STRIKE A POSE

He picked up the digital camera and suggested nude photos. She gave him an eyeful.

LONG DISTANCE BRINGS COUPLE CLOSER

My girlfriend and I dated long distance all through college. We got used to phone calls late at night, which lead to sexy talk, which led to phone sex.

Now we're happily together, but sometimes we miss the feeling of longing. Longing is desire unfilled. It's being close enough to reach some one and not touch. Close enough to smell, but not taste. Ancient Greek myth is filled with these examples: a cup that is always full, until you go to drink and its dry. Grapes growing just overhead, but out of reach. It is a form of torture. Agony. But with a little pain sometimes comes pleasure.

Now my partner and I like to lie just far enough apart, not touching, and lie back. We close our eyes and slowly let our hands fall down between our legs. We pretend that the other is not even there. Soon we become aroused, and soon our breath quickens and our body responds, and we are lost into our own private moments.

At that time, we can hear the other. The panting, grunting, moans. Wet skin, and the rythmic slap. We match sound and pace. Now I can smell us, and we know we are getting close. And closer. And faster. And then we come together.

GETTING AWAY MEANS GETTING IT JUST HOW SHE WANTS IT

They had made plans for the bed and breakfast months ago. It was a cute, simple B&B on the Coast, near a small town called Oysterville. They picked the place because they needed to get out of the city. Seems all year was work and deadlines and house projects. They just needed a weeked away. No cooking, no laundry, no yardwork...nothing. To recharge their batteries, they needed nothing more than the three basic humans things: eating, sleeping, sex. Especialy the last. They could always catch up later on sleep.



He started out driving and she read a magazine in the passenger seat. She had left her underwear at home; she said, who needs underwear this weekend?

As they drove, she felt the breeze from the vents slide up her legs, tickle her trimmed curls. She read him articles from Cosmo. They'd picked up a copy at the gas station on the way out of town. It had pieces like "What drive men crazy, ten tips to try tonight" and "what men would ask for in bed--secrets reveaed!" She read aloud and he added his oopinions. Talk of biting, spanking, tying up with with ties on the bedpost, whipped creme, blindfolds, made her increasing wet, and made his cock strain in his pants.

After an hour, they traded drivers. The conversation continued. She realized that even though she always felt free to do whatever felt good in bed with him, that they never really talked about it as they made love. They just did it, fell into the patterns of what worked well. As she drove and he continued to read to her from the magazine, her hand had moved down between her legs. She had pushed up her dress and was slowly running up and down her wet folds, grazing the now sesitive hood of her clit.


He stopped reading when he noticed. She noticed his pants were strained a spot of precum had appeared.

By now they were deep into the Coastal Range on a two lane road. They'd finished the magazine, but were still turned on. She reached over and unfastened his pants, releasing his half-hard cock to the open air. As she drove, she slowly storked it. She kept her eyes on the road, but could picture every inch and wrinkle in her mind. She knew exactly what she wanted when they arrived.

Finally they were on the coast. They checked in and set down the bags.

She unpacked a bottle of lube and set it on the bed. She then stripped totally naked and assumed the possition. On her hands and knees, she thrust her ass to the air, wide, open, inviting him to stand behind her, lube her up, and fuck her like she had needed to be fucked in years. He was hard, filled with the strain of hours of foreplay. He was ready. He would fuck her, no holding back.

He climbed behind her, lubed up, and pushed it home to the hilt. They both moaned deeply, having found exactly what they were needing.

ONE FOR HER MEANS ONE FOR HIM

It was time for bed. He was in already under the covers with just the reading light and his current book. Rather than walk in wearing her nightgown and robe, she entered naked. One hand behind her back. She had two toys. A long hard vibrator and a battery pack operated soft jelly butt plug. It was her surprise. But what she would do with her toys, she wasn't yet sure. She could use them on herself, make him watch. Or better yet, use them on him. Maybe she would make him pick one, and not tell him why he was picking. Which ever one he picked, she'd use on him. The other he'd use on her. That's fair, balanced marriage, right?

