Sex Still Spoken Here: An Anthology

by Carol Queen

  “Let’s find something here for the horses to feed on, and then we’re going to get out of these itchy uniforms and take a nice long dip in this water.” I didn’t wait for a response, just grabbed my horse by the bridle and led him to the south end of the pool where the rock shelf gave way to earth and some small trees and green plants. I put a hobble on his front legs so he could graze but not run away; Private Petersen did the same.

  “Now, Private, let’s take care of ourselves.” I walked back to the rock shelf—to a little rise, sort of, in the middle that you could see from all around—lay down my rifle, threw down my cap, sat down, pulled off my boots and socks, my tunic, then stood up and dropped my pants and stripped out of those hellish long johns—I was not going to put those back on today—and tossed them on top of the rest of my gear. I was naked! For the first time in weeks I was fully and freely naked! It felt great! I stood and stretched—up to my tiptoes, then held my hands up to the sky like I was some Holy Roller back in Virginia, gave a good healthy yell and started down toward the water. Only then did I become aware that Private Petersen, rather than stripping down with me, was just standing there, still in full uniform, looking at me with a strange expression on his face.

  “What are you waiting for, Private? Drop those duds and let’s cool off

  “But, sir …”

  “You can drop the military courtesy for the time being, Petersen; it’s not required when the personnel involved are bareass—and you are going to get yourself bareass and enjoy this water, aren’t you?”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but …” Petersen was nervous; he was turning red behind his beard and moustache, and I could see sweat on his face, even though we were in the shade of the cliff; he was trying to look me in the eye, but his eyes kept slipping down … to about the level of my dick, which was celebrating its own liberation from those itchy long johns by getting itself ready to stand up and salute—I could feel the heat, the growing heaviness between my legs; I didn’t have to look down to see what was happening.

  “What’s the matter, Petersen? Haven’t you ever seen a grown man naked before?”

  “Uh … yes, sir.”

  “Well then, what’s the problem?” “ I … I …”

  “Are you embarrassed? About what? You’ve got the same equipment I do, don’t you—two balls and a hunk of meat hanging between your legs. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

  I don’t run around showing my “hunk of meat” off … but … there’s a time and a place … and this seemed to be both. I spread my legs a little and threw open my arms so Private Petersen could take a good look at me. I didn’t look too bad for being 40. Body still in good shape: broad chest—although most of my chest hair had turned silver, matching what I had on my head and face—and I still had a good firm stomach and waist; most of the trousers the Army issued me hung on me pretty loose while the tunics were sort of tight. And my legs were nice and muscular from holding a horse between them all the time—I mean, a real horse, although what I had between my legs had been compared a few times in my life to a horse, but that was mostly by whores, and whores are part of an ancient and honorable profession, but that didn’t mean you should take as gospel everything they told you either—before or after you paid them. Partner knew he was on display, even if it wasn’t for the usual reason he got shown off—there wasn’t a woman in hundreds of miles—and kept right on growing to attention … with even more enthusiasm. I still didn’t look down; I knew what he looked like when he got happy—about eight inches, and good thick inches. I just kept looking at Private Petersen; I was showing him my body—and my hard-on went with it. I was sure he’d seen one of those before, too, at least his own. But he was acting sort of like a virgin … I wondered … but the sex life of my soldiers was none of my business …

  After a minute or so of watching me standing there bareass, showing my stuff, the expression on Petersen’s face changed … took on some determination … like when a soldier gets a mission assignment … he turned away from me and practically marched up the incline to where I’d thrown my gear. He lay down his rifle, sat down, pulled off his boots and socks, set the boots neatly side by side, stood up again, took off his cap, put it down carefully next to his boots, then pulled off his tunic, folded it, placed it carefully over his rifle, pulled off his trousers, folded them, put them neatly on top of his tunic, unbuttoned his long johns … and then modestly turned his back toward me as he pulled them off his shoulders, down over his ass—God damn!—and then bent over—I damned God again—and pulled them off over his ankles. He picked them up, folded them neatly and put them on top of his trousers, then leaned over again—this time I thanked God rather than damning him—picked up his hat and put it on top of his neat pile of clothing, like he was preparing for inspection. Then he turned around and faced me, his hands modestly over his crotch.

