The Stormy Teacup (#flashfiction #mmromance #gayromance)

The Stormy Teacup

Cameron D. James

I walk by The Stormy Teacup several times a day. It’s in the concourse of my office building, so I pass by on my way in and out, and when I come down here for my lunch break. I’ve gone in several times and ordered a few things.

I don’t even like tea.

I say “Thank you” and drink it and put on my best smile, but when I’m out of sight, I dump it.

No, tea is not my thing.

The man behind the counter, however, is my thing.

Tall, bearded, bespectacled, tattooed, and just a few years older than me. Like, fuck me, he’s my type. He was the whole reason I went in that first time all those weeks ago. I used to just ignore this place when walking past, but one time he was out in front, wiping down the milk and sugar cart. I stopped in my tracks and watched that gorgeous man in his too-tight pants as he worked.

It wasn’t until my co-worker literally snapped her fingers in my face that I realized what I’d been doing. I blushed and brushed off her questions, then followed her to the elevator and up to our office.

Ever since then, I’ve visited The Stormy Teacup regularly.

With it now the end of the day on Friday of a long weekend, I’m faced with the prospect of not seeing this man until Tuesday. I say goodbye to my coworkers and head down the elevator, thankfully without any of said coworkers along with me.

When it reaches the main floor, I step out and to the side, then pause and take a deep breath. I don’t know why I’m so nervous, I’ve spoken to him many times before. Well, yeah, but all those times before I was just ordering tea. Today I want to ask him for something different…

Before I can chicken out and just go home and jerk off like I’ve been doing for weeks now, I ball up my hands into fists and stride through the concourse and up to The Stormy Teacup. The store is empty except for my God of Tea. I don’t even know his name. He’s wiping counters, cleaning up for the day.

He glances up, sees me, and smiles. Do I dare read into that smile? Is it just a “welcome back, regular customer” smile or is it more of a “I really like when you stop by” smile?

I smile back and enter.

He puts aside his cloth and comes to the till.

“A tea for the road home?” he asks.

“Um…” I bite my lip. He stares at that lip trapped between my teeth, then he looks into my eyes and I’m sure I see desire there. Or maybe I’m just imagining it. I’m so nervous. “I was hoping for something different.”

“Oh?” he asks, his voice suddenly lower. He rests an arm across the top of the till. “I hope I can provide you with what you want…”

Just as I’m about to say something more, though I still don’t know what I want to say, a customer comes in. He winks at me and quickly helps the other customer, getting her politely out of the store as fast as he can. He definitely has an inkling of what I want.

“You see…” I say, still not sure what I want to tell him. Finally, I blurt out, “I don’t really like tea.”

He laughs and there’s a twinkle in his eye. “I figured that out a long time ago,” he says. “All my other customers have favourite blends. You’re the only one who orders something different each time, and you never tell me you enjoyed what you tried. I’m either a terrible tea seller and you’re determined to find something remotely enjoyable … or you come in here for a different reason.” There is suddenly heat in his words. Unmistakable heat. I’m not imagining it this time. “So what is it you really want?”

I feel a blush warm my cheeks and I want to back down. I’m not normally so brazen when pursuing a guy.

“You,” I finally say. “I want you.”

He stares at me for a very long moment, eyes full of desire. Then he comes out from behind the counter and goes to the front of his store. He looks back at me and for a moment I wonder if he’s asking me to leave, but then he slides the door shut and locks us in and then turns out the overhead lights. The only illumination left comes from the windows and from the little display lights showcasing speciality teas and fancy teacups.

“I’ve been waiting for you to work up the courage,” he says. He walks toward me and then stops mere inches from me. He leans in close and I feel the warmth radiating from his skin. He brings his lips close to mine, but doesn’t touch them. Instead, he looks into my eyes. “How much of me do you want?”

“All,” I manage to say, stuttering on that simple word. “I want want all of you.”

He suddenly presses his lips to mine, kissing me. He puts his hands on my arms and then slides those hands around to my back, hugging me tight, pulling me close. I open my mouth and his tongue slides inside and caresses mine. I moan into the kiss and my knees weaken; my body sags but he holds me up by hugging me tighter.

Eventually, he breaks the kiss. “Coffee?” he asks.

