This is my last post for Oh Get a Grip, and several other aspects of my life are changing, so I guess I can claim to be facing New Frontiers, which is our theme this week. It feels more like leaving behind Old Frontiers, although calling a frontier old is a contradiction in terms.
(You can skip my musings on Frontiers if you'd rather scroll down to the story I'm sharing. It's an old one of mine, but new here, and, for a change, it's bisexual erotica instead of strictly lesbian.)
It’s true that I’ve been in a fairly pleasant rut for quite a few years now, writing short stories and editing anthologies, both of which appear to be in decline in the world of publishing. My main publisher for years no longer has much interest in anthologies, for good reason.
It’s also true that I haven’t kept up with advances in technology. I don’t even have a smart phone, just a flip cell phone for emergencies. I only managed to work out the bare essentials of having a Blogger site, and never did figure out why the bio I posted on mine appeared in a vertical rather than horizontal axis, but I managed to do a moderate amount of posting there over the years. Now I’ve suddenly been reminded, just today, that I have a longstanding Wordpress account, one set up for me by someone else, and I’m struggling to figure out how to do things there. I did manage finally to find out how to post something, but how to change the pagetop image (or add any photos) is still eluding me. I’ll probably figure things out there in time.
So I’m definitely faced with New Frontiers, or at least new ones to me; as I said, I’ve been terrible about keeping up with technology. I’ll have to go the smart phone way very soon, because it’s getting so that there are too many things one can’t do at all (call for an Uber ride, for instance, or post on certain photo sites,) without one.
There are other frontiers, new or otherwise, that call to me. I used to be voracious reader, but now I have a very long to-be-read list of ebooks on my computer, and an even longer list of books that I see reviewed and think I’d like to read, but don’t (except on the rare occasion that I see one on the new books lists from the library, especially if they’re audio books on CDs that I can listen to while driving.) I should take a vacation from writing, and do some serious reading.
What I really should do, in these chaotic times, is get more involved in activism. We’ll see. I’m not up to, say, on-your-feet-all-day Washington or NYC marches, but we have some local ones, pretty much preaching to the choir.
Well. So much for New Frontiers. Here's my bisexual story, which would be a New Frontier if I hadn't written it at least ten years ago.
Seafood Cocktail
Sacchi Green
He emerged from the sea like the incarnation of some primal god, wet, powerful, gleaming like dark, polished rosewood. When he spoke his voice was deep as thunder, smooth as rain.
"Hey, Lexie, where do you think they've hidden the cameras?"
I rolled out from under the boat's inverted hull. "Come on, Max, you think they could fake a storm like that? Even if the technology existed, they wouldn't pay for it. The beauty of reality shows is the low overhead."
"You're probably right," he admitted, turning away to block a full frontal view, oddly shy for someone who'd signed away all rights to privacy for a chance at fame and fortune.
I still got the benefit of his muscular butt. Droplets of seawater trickled over its curves, forming jaunty question marks. Several intriguing answers occurred to me.
"You'd think they'd still cover all the bases," he said over his shoulder. "Including any island we might get ourselves shipwrecked on. Otherwise, why let us have a boat, even a chicken-shit one like that?"
He might have a point there. Besides the one he was keeping out of view. "I just hope they know this sand spit exists," I said, peeling off my sodden T-shirt and shorts and spreading them next to his on the hull to dry. "You can search for cameras all you like--I'll even help after I wash this sand off. But our first priority should be figuring out how to survive until they come to get us."
I walked into the whispering wavelets of the lagoon, feeling his eyes on me, and feeling my body move in ways subtly different from the strides I would have taken under the gaze of another woman. A tingle spread across my ass and around to my belly and upward to my breasts; it had been a long time since a masculine presence had had that effect.
I swam out until the water was smooth enough for me to float on my back. Images of last night's chaotic storm coiled into and out of each other, like oil on the surface of a whirlpool. The one clear memory was a sexual current intensified by fear. Max and I had huddled through the night under our meager shelter, bodies pressed so tightly together that our clothes, saturated with rain and sweat and sea water, were no barrier to the pounding of each other's heart. But Max, in spite of the arousal his wet jeans did little to conceal, had done nothing to take it any farther.
I had a pretty good idea why. He had witnessed my girlfriend Tonya's explicitly steamy farewell at the plane and drawn the obvious conclusion. But Tonya had known perfectly well that potential sex was written between the lines of the show's contract, and she'd still pressured me to sign it. I'd only agreed to do the "Marooned" show for my indie-producer girlfriend's sake. If I could get a bit of notoriety, she figured, she'd have a better chance of getting backers for our films.