FIRST DATE TO STRIP CLUB LEADS TO SPECIAL NIGHT

There first date was to a strip club, the Diamond J. They hadn't planned it, but the college town was small and had a few bars, but only one that served full meals so late. It has a poker room in back, past the Keno machines, and past that a door that lead into a small strip club. The college girls danced their to make book and tuition money. The locals were mostly college boys, there boyfriends and some times professors. It was a small town. And such things were accepted. It was not a town by a highway, there were rarely, if ever, long haul truckers or felons on the lamb. Just college girls and it worked out fine.

Her freshman roommate Michelle danced. And said she should try. She hadn't. But it was no big deal to go into the back club after a midnight meal of chicken fried steaks, scrambled eggs, and hashbrowns to meet with a study group for an upcoming test. Or a first date to order a night cap of whiskey rocks.

The first Tuesday of every month was amateur night and first place was $500. They joked about entering her. the money would be nice, she agreed, but not the point. More, she thought of Michelle and figured, it's college. If not now, then what stories will I have when I am old. All skin sags eventually, she knew. Why not shake it once in her prime?

Still, she wasn't ready then. Not on the spot. So she tucked it away.

The first date become more dates and after a few months they lived together. Sometimes they would talk about amateur night and laugh. Finally, one day, she said--well, why not?

He was shocked, impressed, embarrassed, and excited. Sure, he agreed. We'll need to do it right to win the prize, she said. He agreed to that, too.

They returned to the Diamond J. They watched the dancers now as if studying for a test.

At home, she'd practice her moves. He'd watch, gladly, offering any pointers he could.

When the first Tuesday came and they were in the morning shower, she said she should shave like the dancers. He looked at her with a gleam.

I'll help, he offered, taking the razor in hand and kneeling before her.

BOTTLES UP!

"Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker."

Clearly drinking is a fast way to get in the mood, either with a partner or alone. Here Sexy Sex pays special tribute to the ladies who drink their beers and wine, and enjoy the bottle as the second course.

It is clearly sexy to do, and just as sexy to see.


She sets it in place and slides down.


Our Coors girl likes the Silver Bullet.


Some prefer imports, like Heineken

Or

some like Corona.


Some help from a friend.


This lady prefers wine.



In slippers, shaved, what better time than to enjoy some chilled white wine.

SHE FINDS WAY TO MAKE THE RIDE HOME MORE INTERESTING

The road from my college town to home wound down through a narrow mountain valley, following a rocky, crooked mountain river. Every quarter mile or so was an unmarked logging road, a turnout, or a gravel bank where a lone fisherman would fly cast. In spring the air was thick and humming with insects. As we drove, you'd get sticky, sweat on your thighs and legs. If we'd made love that morning, we could still smell it on our skin. We drove, hair whipping in the window. Kick off the flip flops.



As we drove, her hand rested on my thigh. The sun slipped down in splinters through the tree, and she began to rub through my jeans. Responding, I grew hard. She knew, and I knew what was next. She unzipped my jeans and wiggled around to drop her head in my lap.

I concentrated as we rounded each corner of the narrow road. Her lips touched my skin, still musky with our morning sex. I grew harder and she slipped her tongue slowly up and down my rigid shaft. I tried to focus on the road. She slurped and sucked then paused. More? she'd ask. I knew it was dangerous, but I eagerly said more.

Maybe we should find a turn off, she suggested.

Within a mile, we pulled off onto a logging road. I drove up, just out of sight of the road, parked. We didn't speak as she pulled a blanket from the back and continued to hike up the logging road, around a bend, out of sight of the car. We both knew what would come. She spread out the blanket and then we stripped off our clothes. Naked, the sun beat down on our backs, shoulders, and warmed our pubic hair. It was sexy, like Adam and Eve, maked in the forest, in a spot of sun.

She reached to my body and instantly it sprung back, hard and ready. Then we were together. She riding me, her breasts flopping in the sun, me on her, her fingernails criss-crossing my back, her on her knees, and me ramming into her like wild animals.