I blink several times, clearing the lust from my mind to process what he said. “What?”

“You don’t like tea. Can I take you for coffee?” He leans in and nibbles at the base of my neck while waiting for my answer.

“I’d love that,” I say. “But…”

“But what?” When I don’t answer, he gropes my crotch. “But this?”

I nod jerkily. I’ve got somewhat tight pants on; I can’t go parading through downtown with an erection.

He winks at me, then grabs my hand and pulls me around behind the counter. “Get down,” he urges, and I do. He nudges my chest and I lie on the floor. He undoes my belt and unzips my pants, then wiggles them down a bit and digs my cock out of my briefs.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say. Why the fuck am I saying this?

“It’s a thank you,” he says, “for buying all that tea when you don’t like tea.”

Before I could say anything more, he has my cock in his mouth. “Fuck…” I moan, then lay my head back. He sucks me deep, taking it right to the base, rippling his tongue along my shaft. It feels incredible.

I moan again. I want to call out his name … but I don’t know his name. I caress his head, running my fingers through his hair, then I tug on his ears so he comes off my cock. He releases my erection with a wet slurp.

“I’m Kevin,” I say.

He gives me a wet, silly grin. “Richard. Dick for short, in the old days, anyway.”

I cup my hand under his chin and wordlessly urge him to climb atop me. He does and presses his body against mine and those delicious lips are against my mouth once more. Reaching between us, I undo his pants and nudge them down, releasing his cock. It’s hard and about the same size as mine, maybe a little thicker. He moans as I run my fingers over his cock head, which then drives him to kiss me harder.

He rubs his body against mine, his cock sliding against mine, the spit on my cock lubing us both. I free my hand from between our bodies and grab his denim-clad ass, urging him to rub his dick harder and faster against mine.

The friction of our bodies and the connection at our mouths has my lust in overdrive. This is making me wild for him and amazingly bringing me rushing head-on into orgasm. I’m not far from exploding and covering both our crotches with my hot seed.

But part of me worries about coming so soon. Will it be off-putting for him? Will he be disappointed?

And then he lets out a quivering moan. A sound I know too well, a sound very similar to the one I make.

I wriggle my hips in time with his, helping increase the friction and rubbing between us, and I let that internal wall I’ve been holding up collapse. I no longer resist what is inescapable.

He grinds hard against me and then lets out another quivering moan, which I swallow with hungry kisses. His body judders and shakes and I feel the warm splash of his cum splattering on my crotch. The heat alone pushes me over that same edge and I let out my own quivering moan, which he similarly swallows in a hungry kiss. Electric fire courses through me then comes exploding forth from my cock as it orgasms and shoots out its heavy load of sticky cum. I shake and quiver and ride through the incredible and overwhelming sensations.

Moments later he’s still lying on me and we’re both gasping, recovering from it all. I kiss him again, softer this time, and he kisses me back.

“I liked that,” I say.

“Me too.” He rolls off me and looks at our messy crotches with a grimace. Reaching up, he grabs some napkins from the sales counter and we clean ourselves off as best we can.

I have cum smeared on my dress shirt and pants. “I can’t go to a coffeeshop like this,” I say. I feel really bad that this impulsive frottage has ended our date prematurely.

“Let’s stay in,” he says. He does up his pants and I can see they’re similarly cum-smeared.

“Stay in?” I ask.

He winks and helps me to my feet. He leads me to a small door behind the till and into the stock room beyond. It’s a cramped space, but at the far end of the tiny room there’s a small table and two chairs. And on top of the table is a coffeemaker.

He closes the door, giving us absolute privacy, hiding us from view from the windows.

“This is cute,” I say, and I mean it.

“Thank you.” He reaches over and starts up the little coffee pot. “I can’t guarantee how good the coffee is, though.”

“That’s okay,” I say. I reach and grab for his hand, holding it in mine. “It’s more the company than the coffee. After all, I drank all that tea just to talk to you…”


Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and gay erotic romance. His newest release is Thunder, a bisexual young adult romance under his YA pen name Dylan James. It releases on Thursday, August 8.

High Tea -- #Victorian #Dominance #FlashFiction

 Image by gate74 from Pixabay

By Lisabet Sarai

“Will you have more tea, Lady Wallingford?”