But last night, while the pounding rain made our shelter into an impenetrable cave, Max's arms around me and mine around him had seemed absolutely right. The lightning flashes outside had built an electric tension deep inside me until I'd been at the point of jumping him myself--when he'd started snoring.
Men! But he'd saved my life more than once in the last few hours, maybe even a time or two more than I'd saved his. Instead of interrupting his exhausted sleep, I'd amused myself with working my hand gently, gently between jeans and skin and teasing his heavy balls and straining cock just lightly enough to make him writhe and groan in his dreams, until, ultimately, his pants were soaked with something thicker and sweeter than sea water. And all without waking up.
I drifted onward in the lagoon, savoring a gentler tension. Unless Max had more reason for resistance than figuring me for a hard-core dyke, being marooned was going to get very interesting, very soon. I swung upright, my toes just touching the sandy bottom, looked around, and saw I'd drifted close to a tiny islet near the entrance to the lagoon.
A maze of underwater rocks suggested mysterious lurking creatures, maybe octopi. I could see, too close to pass up, clusters of what I was pretty sure were oysters. I wished I had pockets; my built-in ones winced at the thought of rough oyster shells. I dived and grasped a large one in each hand.
Back on the beach I loped up the slope to where Max knelt. He was piling palm fronds under a lean-to built with the boat and some pieces of driftwood.
"Hey, Max," I called as I ran; he turned and got the maximum effect of my jiggling breasts. It wasn't wasted on him.
"What's up?" he said, and turned quickly back. I resisted commenting on the obvious.
"I found an oyster bed out there. Might be a little hard to get them down raw without lemon or Tabasco, but better than starving. And better than the rats they're eating back at the main base." I tossed my prizes on the sand.
"I guess," he said, clearly not really focused on eating of that kind.
I pressed my thigh against his shoulder. "I don't suppose we'll be here long enough to starve, anyway. But there are things I'd really, really like to fit in while we're still here. Alone."
He'd pulled his pants back on, but not his shirt. I leaned on his broad back and nuzzled his neck. He knelt, unmoving, supporting my weight, until I began chewing lightly on his muscular shoulders. "Did you know that oysters can switch their sex?" I murmured against his rigid jaw.
"Lexie," he said, his deep voice getting even deeper, "What do you think you're doing?"
"If you can't tell, I must not be doing it right." I brushed my hardening nipples across his back.
"But I thought..."
"I know what you thought. And I know what you're thinking now. Drives you crazy, doesn't it, envisioning what women do with each other." I reached around his chest to flick his nipples; they sprang to attention. An interesting effect on hard muscle instead of soft curves.
"If it didn't before, it does now," he muttered. I worked one hand down inside his jeans, over the bunched muscles of his buttocks and then in between; suddenly he twisted under me and ended up on his back with me astride. "Damn it, Lexie, you'd better be going somewhere with this!"
There's something about a deep, deep masculine voice. A woman's voice can stroke like a warm, wet tongue, but Max's voice set up reverberations that seemed to liquefy my bones.
"Trust me," I said. "I never met an erogenous zone I couldn't appreciate." I rode the huge bulge in his pants, appreciating the hell out of it. "Check me out, if you need proof." I lifted myself just enough for his hand to test my natural lube. His digital enthusiasm was touching, if a bit clumsy, but I pursued other interests, sliding backward until I had his zipper far enough open to insert two fingers. Then slowly, slowly, the gap widened until my whole hand curved around his hot, hard cock, still trapped by the pressure of his belt.
His hips rose, his hands scrabbled at the belt buckle, and I caught the tip of his cock in my mouth as it jerked free.
I savored it with just enough in-out action to keep him breathing hard without rushing things. Then I hitched my body along his until my knees clutched his hips. My own hips moved as my cunt lips slid back and forth over his swollen, eager cock. Too bad, I thought, that our sense of taste is limited to the mouths we eat with. And a taste was all I was going to get.
"Max, you wouldn't happen to know what the Swiss Family Robinson used for condoms, would you?"
"No, damnit. They must have cut that part from the movie to get a 'G' rating."
"Don't worry." I played him with my hand, stroking from the root of his balls all the way up his shaft. "Just lie back and let me run this fuck."
"You're the boss," he said, his voice rising into a gasp. I had pressed my knuckle firmly below his scrotum and was working my thumb back toward his asshole.
"I'll bet you'd like something really kinky," I teased, "to tell your grandchildren."
"I'll bet you have inside information," he said, not too steadily, "about what Robinson Crusoe used for sex toys!"
