Five-Minute Erotica

by Carol Queen

  You lean over, reach out, and draw your arm across your desk, sweeping everything violently to the floor.You pick me up in your arms and push me onto the desk, my ass right at the edge and my legs still spread around you.The desk is the perfect height for you to fuck me, which you do with increasing enthusiasm as you lean forward to suckle both my breasts.Your cock pounds into me and I know I’m going to come soon, but you’re not finished with me yet.

  You pull out of me, ease me down off the desk, and turn me around. I’m like a doll in your hands as you force me over the edge of the desk, pushing me down against it so I have to spread my legs. Then you enter me from behind, and reach under to press my clit as you start to fuck me.

  I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning loudly; it feels so fucking good the way you’re working my clit and fucking me that I know I’m going to come any instant. I grab your hand and bite the palm to gag myself, bringing a whimper from your lips as I come in a muffled groan as you pound into me. My muscles clench around your shaft with each thrust, my orgasm overwhelming me as I chew on your hand.Then you’re wrenching it from my grasp so you can grasp my hips, holding me in the right position.You start to fuck me hard, fast, ready to bring yourself off. “Please,” I whimper. “Come inside me.” I feel your thrusts getting faster and faster, and then you’re exploding deep inside me, shooting your come into my pussy as I force myself back onto you, meeting your thrusts with my own.

  When you’re finished, you tug your cock out and I turn around, pushing you into your chair so I can get down on my knees and lick you before your cock softens all the way.The taste of your come and my pussy excites me still more, making my nipples stiffen. They’re still moist from your mouth and they feel cold in the air-conditioned office air. I lick you clean and tuck your cock back into your pants, zip you up, buckle your belt. Then I stand up and pull down my skirt, keeping my thighs pressed tightly together in a largely vain attempt to keep from leaking on your office carpet.

  I lean forward and kiss you once on the lips.

  “Hope it was a productive lunch meeting,” I whisper.

  “Very productive,” you say. “We did some excellent work.”

  “We’ll have to schedule them more often,” I say.

  “I like them unscheduled” is your answer, as you smirk up at me.

  I walk out past the receptionist, feeling the slickness of you oozing out of my pussy. People drift past me, returning from lunch. But I’m quite sure that their lunch meetings weren’t nearly as productive as ours.

  Train Ride

  BY SAGE VIVANT

  At the Sunnyvale station, Arlen craned his neck to survey the train. “Interesting. Nobody rides this thing on the weekends.”

  “Hmmm,” Carrie responded, distracted by the family on the platform with a gaggle of unruly children. When Arlen’s hand cupped her generous breast, she caught her breath but didn’t move. She suspected he wouldn’t want her to.

  “I was reading an article in the Chronicle just last week that the construction is forcing people into their cars,” he explained, as his fingers located her steadily growing nipple through her blouse. Could the people on the platform see what was going on? she wondered. “I guess we’re one of the few who are still trying to keep congestion and pollution to a minimum,” he continued. Circling her nipple over and over, he waited while she regulated her arousal. He knew the surprise of his strong will always disconcerted her at first, and he preferred her compliance to be of a more conscious than frightened nature. So he gave her a few moments to think clearly. But no more than a few moments.

  “Your breast feels so firm in my hand,” he said quietly into her ear as she continued to stare out the window. “When your nipple is this hard, I know that your cunt is wet. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, more furtively than she expected. He was right, of course. At his touch, her juices always began to flow and as she sat obediently still in her seat, a tiny stream of wetness spread from her swollen pussy lips to her panties.

  “And if I were to caress you between your legs, I would find you wet and ready for me, wouldn’t I?” His hand remained on her screaming nipple, rubbing it insistently. If she squirmed, he might be displeased. She remained immobile, stewing in her own juices, only vaguely aware that the train had started moving again.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I am wet and ready for you.”

  They heard movement in the next car as she spoke. Arlen moved his hand from her breast to her crotch, and as he burrowed between her thighs along the seam of her jeans, she spread her legs as much as the seat would allow. “That’s a good girl. Give me your wetness. Can you feel the vibration of the train coming up through your cunt?”

  She couldn’t quite feel it but wanted to. Badly. What she did feel was his tender, expert stroking, applying just enough pressure to make her want to crawl up the back of her seat.

  The door of their train car slid open and a conductor walked through. Carrie’s eyes widened and her pulse raced as she realized that Arlen had no intention of removing his hand. The conductor stood beside Arlen and asked for their tickets, taking great pains to ignore Arlen’s hand busily working at her pubis. As soon as the man moved to the next car, Arlen got up and led Carrie to the bathroom at the front of the car.

  She followed anxiously, and when he fingered her dripping pussy in the tiny compartment, she was grateful that the sounds of the train drowned out her shouts of pleasure.

  Real Redheads

  BY LORI SELKE

  “Are you a real redhead?” I asked, pushing my hand under her skirt.

  Alyssa giggled and scooted her bottom toward my reaching fingers. She was perched in my lap; my other hand had already undone her bra and was pushing up her green fuzzy sweater. She wore a green plaid skirt and green fishnets, too. I didn’t even know they made green fishnets. She wore black combat boots, the genuine article rather than high-fashion Docs, and this only added to her charm.