My elegant guest nods, a bit distracted. “Thank you, Beatrice, that would be lovely.” Her attention is focused on my master, seated across from her, next to me. “Lord Randall, pray continue. You were recounting your latest adventures in the Far East?”

My master chuckles. “I’m not certain my tales of the Hong Kong fleshpots are appropriate for someone of Beatrice’s years.”

I rise to fill her delicate porcelain cup, grateful for the chance to stand. Last night my dear master used me hard. My scratchy petticoats are agony against the lacerated flesh of my bum, and my quim is tender and raw. Sitting still is torture, as he knows very well. In fact, I suspect he insisted I host this tea in order to test my discipline.

Every instant — every movement — is a thrilling reminder of how completely he possesses me. My cunny moistens despite the discomfort —maybe even because of it. I know that my endurance pleases him.

Maribel Wallingford arches her perfect brows while her lush mouth curves into a smile. “Well, then, Geoffrey, perhaps I can prevail upon you to share the colorful details some other time.” The heat in her gaze and the flush on her cheeks make me suspect she has some intimate history with my virile master. She nibbles at her cake. Her tongue flicks a crumb from her lips, a surprisingly unladylike gesture.

“Perhaps.” He shifts in his chair and holds out his tea cup to me. “If you wouldn’t mind, my dear, I’d like more as well.”

The uninitiated might mistake his tone for avuncular indulgence. Indeed, my master is nearly my father’s age. He was Papa’s close associate before the carriage accident that made me a wealthy orphan. His close supervision and public concern for my welfare is one reason why I’m allowed to live on my own, though I’m barely twenty. Aunt Ellen, ensconced on her estate in Dover, is more than willing to relinquish responsibility for me to the respected and well-to-do Lord Randall.

No one suspects the true nature of our relationship — intensely carnal and shamefully perverse. I have given myself to him completely, and reaped the rewards, love and joy so acute that I’m breathless merely thinking about him. About us.

I step closer to his lean, powerful body, certain I can feel the heat of him even through his fashionable clothing. My skirts swish around my ankles. I tilt the teapot and pour with extreme care, trying for the grace and control he expects. A stream of tawny liquid arcs from the spout.

His cup is half full when he makes his move, snaking out his hand to surreptitiously squeeze my buttocks through my dress. Four layers of cloth separate me from his touch, but the force is enough to wake powerful echoes from last night’s whipping. The flash of pain startles me.

“Oh my!” I don’t drop the heirloom teapot, but my grip wavers. Tea splashes out of my master’s cup, spattering his woolen trousers and brocade waistcoat.

“Beatrice! How can you be so clumsy? Look at what you’ve done!” The sparkle in his dark eyes belies the stern tone of his voice, but tears gather in mine all the same. Hastily, I set the pot on a side table, before I do further damage.

“I’m so sorry, Mast—I mean, Lord Randall.”

“Your regret does not alter the fact that I may need to discard this expensive suit. Indeed, had the tea been hotter, you might have scalded me.” His eyebrows knot and his lips press together in a convincing facsimile of anger.

He’s playing with me, I know, but that doesn’t matter. His criticism cuts me to the soul. I sink to my knees before him, totally forgetting our guest. “Please, Sir. I’ll pay for the replacement. And it shan’t happen again, I swear. I was momentarily off balance....”

“Excuses won’t help you, girl.” He snags me by the elbow. “On your feet and over my knee.”

“What? Sir!” I suddenly recollect the presence of Lady Wallingford. A fierce blush turns my cheeks to flame. “You can’t be serious.”

“You’ll soon discover how serious I am, wench. Assume the position. Every instant you delay will make your punishment more severe.”

There’s no help for it. I’ve sworn to obey him in every particular. If I’m honest, I must admit that the thought of this public chastisement kindles a guilty thrill.

My voluminous skirts rustle as I drape my body over his tea-damp lap. A few blond ringlets escape from my meticulously coiffed hair and fall over my eyes, partly hiding my face. I want to disappear, to vanish into thin air. At the same time, I’m eager for him to begin.

“I’d heard that you were scrupulous and thorough in your guardianship of young Beatrice,” Lady Wallingford comments. “I hadn’t expected that to extend to corporal punishment.