"Is that a challenge?" I watched a gleaming pearl of pre-cum form at the slit in his cock. "If so, I accept."
I yanked the belt from his shorts; he lifted his head in alarm. His expression went from apprehension to horrified awe as I leaned over to grab an oyster.
The belt buckle was just the tool for prying open the tough shell. "No pearl in this one," I said, bringing the opened bivalve close to his erection. "Maybe you could share." I tapped his cock; it jerked. I just managed to catch his dewdrop on the oyster, while some of the liquid cupped in the shell dripped onto his balls. I bent to lick it off, then touched my tongue to the glistening shellfish.
"Hmm, needs more sauce." I slid the oyster into my mouth and held it there, excitement balancing revulsion, while I worked Max hard, inexorably, with both hands. At the penultimate moment, when his deep moans rose in pitch and nearly flowed together, I worked my full mouth down over his cock. I barely managed to keep the slippery oyster from being rammed down my throat until Max's storm of cries rattled my bones and the hot flood of his coming burst over my tongue.
Swallowing had never been quite like that before.
Finally Max regained enough breath to speak. "Lexie," he said, "it's your turn." He was trying not to look at the remaining oyster. It was a very large, very juicy oyster. I plucked it from its shell. Liquid dripped between my fingers into my lap and seeped downward to mingle with my own juices.
I leaned back and spread my legs. The oyster was cold against my tender heat, but I kept pushing. Between its slippery coating and my own wetness it slid in easily. My cunt tried to grip the slick, yielding pressure, and the teasing subtlety of the stimulation began to drive me crazy. "No, it's your turn," I said, gasping, "so eat!"
"Well, considering the gourmet dipping sauce...." And he ate, his willingness to learn exceeded only by the length of his truly phenomenal tongue. It was a long time before I realized that the throbbing sounds filling the air weren't all coming from me.
"A search helicopter," Max said, and wiped his mouth.
"Damn!" I groped for the belt buckle and rolled over until I could reach inside the prow of the boat. I started gouging the splintered wood around what seemed to be a bolt; then Max's large, dark hand took the buckle and finished the job.
"How long have you known it was there?" he asked, when the tiny camera lay at last cupped in my hand.
"I noticed it when I woke up," I said. "Want me to send you a copy on disc?"
"You'd better," he said. "Not that I'm likely to forget any of it."
"Not as long as there are oyster bars in the world," I agreed.
"I don't think I'll be eating any more oysters," Max shouted over the increasing noise, "unless that special sauce comes with them."
"Sauce for the goose as well as the gander," I called, but my voice was swallowed by the roar of the rotors. The chopper was so close now we could feel the wind. I scrabbled for my clothes.
From high above, the little crescent of sand and rock seemed to smile in the liquid embrace of the ocean. I shifted in my seat in the helicopter, new waves of tingling overlapping the residual glow between my legs.
The camera was in my pocket. I knew where I could hide the chip later, if I had to, to get it home; I might even manage the whole miniature camera, if only briefly. I grinned to myself. Max probably thought I was thinking of him, but I was really filled with images of how Tonya would get the most out of a cuntcam.
It was a damned shame, though, that she was allergic to seafood.
shaped biceps and decent pecs and abs sculpted from liberally-sampled ginger cookie dough were not beyond my artistic abilities. Strangely enough the more Prosecco I sipped, the more creative I became. In no time at all I decided GBM didn’t need red hots for buttons because GBM wasn’t going to wear a shirt. I was having visions of Magic Mike by the time I got down to GBM’s trousers. I had plans for a little blue frosting thong with just enough pouch to cover GBM’s junk. But then I decided maybe I didn’t want said junk covered. After all this was a private performance for an audience of one. “It’ll be much easier for me to eat you and taste your yummy gingery goodness without frosting,” I said to my creation. “Besides who needs all those extra calories?” I could almost swear I heard a low throaty moan, but then more than likely it was my own. I raised my glass to my buffed biscuit boy feeling a bit like Dr. Frankenstein in her laboratory as I polished off the glass, rubbed my hands together and went to work on making sure GBM was … um…err … anatomically correct.
Perhaps I passed out. Perhaps I really was temporarily traipsing around Nirvana. I had to be dreaming, though, because when the lights came back on the oven door burst open and wow! GBM crawled out all bronze and rippling and fully grown. Some parts of him were way more fully grown than others. And what do you think? The first words out of his mouth were, “I want to eat you, my lady, and then I’m going to fuck you.”
“I’m sure that was it.” I replied.