When we made love in our bed, it was sexy, but often soft as the flannel sheets. Sleepy like morning before coffee. But outside, she became a wild child. I became a savage. Somehow outdoors, we were stripped of civilization's moors. It was the call of the wild and it surged in our blood. We were sweaty, sticky, and savage. Instead of her usual cooing, "uuuuuummmmm, uuuummmm, baby, like that.....ooooohhhh." She barked out: "fuck me, fuck me hard."

I pounded her from behind. I grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked her back harder, deeper. "Harder!" she screamed. "Harder, fuck me hard!" Her voice became jagged and raspy as she yelled. "Cum on my ass," she cried as she became to convulse in orgasm.

I pulled out and shot globs of sticky cum across her ass.

Exhausted, I collapsed back. She remained in position, her face buried in her arms, that were crossed on the ground, making a pillow. Her ass jutted in the air. Noontime sun is so bright. As I lay there, I stared at her body. Her two smooth round buttocks, creamy white, red scratches from our love making, bits of grass and dirt, pine needles stuck on with sweat. She left her ass in the air, feeling the sun and breeze dry the sweat. The globs of milky cum had splattered across her butt and lower back. some began to slip up her spine and begin to dry in the sun. Some dribbled down the cleft of her butt. It tickled the pucker of her anus, the few hairs that grew there that her razor never caught. She had a mole and a few freckles. And her vulva was swollen, red, glossy with her own juices. It cum slid over her lips, beading and dripping off her clit. It was a shinny pink, small bead of skin wrapped in her folds, brushed by her trimmed curls. There is nothing as beautiful, I thought, as a pure blue sky, framed by towering trees, and a woman's hindquarters jutting up the sky, her cunt rosy and slick from hard sex, cum caught on her curls, her ass open, exposed, her anus a tight wrinkled passage of invitation.

The image is burned in my memory. It remains my definition of wildness in wilderness.

UNDERGRAD GIVES HER INSTRUCTOR A SIGHT TO REMEMBER


When I was in grad school, I instructed "Writing for the Media, Journalism 203." the class was mostly perky young women with ambitions of being local news anchors or bubbly field reporters. Most were pretty stereotypical--big hair, lots of makeup, a saccrine-sweet bird chirpy voice. As a 24-year-old grad student, these freshmen were nice eye candy, but little else. Except one student. I always remember Ashley. I had such a crush on her. She was a few years older, close to my age. She wasn't bubbly or Barbie, but simple in appearance and sexy as hell. She had the air of someone who'd traveled, seen the world, and was now ready to get serious about a career. She was a girl that radiated confidence without being overbearing or obnoxious. She had reddish hair, freckles, and a sultry voice with just a hint of her childhood Georgia. Those qualities alone were enough to drive me crazy, but I could also sense her sexuality. She had an easy in way she moved, the way she talked, the way she'd glance at you and smile, just enough.

When spring arrived on campus, the students, like the flowers, seemed to blossom. The girls wore skirts and tank tops, the boys flirted and jostled. Everyone felt the surge of spring. I'd take the class out to the commons. They loved class outside on the grass. That was when I glance over to Ashley and caught a glimpse. I could barely keep my eyes off. Each week that spring, it seemed she'd sit just close enough, just angled right, and her legs just visible enough, for just long enough. I'd steal glances, but never linger long enough to chance detection. I'd return home, frustrated, and replay the stolen glimpses in my mind. I knew I had to save the moment somehow before the semester ended.

One day, outside on the commons, I raised my cel phone and pretended to glance at it to see the time. "Looks like we still have 5 minutes of class," I said, "Any questions on the homework?" As I spoke, I snapped this image. It is the only one of that whole spring.



Somehow I'm sure Ashley knew. She made no attempt to move. At the end of class, she thanked me for the good lecture, and winked, and flashed her smile, just enough.