“I do what’s necessary, Madam, to ensure her good behavior.” Without further discussion, he pulls up my apron, overskirt, underskirt and petticoat to bare my buttocks. I know the scarlet traces of last night’s birching crisscross my white flesh. The welts seem to burn anew, simply from being exposed.

Lady Wallingford releases her breath in a sigh full of emotion. “Oh my, Geoffrey! I thought you’d reformed...” I shoot a glance in her direction. Her ample breasts rise and fall as she struggles to contain her excitement.

“I am too old a dog to learn new tricks, Maribel.” He strokes my naked bum, gentle enough that my stripes barely hurt. “Though this exquisite creature inspires me to expand my repertoire.” Without warning he pinches my rear.

“Ow! Sorry, Sir.” I settle myself more comfortably on his firm knees. I know I can’t escape. I don’t want to escape.

“I think two dozen strokes should be sufficient. Do you agree, Beatrice?”

“That’s—ouch!—up to you, Master.”

The honorific slips out, without my thinking. My mind whirls. What will Lady Wallingford think? I wonder, then realize she understands the situation perfectly.

“Will you count for us, Maribel?”

“With pleasure,” she purrs. She has unbuttoned her her tight bodice, exposing the lace-trimmed top of her chemise. Her fingertips skim the pearl-white skin below her collarbone. Her other hand burrows into the fabric in her lap.

She’s as wanton as I am, I think. Then my master’s big hand slams down on my poor bum, driving out every thought except the pain.

“One!”

The sensations are many-layered. There’s the fierce sting where his palm has connected with my rear cheeks. A sharp tingling radiates from the point of contact, prickling across my skin, along the backs of my thighs and down between my legs. Underneath, there’s a hot ache from last night’s marks, pain reawakening lascivious memory.

Wham! The next stroke hurts more, adding to the building pain, multiplying my excitement.

“Two.” Lady Wallingford’s voice has grown husky, almost hoarse. I can hear her panting.

Slam! I wail in distress, unable to keep silent any longer, and squirm on my master’s lap, but his grip is like iron.

“Three.”

“Be still, girl, or I’ll give you a dozen more!”

“Four!”

Oh, God! How can I bear this? How can I want this?

“Five. Six.”

Like an automaton, my master continues to spank me and our guest continues to count. He’s fallen into a rhythm now. I know when to expect each blow. I relax into the pain, revel in the ache, surrender to my master’s will.

A particularly vicious slap lands on my left bum cheek. I automatically listen for Lady Wallingford’s voice. Silence.

“Maribel?”

“Oh—oh—I—oooh!”

At this point, my hairdo has disintegrated. I can’t see anything through the thick, honey-colored locks hanging over my face, but I know only too well what’s going on.

He finishes quickly, without a count, one spank following the next. I scarcely have time to breathe in between. My bottom’s ablaze. Tears swim in my eyes. Still, when he raises me from his lap and cradles me in his arms, that makes it all worthwhile.

“Well done, Beatrice,” he murmurs in my ear. “I believe you deserve a reward.”

His hand roots under my twisted skirts. His fingers find the magic button guarding my quim. A single firm touch is all it takes to trigger a whirlwind of ecstasy.

When I return to my senses, I find myself crumpled on the carpet near my master’s boots. With gentle fingers he combs the tangles away from my face. “Are you well, Beatrice?” he asks. I hear satisfaction in his voice. I see love in his eyes.

“Yes, Sir. Very well.” I glance over at Lady Wallingford. She has refastened her bodice. Still, she exudes a familiar, post-orgasmic glow. Her smile recalls the family tomcat after he’s devoured some poor sparrow.

“In that case,” he continues, helping me to my feet, “would you please ring Betty for another pot of tea?”

 

30 Days Hath April. Read #Erotica #FlashFiction Every Day!

Got a minute? Read a quickie!

Erotica Every Day includes thirty works of flash fiction by award-winning author Giselle Renarde—that’s one for every day of the month, if you can wait that long to read them. Once you start, you might never want to stop! You’ll get a delicious taste of fetish fiction featuring heels, panties, balloons, human furniture, public nudity and stranger sex. Enjoy stories about bondage and wife watching, food play and foot worship, brilliant sunshine and delightful darkness.