  To be real blunt about it, he was beautiful. The curly golden hair on his head and his face—it descended down his broad chest, his slim white body, his long shapely legs, in an unbroken wave of golden fur; he radiated light—like the clouds in one of the spectacular sunrises we’d been seeing every morning. This time I praised God rather than just thanking Him; underneath that scratchy Army uniform was the Glory of the Lord—or close enough. I stood staring for a long moment; he looked back at me … uncomfortable … but determined … a man on a mission—although I wasn’t sure what the mission was.

  Finally I remembered to breathe. I started to say something, but my throat was dry, despite the water I’d just drunk. I cleared it and tried again. “You … you can’t stand there all day with your hands over your dick, Petersen. You might as well let me see it and get it over with.”

  “Yes, sir.” He moved his hands away and put them behind him—parade rest; a natural position for a soldier. Talk about the Glory of the Lord! My eyes were beholding it! Private Petersen’s dick was pink … and long … nine inches? … and hard … very hard. It sprang up from between his legs like it had some place to go, something to do, in a hurry, and then settled down to about 90 degrees to survey the territory around it—like a good Army scout.

  “Well … you look good and healthy.” “Yes, sir.”

  “Bet you’ve made a lot of women happy with that.”

  “No, sir. That’d be a-whorin’, and that’s an abomination. The Bible says so.”

  Abomination … there was a word I hadn’t heard for a while. “Well, at least one or two special ones; a shame not to share a gift

  like what the Good Lord has blessed you with; remember the parable of the talents.” I can talk religion when I have to.

  “No, sir … I haven’t.” “Not one?”

  “No, sir.” His voice got very soft, and his face lost some of its determination, and he looked young and … I felt a twinge somewhere in my chest … maybe in the area of my heart. “Not one.”

  What a waste—what a fuckin’ waste—literally.

  “Then I bet you’ve left a string of broken hearts behind you.” “Just one, sir.” Again, the voice was very soft. “Mine.”

  …

  [go to top]

  “You do not have to be good.”

  - Mary Oliver

  (from “Wild Geese”)

  Eugenia Mills

  Bio

  Even more than crafting the story itself, Eugenia Mills particularly enjoys the field research. A chef and creator in a variety of areas of design and writing, she’s also proud mother to a young adult daughter. Currently, she divides her time between Canada and Mexico.

  Mini-Interview

  How did you start writing about sex? How does it differ from non-erotic writing? The erotic stories I write are all semi-autobiographical. So, first I make a good story, then I put it into words. This is certainly much easier to write than fiction, as the only imagination involved was what took place in the field, as it were! The main struggle with erotic writing, I find, is coming up with descriptive language that is hot, just dirty enough, an
d flows naturally.

  How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? Discovering the ERC was a revelation. It was a delight to share my writing with others who don’t struggle with the negative reactions and judgements that others may find themselves having to get past before being able to discuss the quality of the writing itself.

  Do you write under your own name? Why or why not? Do you have any concerns about publishing erotic work? Much as I’d like to write under my own name, the internet allows no room for privacy so I thought it best not to.

  What’s the inside scoop on your story? Names have been changed to protect the privacy of the participants. Otherwise, it’s 99% true.

  It Just Takes Practice

  Eugenia Mills

  There wasn’t anything particularly hot about her—she was pretty average looking, in fact. Medium height, average body, short brown hair—kind of cute, I guess, but not the type I’d normally go for. There was just something about the way she strode onto the elevator and confronted all the bored faces staring back at her. She grinned, like she was in on a joke that no one else had heard, and there was this kinda sexy cockiness about her attitude. Obviously it did something for me—my hard-on tented up the crotch of my pants. Luckily I was carrying my laptop bag.