A BLANKET IN THE WOODS, FOR OLD TIMES SAKE

We had been broken up at least since spring. School had ended and summer started and we told ourselves that the relationship was over. Still, we'd call, we'd go to movies. We drove up to Mt. Hood for no reason other than it was a sunny summer day. Mostly we were silent. It's hard to chit chat when you are "officially" broken up. We hiked up a trail to a waterfall. I dunked my head under the spray, but Sally didn't want to. She fretted and grumbled. All I could think of was our early days, when we both would have stripped, dashed in and out of the icy mountain water, and sun dried naked on hot boulders.

We turned and went down the trail. I wish I could remember exactly how it happened next. I go over it in my mind, but it is always more a feeling than the exact steps. Back at the car, we knew we'd get in and turn back to the city. The air was hot and humming with insects. We were sweaty and sore from the hike. I was horny. So was she, apparently. I guess we both had been thinking of the road trips we used to take back from Montana. We'd stop, at any forest turn out. Grab a blanket from the back, and hike just far enough off the road. And fuck. Lord did we fuck. Fast, sweaty, hard, loud. We'd shake the trees. We'd slap together, grunt, moan, gasp, grind. That summer she rarely wore underwear, bras, or deodorant. We would get sweaty and wash in a creek. Then drive until we were hot and horny enough to pull over and drain ourselves again. But the thing is: we'd never feel drained, the more we fucked, the more we wanted it. The more we dripped sweat and cum, the quicker our bodies replenished.

Now, standing at her car, ready to turn back, we understood. One of us grabbed the blanket. We said nothing, not even a nod of recognition for old times sake. It was just a straight movement. We had a blanket, we walked just far enough off the road. I lay down, she climbed on top. We pulled aside just enough clothes and then we were there again, back to that moment, the riding and churning and crying out. The slapping and screaming and scratching at the sky. The shudder, the release, the collapse and skin and salt.



It would be our last time together, though we didn't say it then. It didn't matter. Words didn't matter, or time. Just the forest above, and splinters of light falling down. The moment repeats in my mind, forever.

BACKSEAT

Sometimes when the mood grabs you, it's nice to hop in the back seat, take off just as many clothes as needed, and go to it. Yes?

KICKIN IT, RIVERSIDE

Saturday they went to their favorite river. They stripped down to swim suits and rubbed on sun screen, cracked a cold beer and were ready to relax. Sun and water, the sound of the river over the rocks. He could not help but look over, the line of the bikini fabric promising everything and nothing all at once. So he reached.

MORNING GIFTS

Mornings, the light streaming in. He always wakes up hard. She is wet and knows. With touching they are rolling and then she is on top. His eyes are urgent and she says yes. His tip is at her hole and looking at him with all the love she can hold in her eyes, she spits on her hand and reaches back. Then he is in and his eyes say thank you. She moves and he is home.

READING EROTICA

She thought it was funny when he gave her the Best Erotica Anthology that year for Christmas. They started out by reading to each other aloud. But when you have the real thing, they always beat the story to the punchline themselves.

Now it's been sixth months, and they read cover to cover. The book was stashed under the bed and remained. Now she pulls it out when she has a few hours to herself. She reads to her leisure. No need to hurry the end.

A COLLEGE GIRLFRIEND GIVES GIFT OF PHOTOBOOTH--TO HERSELF

Summer was almost over and they'd both be in different cities, different colleges. They had spent the last three months together nearly everyday. Robyn finally agreed to go all the way with her boyfriend, and from then on, there was no stopping. They had sex on her parents' couch, in the backseat of her car, after hours in the lockerroom of the public pool where she worked, on a river bank. She was in love and he was in love and the trust and optimism of youth made them believe all things were possible. Even staying together through their first year of college in different parts of the country.

She wanted to give him something to remember her by. She wanted something sexy, something to set her far apart from the other hundreds of coeds.

The idea came while she was shopping downtown. In one of the old department stores, she'd seen an old-fashioned photobooth. She slipped in her dollar and closed the curtain. Quickly she shed her cloths and began to move as the camera clicked, flashed, clicked, flash, click. The gears turned. She started out covering herself, more out of nervousness than trying to be coy. As the camera clicked, she moved one arm and revealed a breast, then moved and revealed her pubic patch, and then, again, and the last image she stood open to the camera, exposed. She became quite aroused and didn't want to stop after the four exposures.