There’s a little something for everyone in this collection, so get ready for a frenzy of flashers!

You can get this great little anthology as an ebook from Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/890972?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07GR4R6JW?tag=dondes-20
Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=p39qDwAAQBAJ

Or in Print: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1725995883?tag=dondes-20
Or Large Print: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1726050483?tag=dondes-20

If audio is more your style, get the audiobook from Audible: https://www.audible.com/pd/B07GVS6CLV/?source_code=AUDFPWS0223189MWT-BK-ACX0-126320&ref=acx_bty_BK_ACX0_126320_rh_us
Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/audiobooks/details/Giselle_Renarde_Erotica_Every_Day?id=AQAAAECMHRFdjM
Nook: https://www.nookaudiobooks.com/audiobook/245280/erotica-every-day
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/audiobook/erotica-every-day

The Geography of You (#flashfiction #gayerotica)

I let myself in the apartment and put my suitcase by the door, quickly going in search of you. I find you. It’s not difficult. You’re in bed—naked and waiting for me.

In the near dark, I see your eyes glisten. You’re awake, you’re watching me, but you’re still lying there...teasing me. You’re drawing out this moment, making me take the lead, inviting me to explore your body.

I take off my clothes, trying to appear casual and not as rushed as I feel.  Three weeks. I’ve been away three weeks—away from you. I need you. I need to be in you.

Now naked as you, I crawl onto the bed and kiss your feet. They’re strong and sturdy, yet clean and soft. You’re freshly showered; you knew I’d want this as soon as I came home. I drag my tongue up your shinbone and caress your other shin with my hand. I’m easing my way up your body. You want to draw this out for me? I’m going to draw this out for you.

I kiss your kneecap—first one, then the other—then I inch up your legs, kissing your inner thighs, climbing higher with every feathered touch of my lips on your hairy legs. Soon my nose is under your balls as I kiss the top of your thighs, as I flicker my tongue out across your taint.

You groan in pleasure and your body shifts. You want it bad. So do I—my aching erection is proof enough—but I’m going to torture you with pleasure.

I press more kisses to your body, climbing higher, curving to the front of your pelvis, carefully avoiding your cock and balls. They don’t get pleasure—not yet. But I don’t ignore them. I lift my mouth off your tantalizing body and exhale my hot breath along your length. You groan again, shift your hips up, desperate for contact, but I always keep my lips away from your shaft.

Moving further north, I dip my tongue into your belly button, swirling around and around. I take a moment to adjust my own position, bringing my legs closer to the core of your body. You spread your legs, lifting them a little, allowing me to get close to you and simultaneously inviting me to get even more intimate with you. Shifting even closer, the head of my cock—wet and sticky with pre-cum—makes contact with your tight, wrinkled flesh. I almost lose it and by the deep groan you let out, you almost lose it too.

I abandon your bellybutton, now glistening with my saliva, and move north, kissing each of your abs along the way, enjoying how your skin gets hairier and hairier under my gentle touch.

As my kisses approach your chest, I hook my hands under your knees, gently folding you, exposing that tightness even more, that tightness that I’m aching to plunge into. As I press against you, I feel a slickness I didn’t expect, as my shaft slides effortlessly against your tightness, moreso than the ease that my pre-cum would provide. You’re prepared for this moment, lubed up and eager.

I shift my hips a little, angling myself so that the head of my cock presses hard against your hole. I press forward a little, just enough to tease the opening, to judge how eager you might be.

And I find that you are very eager.

You want me inside you. You need me inside you.

I kiss across your torso until I reach a nipple—and as I clamp my teeth down on it, eliciting a yelp of painful pleasure from you, I shove my hips forward, plunging full-depth into you. Your yelp of pain turns into an incoherent shout of pleasure.

I bite down on your nipple hard—the way I know you love me doing—and thrust again. I can feel you losing control—not like you’re about to blow your load, but like you’ve lost all coherent thought, like you’re a being of pure pleasure, like you’ve given control of yourself and your release over to me.

I start pumping myself in and out of you. I kiss your tender nipple, easing the fire caused by my teeth. I give your other nipple a little bite and a lick, so it doesn’t feel neglected. But I’ve moved on from your nipples. I want more from you. I want all of you.

