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."