  I was surprised at my own boldness. I had only just met Alyssa a few days before, at the farmer’s market. She was buying peaches, three perfect yellow beauties, huge and succulent in her small, white hands, tipped with green nail polish.

  It had been the windiest day of the season.Tarps were flapping and pulling at their ropes. Corrugated signs were rolling across the pavement. Alyssa’s frizzy rust-colored hair was lashing against her cheek, and her short skirt was swirling up against her thighs. Of course, I didn’t know her name yet. But I caught myself watching to see if the wind would catch, lift her skirt above her waist, and give me a glance of her panties. I wondered if they were green, too.

  I don’t know if they were that day, but tonight they are. Emerald green, silky, and becoming slowly suffused with her sweet nether perfume.

  Some people have a thing for redheads; I don’t. I have a thing for green fishnets, short skirts, and combat boots. And freckles, cinnamon sprinkled on skin smooth as whipped cream.

  She was using one hand to keep her skirt in place, and the other to keep the hair out of her eyes, so I reached into the bins, selected a particularly juicy-looking fruit, and dropped it into her bag. “Your hands were occupied,” I said by way of explanation.

  She smiled and, after the gust of wind died down, chose another peach and handed it to me. “Oh, I forgot something,” she said, and reached into her purse (black) and pulled out a notepad and pen. She scribbled something on the paper and handed it to me. “My name’s Alyssa,” she said. “Glad to make your acquaintance.” On the slip of paper was a phone number.

  She paid for her peaches and took off at a brisk pace. “That’s my work number,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m on my lunch break. But I’m not busy this evening; I get off at six.” She waved pertly and was gone.

  Busted, I thought, and smiled.

  Our courtship wasn’t a long one. A couple coffees after work, a dinner date, and now we were on my couch, she was perched in my lap, and my hand was up her skirt.

&nb
sp; “So you want to know if I’m a real redhead, do you?” Alyssa asked. “How do you plan on finding out?”

  “Well, there’s a time-honored and traditional method . . . ” I said, and hooked my fingers in the waistband of those silky panties.

  She giggled. “And what’s that?” she asked, though I knew she knew the answer. She spread her thighs slightly as I tugged her panties toward her knees. All that shifting and wriggling had raised a tent in my pants. I think she enjoyed feeling it snug against her butt. Surely some of that squirming was directed toward a purpose.

  Once I got her panties out of the way, I worked my hand back toward her butt. I cupped and squeezed it while we necked for a bit. She had sharp little teeth, and kept nipping at my ear and neck. Not that I minded. I just tweaked her nipples in response; she jumped and giggled, throwing her head back so that I could kiss her neck and down into her cleavage.

  Meanwhile, my hand was working its way over her thigh to that sweet cleft between her legs. No need to rush, I thought to myself. We both know where this is going. I kneaded her thigh just above the elastic of her green fishnet stockings, and I even chanced rubbing her stomach, which I love but some girls hate because they think they’re fat. If she gasped or sucked her stomach in, I knew to stop. But Alyssa did neither. So I let my hand slide downwards a bit, toward her bush.

  Only she didn’t have one.

  She must have seen the look on my face, because she burst out laughing and slipped off my lap, landing with her legs spread and her butt against the arm of the sofa. I recovered quickly, though, and pounced on top of her, plunging my hand again between her legs, finding her wet and ready—and totally smooth, from the mons all the way down. She was still laughing, but her breath was catching as my hand moved against her warmth.

  “You naughty girl—you shave!”

  She nodded, stifling her laughter with her hand.

  “I guess I’ll just have to ask, then.”

  “I’ll never tell!” she crowed, and dissolved into fits of laughter, clamping my hand between her thighs as she fell onto her side and clutched her ribs in mirth.

  As long as I had her helpless, I took the opportunity to try and remove some more of the clothes that impeded the both of us—although it was tricky, what with my hand imprisoned underneath her skirt, with no signs of reprieve. In fact, it was impossible, but fun to try. Alyssa wasn’t the only one who knew how to use her teeth. And although I couldn’t do more than tug at her sweater with them, it did provide me with an excuse to kiss her again. And again. And eventually, her thighs relaxed their grip on my hand, and her fingers found the fly of my pants, and pretty soon I was rubbing my bare hard-on against her bare thigh, and Alyssa was sighing, “Let’s wrap that thing up and get down to business.”

  And not too much later, when I’d sunk deep into her and she was busy stroking her clit frantically, and I could feel her muscles inside grasp and release, grasp and release, she started moaning one word over and over. “Yes,” she’d breathe, clasping me around the neck and whispering into my ear. “Yes,” she cried as her head thrashed against the sofa cushion. And finally, pounding the upholstery with her clenched fist, “Yes!” And I felt her come, and it wasn’t too much longer until I did, too. And when I did, her eyes flew open, and one last time she hollered “Yes!” and then collapsed into giggles again.

  I was still panting from the exertion. “Was I that good?” I asked with an ironic smile.