  I had been running late and had forgotten to put panties on. I rarely wear dresses but my boss had specifically requested that I “present myself formally” for the meeting, so I was making my best attempt at femme. It was warm enough for late October to not wear pantyhose, but I’d debated it for a minute anyway: I’d bought them specifically, thinking they were probably required to satisfy the “formal” criteria. Truth is though, I would have been yanking at them awkwardly all day long, so instead I’d checked my calves for stubble, then shoved my feet into my shoes and ran out of the house. In my haste and indecision, I forgot to put panties on. Now, after sitting for two uncomfortable hours in a sticky, vinyl-upholstered chair in the client’s boardroom, I can feel that the warmth has separated my pussy hairs into damp, curling tendrils. I was just thinking about this sensation as I stepped onto the elevator, when a guy in back caught my eye. I met his gaze firmly—hoping to telepathically let him in on my little secret—then, like everyone else, I turned to face the elevator doors.

  As I followed her out into the street, I wasn’t exactly sure what I planned to do. She was much older than me—was I taking a stupid risk? But as I walked behind her watching the silky fabric slide against her hips and ass with no sign of a panty line, all I could think was that I wanted to get under that dress.

  I can tell I am being watched. I throw my shoulders back; my hips sway a little more enticingly for the benefit of my audience. I admit it—I’m a bit of an exhibitionist. I am pretty sure who it is, and cast a quick glance back to confirm. Yes, it’s the guy from the elevator, and he is close behind … now what? He seems pretty young … I can’t quite say how young from that brief moment when I first spotted him, but best to keep walking.

  She has passed the building where I work as concierge. Now what? Do I keep following her? I hesitate and pull my cell phone out of my pocket. Shit—it’s 1:40. I have gone overtime on my lunch break. I glance down the street and see her turn the corner. I guess that’s it. As I get closer to the revolving doors, I can see my boss standing in the lobby. Better get back to work.

  I’m about to turn the corner to where my car is parked. With another quick look over my shoulder, I see him turn into the doorway of a building. I pause, then double back.

  She’s standing outside the window. I check my boss’ status—he’s chatting up a hot condo resident he’s been obsessing about lately. He’ll be distracted for a while. I wave and beckon her in, and she responds with a hint of that same grin I’d noticed earlier. My cock immediately reacts. She approaches the reception desk where I sit with my hard-on now straining at the seams of my pants. I’d love for her to know how hard she’s made me, but instead of being so blatant, I write my name and phone number on a card, and slide it across the counter to her. I have to see you, I say. OK, she replies, and leaves without another word.

  Peter 455-6737. It’s a little after 8pm and my daughter is in bed asleep. I have dialed the first 6 digits. Of course he wants to fuck me and I am not only curious, but also increasingly desperate as a single mom with a small child at home. I press the last digit: 7. He answers almost immediately. My thumb is ready on the “end call” button, but the tingle between my legs says keep going.

  “I want to taste you.” That is exactly what I want, so I tell her right away. I don’t feel like messing around with chitchat. I want her to know what I want and why I want it. My girlfriend thinks oral sex is disgusting. I can fuck her all I want, missionary style, but I am her first and she is shy. That’s what she says, anyway. I try to explain all this to this strange woman. I am nervous and excited and it all comes out in one long sentence. I tell her that I need to know if there is something I can do to make my girlfriend love it. She tells me her name is Maggie.

  Perhaps giving him my real name wasn’t the best idea, this guy who claims he only wants to test his skills and pleasure me with his tongue and fingers. Nothing for himself! He says his girlfriend doesn’t want it; he needs to know if it’s because he’s doing something wrong. I’d have to analyze that, I say. When are you available? He tells me his work schedule—he can get here by 10:15 almost any weeknight. Come Wednesday, I say, simply because it is the one night my daughter spends at her father’s—and I give him my address. I will wait for you on the second floor deck, I tell him. I hear his nervous exhale through the receiver as he replies, OK, Wednesday. And we say goodbye.