But she didn't want to get caught. Quickly she slipped her sundress back on, exitted the booth and hovered over the machine until it spit out her small strip of photos.

A moment frozen forever. She glanced around flushing in embarrassment and giddy with the thrill. Wet with excitement. No one had come into the old store in the past hour and likely no one would in the next. She fed another dollar, and stepped inside the booth.

This time she did not hold back and made herself shutter in climax.

She ended up giving the second set to her boyfriend. They remained together the first year, but broke up by sophomore year. She never saw the photo-booth strip again, and wondered if he threw it away or kept it. It didn't matter. She had the first set, which she kept for herself. The first time should always be for yourself, she says.

BREASTS AND BEACHES BRING ONE COUPLE TOGETHER

In high school, my sister and her best friend April would sit out in our backyard in their bikinis and sun tan. I'd use any excuse to go sit and chat for a while, sitting at the best angle to strategically steal glimpses at April's breasts. They were not large, but for what I had seen, they were full, firm, and perfectly shaped. If a cloud slipped over the sun, sometimes her nipples would pinch hard and poke through the thin fabric. On sweltering days, beads of sweat would slide from her collar bone and trickle down the valley of her cleavage.

The thin fabric of her top barely seemed to cup them. And if she moved, if seemed the round of perfect flesh could spill out. And the thin ties that held the thin fabric seemed more taunting than practical. This became even more painful if she'd lie on her stomach, and slowly, gently, tug ever so slightly on the string and the top would fall to her sides, and her angular shoulders would be perfectly bare. In my mind -- so juvenile then -- I double dared myself to wander close with a garden hose, pretending to water the flowers, and accidentally spray cold water on April. She'd ach her back with a squeal --just a split second, but just exactly long enough to finally she her breasts exposed.


It has been years since these memories. Married now, my fantasies range farther than spraying my sister's best friend with a garden hose. But this summer, while sunning with my wife on a river beach, I could not help but catch a glimpse of sweat trickling between her breasts. I stared at her curving skin and the rise and fall of her breathing. I don't think I have a breast fetish, per se, but I was suddenly and undeniably aroused.

Maybe my wife caught a whiff of my pheromones suddenly in my sweat, or maybe she just felt that sense when someone is staring at you. She turned and met my stare and then glanced down at the sharp bulge in my swimsuit. She could see my body straining for release.

"Whats got you so keyed up?" she asked.
"I was just checkin out your boobs, sweetie," I said playfully.
She smiled. "You've seen them."
I knew that she knew there was a story. She has that way of not letting me off the hook. So I told her all about my teenage crush on April. She nodded as she took it all in.
"You were how old?" she asked.
"I was 15, a freshman, April was 18, a senior."

My wife nodded sagely. "That seems about normal." She thought for a while. "But when you were checking me out, were you thinking of me or of her?"
Ughh. Talk about a loaded question. In such situations I have learned only one technique, and it rarely, if ever works. I turned the question back to her. "Who do you think I was thinking about?"

"Humm," she said, caught off guard. "I'd say probably her."

I had to nod, and look at her sheepishly to see how deep in the doghouse I was. But marriage is funny. It can go either way. This could have sent her into a pissy mood where all her insecurities mixed with all my faults mixed with the last four arguments we can comes out all mushed up and ugly. Or she could brush it off and say, "you're a lecherous old man, but I guess you're harmless. Let's go get some sandwiches"

She must have been thinking all the options through. The one she picked still surprises and astounds me today. She reached over and grasped my cock that had gone half limp and rubbed it back to full. Then, glancing quickly up and down the stretch of deserted beach, she positioned herself directly in front of me. Without even taking off her bikini top, she dropped her chest to my groin and pushed my cock up between her breasts. Pressing her cleavage together, she began to give me a steady rhythmic tit fucking until I came between her breasts.