  “Yes,” she said, grinning and touching my nose. “And yes.”

  “Yes what?” I said.

  “Yes, I am a natural redhead.”

  It was my turn to fall back into helpless laughter. Alyssa finally had to smother it in kisses.Which was not such a bad outcome after all.

  The Long Walk Home

  BY DARKLADY

  He pushed her out of the car.“Out of the car, bitch,” he said as her feet felt gravel beneath them.

  Then he drove away.

  She stood for a moment at the side of the road, watching his tail-lights recede and fade. Good riddance to bad garbage, she might have said, squaring her shoulders and beginning her walk towards home. But she didn’t. Instead, she looked around to see if anyone was watching.Then she squatted in the middle of nowhere under a bright, full moon, and peed carefully beneath her lifted skirt, missing her sensible shoes and listening as the warm liquid soaked into the spring ground.

  At least he’d done it on a nice night this time, she thought, standing, shaking her thighs, and straightening her skirt. Last time it had been pouring rain. She’d been sick for a week with a cough that rattled in her chest enough to catch people’s attention.That had been a date to remember.

  She felt warmth and wetness on her upper thighs that wasn’t urine. She dabbed at it with the skirt, grumbling irritably. It wasn’t like it would leave a stain, he’d have told her—and she’d have agreed—but she always winced a bit when she sopped up body fluids with her favorite clothes. Some of them require extra care afterwards. Velvet, for instance. But not cotton-poly blends. Even blood wouldn’t ruin them, in small amounts and promptly washed out.

  She squared her shoulders and began walking towards home.

  She was glad, not for the first time, that she’d found these shoes. On sale, too. They were so comfortable; they even looked good. She could wear them with jeans, slacks, or the long, straight skirts she preferred to wear with her pullover sweaters. Her Bohemian charm expanded her range of wardrobe options. It was one of the things that he loved about her, this eccentric frugality she wore like the shoes she walked in. Simple, elegant, functional, gently irreverent—patient.

  It was a good night for a walk. Clear and crisp enough to motivate a walker but not so chill as to discourage one. She could see for miles from the road. It was one of the reasons why they liked to drive there in the first place.Tonight’s moon extended the horizon even farther than usual.

  She remembered the night they had pulled over, spread a blanket on the trunk of the car and fucked under that enormous moon. She had bled between her legs, it being her time of the month, as she leaned against the back window and watched the heavy round disk—blood red itself—rest briefly upon his bare buttocks as he pumped pleasure into her.

  They had lain facing one another, each watching the moon—he as it reflected in the back window, she as it rose between his legs—and whispering their secrets into one another’s ears.There had been kisses. On noses. On eyebrows. On lips. On chins. There had been little nibbles. And then more kisses. He had rolled beside her, slipping an arm under her neck and atop her shoulders.They rested and watched the moon move across the sky on its rounds.Then he had kissed her shoulder and audibly whispered into her skin, “The moon says goodbye and so, my dear, must I.”

  He had rolled her off of the warm blanket and onto the crisp autumnal ground. It was time to go home. It was time for her to walk. It was time for the next move in their game of love.

  “See ya later, bitch,” he had said, tossing her clothing on the earth near her. “See ya in town.”

  Then he had driven away; the tang of her skin still on his lips, the spice of her musk still on his fingers, his nostrils.

  She had stood for a moment as she always did, watched those twin embers fade from view and shivered—more in her spirit than in her skin. She had felt so warm that she thought she must surely have burned brighter than the bloody moon that had hung heavy behind her.Then she had remembered the gore and cum finger-painting its way down her inner thighs and she had laughed aloud.

  Remembering that not dissimilar evening, she laughed again and felt a not dissimilar warmth growing within her. She shivered and hugged herself. She felt loved and special. Today in particular, on this anniversary of sorts. She brushed a lock of brown, wavy hair from in front of her eyes and smiled, lost in her thoughts as she walked.

  A second presence advanced, distant but moving closer on the stillness of the road. A driver. Perhaps lovers returning from a tryst under the moon. She
moved farther right along the shoulder of the road as a courtesy to the vehicle and a margin of safety for herself.

  The car stopped beside and slightly in front of her.The door opened as she glanced toward it.

  “Get in, bitch,” he said. “You’ve got something I want and I’m not going to wait all night for you to walk home before I can enjoy it.”

  She smiled quietly, and moved close to the car. He took her wrist and pulled her beside him.Then they drove away.

  Within

  BY M. CHRISTIAN

  My five fingers, my five cocks, my five dildos, touch and probe and move, knocking to be let in—all the way in. Such a harsh word for such intimacy. Maybe “reaching”? Maybe “handling”—but not “fisting.” Too rough, too violent.

  The mechanics of it are here, on a table next to the sling or someplace near the bed: wherever the place, they are there. Roll call: gloves (comfortable, surgical if you fancy that), lube (lots and lots and lots and lots—if you think you have enough you don’t have enough), and the other things that she might need (vibrator, small whips, dildo, whatever else). These are the keys, necessary but artificial—the facts of life.

  The rest, though, is not artificial—way, way beyond artificial.