by S. Czolgosz
I’d like to say that the first thing I want to do with him when his boat comes back into harbor is talk. After all, I’ve got so much to say to him. The awkward telegraph-booth conversations, clicking out “I miss you” and trying to tell him about my days, those are wonderful but so very detached. Sure, he sends me letters, and I read them three times over. The personal ones are scented with lavender, so every time I go out to my garden I think of him.
But the first thing that I want do when I see him isn’t talk. I want to gag him and put his cock in my mouth. I want to run my tongue up the groove at the base of the head of it. I want to push him up against the wall, with my forearm against his hips to keep him from thrusting—though I’ll happily let him try—and slowly let the whole length of it into my throat. Come to think of it, maybe I should sink some bolts into the wall at the level of his waist. I’ll have to ask him to measure himself for me, next time we talk.
Monthly Archives: September 2010
by S. Czolgosz
Your lips were warm, of course, and your shoulder sweaty where I tried to rest my hand. My fingers kept sliding down your skin. The wind whistled over the roof of the hothouse, and when I inched closer to you on the bench, you smelled of wood steam and the squash that we ate for dinner. You pushed your tongue tentatively against my lips and I opened my mouth. Your tongue swept slowly along my teeth and palate and tongue. I sat up in your arms, our lips making a soft smacking noise. My hand went to your head to thread its fingers in your hair.
“Oh,” I said, pulling back, surprised at myself, “Is that okay?”
“Mm. Yes,” you managed. You forced yourself to focus on my face. “Can I touch you?”
I blinked, watched a drop of sweat roll down your neck. I nodded.