She slipped off, tucked my body back in my shorts, and looked out at the slow turning river. From far off, we could see another couple walking this direction, but they were far to distant to see clearly. We didn't talk for a while, waiting as the couple eventually neared. I could see globs of my cum on the round flesh of my wife's breast. They were not large, but they were full, firm, and perfectly shaped. Still aroused, her pinched nipples poked through the thin bikini fabric. Beads of sweat slid from her collar bone and trickle down the valley of her cleavage and mixed with the white salty globs of my cum. She did not wipe them off, now the couple was about 200 yards away.

I had cum a lot and the couple was now about 100 yards down the beach. My wife still made no motion to wipe her chest clean, and I was frozen with wonder. I didn't dare reach over and brush it off. The sun shone down. The sweat and cum mixed and more salt flakes glistened. And even though we were totally clothed and looked innocent enough and were pretty sure the couple could not have possibly seen us from the distance, but as they approached, the cum was still clear between my wife's breast, and spattered on her bikini.

I stared transfixed at her breasts as the couple neared. Slowly they wandered closer and my wife sat facing the sun, her cum-soaked breasts rising and falling with her breathing. Then, just as the couple were just about to pass us, my wife rolled over on her stomach on the beach towel. She unfastened her bikini top and let the sun warm her bare back.

The couple passed with a slight wave and a smile. I thought I could detect a bit of that knowing look of understanding and approval. But I couldn't be certain. They passed and continued onward up the river beach. I knew that it would be a while before they were out of eyesight again. I knew if they walked that far, it would mean that much time to walk back. I glance down at my wife, the line of her spine and her round butt, the fabric clinging, sandy and damp with sweat.

"Well," she said, not lifting her head. "Now when you think of breasts in a bikini, maybe you'll think of mine."

I have ever since. I cannot possibly think of April without then shifting into the beach. My wife knew this then and I know now.

STRIP POKER!

So we were all drunk and someone brought out the cards and someone said let's make this intersting and a few rounds, more drinks, much nervious and giddy laughter, shirts are off. Everything here is the tipping point... all that lead up to this and all that will suddenly shift as we look nerviously, knowing someone soon will be buck naked. Winner takes all.

SUMMERTIME

Summer hammock. Summer so sexy. Summer girls sleep in backyards. Summer girls go topless or more. Summer girls sweat salty and shimmery. Summertime lazy and the living is easy. Summer hammock, secret view. Summer. delicious summer.

BEADS!

"She had heard about small balls that were used an an aphrodisiac in the East Indies. But how to obtain them? Where to ask for them?

"...They were made of some very soft rubber with a soft, skinlike surface. When they were introduced into the sex they molded themselves to the form of it and they moved as the woman moved, sensitively shaping themselves to every motion of the muscles, causing a titillation much more exciting than that of penis or finger. Lilith would have liked to find one, and to keep it inside of herself day and night."

--Anais Nin, from "Delta of Venus."

SLOW SATURDAY MORNING SEX

She straddles him and begins to rock. He tugs down her sleeping camisole, letting her boob fall to his face. He nibbles and sucks. She grinds her clit hard into his shaft. His mouth is fixed on her breast, sucking and slurping. He knows it sends her. She comes quickly. And he into her. She lets her breathing slow, and her head stop spinning and him to go soft and slide out. Then they get up and take a shower.

A COUPLE REKINDLES COLLEGE MEMORIES

We returned to our college town of Missoula. Our old friends Melinda and Steve put us up. They lived in an old farmhouse in the rattlesnake area of town. Being back there was a return to everything we loved then, everything that made us fall in love. Steve fried up four brook trout he'd caught that morning. Melinda played her banjo and showed us the quilt she was making. We drank a whole bottle of single malt. Then late that night, Melinda and Steve went upstairs to bed. They'd laid out the futon couch for us, some blankets and pillows. It was summer and the windows were open and we could smell the fog in the valley and the slow Clark Foot River as it slid through the sleeping town.

