his first venture into erotica.
Website (writing)
Twitter: @FylerWrites
Website (editing):
Editing Twitter: @JFEditing
Email: enquiries@jefferson-franklin.co.uk
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