  I can’t concentrate. It’s Wednesday and all I can think about is what she might taste like, feel like. I have a perpetual hard-on. At 9:30 I break into a sweat, suddenly wondering if I am crazy. I could be putting myself at risk of total humiliation. Now it’s 10pm and I am on my bike. It seems to know where I want to go. My mind has turned to mush and I’m glad the route is straightforward. Adrenaline surges through me, and I pedal furiously, racing through amber lights and near-misses as a door opens from a parked car. I’m barely fazed, as my body buzzes with feverish anticipation.

  He should be here soon. I am confident he will come; for some crazy reason I trust the vibe I got from him. My tenants are home downstairs; I’ve placed the phone next to me with their number on speed dial. I love an adventure, but you never know, right? I am wearing a skirt, no panties, of course, and have folded up a large thick blanket to cushion his knees. Trying to ignore the anxious flutterings in my belly, I sit back and sip my glass of wine.

  I lock my bike to the fence in front of her house. She had said to go in the front door and upstairs to the second floor. Why stop now? The door is unlocked, just as she’d said it would be. I can practically taste her and hope for a full, dark bush concealing a salty sea-clam. I can’t wait to bury my nose in it and dip my tongue in deep. I take the stairs two at a time, run my fingers back through my hair, feeling the dampness of a light sweat. Fortunately, the evening is cool.

  Neither of us speaks. He immediately kneels at my feet, his breath coming quick on my thighs as he lifts my skirt. I suspect he took the stairs running. He slides his hands gingerly up my inner thighs and murmurs, So soft. I hope he doesn’t mind a full bush—Brazilians and landing strips are just not my thing, but I do keep myself trimmed. At the gym, I notice more and more women with their mounds bare as the day they were born—this strange girl-child aesthetic seems to have become the ideal, but to me, it’s pervy in all the wrong ways. Plus, it must be torture when it begins to grow in … but these thoughts are distracting me from the moment. He hasn’t wasted one precious second getting down to business—the end of his nose nuzzles my clit and his tongue is all over my opening, lapping like a kitten at a bowl of milk. I slide down in my chair to open myself to him more and he responds with longer licks, his tongue flat, soaking me. He teases my asshole with the tip of his tongue; my cunt
is opening, throbbing.

  I wish I could see better, but the fabric of her skirt is blocking out the dim light from the lanterns on her deck. She smells amazing—clean, but not perfume-y—with a sweet saltiness like the Raspberry Point oysters I stole from the cocktail party I worked at last summer. That briny taste of the sea and the slippery-soft texture of the flesh stayed with me. Her bush is just as I’d hoped and the soft springy hairs add to the delicious sensations as they tickle my lips and cheeks. I think I must possess some kind of superpower to have detected this perfect pussy on a perfect stranger who would end up so willing. I spread her lips apart with both hands and dive in deep. She moans quietly.

  He’s not doing a thing wrong. This, in fact, is the best damn licking I’ve had by man or beast. He has my clit between his lips and is tugging and sucking, like he’s blowing a tiny little cock. It’s having a similar effect; I feel the heat of blood rushing to the tiny area, swelling my clit like a mini hard-on. Between his saliva and my juices, a pool of wetness has gathered in the crack of my ass, soaking the fabric of my skirt where my tailbone presses into the seat-cushion of the chair. Should I warn him when I am about to gush? No. If he doesn’t know how to respond with appreciation, it’s time he learned. How many times have I had to handle a load of bitter come suddenly filling my mouth? Then I realize I can’t even picture what he looks like, so I reach down and weave my fingers through his hair in the hopes that the feel of it will help me recall his face.

  She has her fingers in my hair, pulling my face into her. I love her insistence, and the way she is grinding into me. She seems to be really into it, and her juices are soaking my chin as I work her clit hard with my teeth and lips. Never tried this technique before, but it seems to be working well.