We had stripped naked and were standing in the livingroom of our friends' house. We were still drunk and still happy with seeing our old friends, and that thrill of being naked in a room far away from home and the usual daily routine. We both looked up as we heard the unmistakable sound of a brass bedframe rhythmically beginning to creek and rattle and tap the wall of the upstairs bedroom. We listened to the night crickets and the brass bed. I set our digital camera on self-timer. Without discussion we moved to the futon and locked into a 69, mouth on skin, arms and legs twined. We grunted and slurped. Upstairs the bed rattled. Louder, faster. We could hear moans starting and then Melinda as she began to cum. We were there too, now cumming into each other's mouths.




Then slowly, as the room stopped spinning, as our breathing slowed, we fell apart, laying naked and sticky on the mattress. The breeze wafted in from the window. Outside the first birds of dawn began to chirp. Snoring from upstairs. The old farmhouse now filled with the soft sounds of rest after sex.

By the time our trip was over, we downloaded our pictures, and there, between snapshots of trout and Steve's dog and Melinda's quilt and all of us at a corner booth in Dixie's cafe where had breakfast the next day, was a shot taken with the shutter on self-timer.

AFTER THE GUESTS LEAVE, THIS COUPLE DOES WHAT THEY PLEASE



The party was over and the guests had just left. Empty glasses, empty bottles...the room still a swirl of laughter and revelry. One cocktail then the next, the hours had past. Now they found themselves alone, too drunk to go to bed, too tired to clean. What else but to stand on the balcony looking over a city that slept. Distant lights of vacant shops and offices. The summer heat just fading from the cement and concrete. They sway, they stumble. Just enough clothes off and then forward. They move together while a city sleeps and their guest's keys hit front door locks.

TRISH DISCOVERS AFTER WORK RELEASE IN HER CAR

Trish doesn't consider herself any kinkier than anyone else, but she does have a secret daily routine that even her husband doesn't know about.

Trish works as a ticketing agent at the local international airport. She started the job because she thought she was a people person and liked to travel. Now she's a mom and can't really take off on trips, and people just drive her crazy. She often works the swing and graveyard shifts. Whenever something goes wrong, she has to fix it. Whenever a storm hits Chicago or Denver, all hell breaks loose. Lost luggage, missed connections. Some nights are slow, but most nights stressful. There is always someone complaining about something. She's the lightning rod for it all.

At nights she comes home late, stressed, frazzled. She needs release, but doesn't like to wake her husband. He has early mornings, and to rouse him, get him hard, and get him in the mood is more production than needed. She just needs a quick way to unwind.

At first, she'd pack her vibrator to work. She'd leave it in the compartment between the seats. After work, she'd drive home, and pull it out.

One night, she noticed how the gear shift vibrated softly as the car idled. Curious, she straddled both seats and tried to position her body against the smooth plastic shifter. As she shifted her hips down, her foot slipped and punched the accelerator. the shifter whirled in response. She knew she'd found what she needed.

Now, nights after work, she grows wet as she drives the freeway. With each gear change, she things of the shifter inside her, her foot on the accelerator making a slow beat. She slides down onto the shifter, It fills her. She moves her vibrator into position and begins.



It does not take long--only as long as she needs it to take. Sometimes a minute. Sometimes she will stay for five or ten. Slowly working the pedal with her foot, the toy with her right hand. She closes her eyes and the tensions roll out of her in waves.

MY BABY SITTER, THE GIRL NEXT DOOR

When we were growing up in the late 1970s, my parents hired the nextdoor neighbor girl to babysit us. By "us" I mean Johnny and I. Johnny was my age. His mom was best friends with my mom, and so we became best friends, too. We shared babysitters, went off to camp together, and shared carpooling, all those things.

Marissa was the girl next door, and just saying that is funny, because she was. Seems like the concept of "The Girl Nextdoor" is far more fantasy than reality. But the truth was that she literally lived across the street in a ranch style house just like ours. Her family had a pool, but we had a big back deck. She style of babysitting was mostly to ignore us. We thought that was pretty cool. She'd watch American Bandstand with Dick Clark, and her favorite band was the Police and Tom Petty and Heartbreakers. She had turned 18 and went down to the state college for her freshman year. She was back for the summer, living at home. And our babysitter for those three months. She seemed like a grown up to us. Just a cool one, with a really hot body.

Johnny and I didn't have much sense of girls, other than what we'd learned from Daisy Duke in Dukes of Hazzard, and our favorite scene in Porky's, where the boys spy into the shower room. Or was that another movie? It's hard to recall, but there all the movies of that time seemed to involved boys our age spying on college girls. So, we followed suit. We'd often tell Marissa that we were heading up to the park (which was about six blocks up the hill by the water tower). She'd say, "whatever, don't get kidnapped." We'd take our baseball mitts and act like we were headed off to the park, and then, after rounding the corner, we'd cut back through our secret series of trails in the underbrush. We had small fort, command posts, three (yes three!) treehouses build and abandoned by past generations of kids in the suburban woods.

Marissa would love to mix home made "daquris" from my mom's supply. She'd water down the tequila bottles back up to the level, and mix in ice and hawaiian punch and blend it. She'd take her drink out on the porch, and spread our a towel, and sun tan. Eagerly, we'd wait for the moment of truth. We waited several times before Marissa felt certain that our trips to the park would last at least 2 hours. So after a while, she felt secure that we weren't going to come home and barge in on her. Finally, our secret plan paid off. She began peeling off her top when sun tanning.

We knew we had to get proof, though what we would do with such a photo had not been considered. It was more the James Bond thrill of snapping the spy photo. So we borrowed Johnny's mom's camera and snuck up into our lookout post.

One thing I should tell you about Marissa. Once she had her boyfriend over, which was against the rules. They were watching a movie about a swamp thing. I wanted to watch (Johnny wasn't over this time). They told me to beat it. They were on the couch, making out. I said I just wanted to watch the scary movie, and didn't care --they could kiss all they wanted. I said, I'd tell my mom if they didn't. Marissa yanked me over to her and laid a big, wet, sloppy tongue kiss on me. At least two minutes passed and then she pushed me away, and said: You were going to tell your mom what?

To be honest, her kiss horrified and stunned me. Her mouth tasted like licking a battery. I retreated to my room. She'd won, but now I had something to tell Johnny.

And so, I may never know if she knew or not that we watched her sunbathe. In hindsight, she might have been a lot wiser to boys than we could have imagined. The day we snuck a camera was the day she did something besides soak up sun and listen to her transistor AM radio. We watched as her hand slipped down between her legs and slowly began to massage. It dipped and disappeared. Her hips began to slowly churn. Her breathing became short and then sharp. and she gasped and then cried out and her hand flicked faster and faster. Then she napped.


And then we snuck back down our secret trail, out to the side path, around the corner and when to the park, where we sat and tried to figure out exactly what we'd just seen.

Who said sex is no longer sexy on the internet? True, internet porn has made it possible for anyone with a digtial camera and computer to create their own porn and post it to the world. This has created a more than a heap of images. Literally million and millions of naked bodies doing things to other naked bodies. When we stepped into the 21st Century of cyberspace, we gained the ability to relay our naked bodies to billions of others, to send our statements of our sexualities, our fantasies and our daily grind of living to everyone else. But who is out there? And more importantly, what is the message we're sending?

SHE TAKES VALENTINE'S DAY INTO HER OWN HANDS

It was a Valentine to remember. My wife sent me a sexy email at work and told me not to be late. She'd be waiting with a surprise. All day I fantasized about what we would do that evening. A nice diner, no doubt. Maybe go out for a few cocktails at a jazz bar, get a little tipsy, go home and make love.



Nothing prepared me for what I found. When I walked in, she'd called for me to come straight upstairs. I found her on the bed, in new pink negligee, surrounded by sex toys. A pink vibrator on one side, pink anal beads on the other. As I looked from the toys back at her, I took in her stockings held by a pink garter, and a matching pink lace bra that cupped her perfect breasts. I grew hard and poked against my pants. She motioned me forward and as I stepped up to her, she undid my pants, yanked them down, and released my straining cock.

Taking it in hand, she began to slowly caress it up and down. I could only stammer. "Happy Valentine’s Day,” she purred. “I thought maybe this year we could stay home."