I drag my tongue across your chest and to your neck. Your five o’clock shadow is scratchy against my skin, rough against my tongue. You press your head back into the pillow, flexing your neck upward, pressing your Adam’s apple into my mouth.

I suck on your neck, kiss it, press my tongue into that sensitive spot that drives you wild. You moan incoherently, an endless sound of pure pleasure that contains no words, and I thrust harder into you, changing my angle to hit that spot inside you that sends sparks of pleasure shooting through your whole body.

You’re gasping, writhing, begging for release, desperate for orgasm.

Then I claim your mouth.

I kiss your lips, sweep my tongue across yours, suck up your moans of pleasure. You kiss me back—or at least you try to, as much as your pleasure-wracked mind can accomplish.

You bring your hands to the back of my head—the first real sign of movement I’ve seen from you—but with one quick movement, I grab your wrists and pin your hands down past your head. This isn’t about sex; it’s about me rediscovering the geography of your body.

The geography of home.

I thrust into you again and the reediness of your wail tells me that you’re close. You’re so incredibly close. But I’m not ready for you finish yet. I don’t let you cross that line, don’t let you dive off that cliff—instead, I tease you at that line, slowing down enough to keep you there, but not push you further.

Your whimpers turn desperate, but I’m not ready for you to finish.

I’m not done re-discovering your body.

I drag my tongue across your cheek, across your rough stubble, and suckle on your earlobe. You gasp again, a gasp full of such pleasure that I fear I’ve gone too far. But your gasp turns into a begging mewl and I know I’ve still got the upper hand. I know I’ve still got control over your body.

I let go of your hands, no longer pinning them above your head, and you instantly wrap your arms around me, pulling me close. I give in and press my body to yours, our chests hard against each other, our arms holding each other, and when I kiss you again our breath interchanges between us.

I thrust one more time—harder, deeper, longer—and you whimper into my mouth, a whimper that turns into a wail. And I know I’ve done it, I’ve pushed you past that line. Your body shivers and quakes as you try to contain it, but the floodgates give and you finally lose control.

You hug me even closer, pressing your mouth harder against mine, and I feel an exploding wetness between our bodies. And at that moment, your body clamps down on mine, tightens around my length, squeezes me so hard, and you drag me over that edge with you.

I, too, struggle to hold it back and shudder with the effort. But then I give in—I give in and pleasure shoots through me, and my essence fills you.

I shiver with the last of it, shake with the seemingly endless pleasure, and then let out a long breath when it finally abates. My body relaxes—so does yours—and I lay on top of you, listening to your heartbeat as it slows down from its racehorse pace.

I’ve missed you. I know you’ve missed me too.

But now I’m home.





Cameron D. James is a writer of gay smut. His upcoming publication is the (surprisingly smut-free) gay YA romance, Gay Love And Other Fairy Tales, under his YA pen name, Dylan James.

Flirt and Consequences - #Flirting #BDSM #FlashFiction

By Lisabet Sarai

“Can I help you?”

My cheeks burn. He’s caught me, transfixed by the rope coils and shiny turnbuckles, hungry as a kid at a candy display.

“Um—no, thanks. I was just thinking...”

“About possible applications for our products?” He grins, eyes alight with mischief as he unfurls a thrilling length of scarlet cord. “Want a demo?”

He’s working-class burly, his rolled denim sleeves baring tanned, hairy forearms, Home Plus apron inappropriately domestic. Booted feet, big hands.

“I’m an expert,” he continues. “With our products.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Rising to his challenge, I straighten my spine and elevate my bra-less tits. His gaze flicks down. He licks his lips. My nipples ache.

“Maybe you need some clamps, too? For your project?”

“I might.”

“We also have a wide selection of dowels—in many sizes.” His massive fists clench and his nostrils flare.

I’m smoldering now. I love this game. It’s my move.

“Sarah!” Master rounds the corner, juggling electrical supplies. He grasps the situation in a single glance. “Teasing again? You know that’s twenty strokes with the cane.”

There’s a bulge under that apron. “Can I help you?”

Master smirks. “Sure. Why not?”

What Was Lost: Three Flashers -- #virginity #kidnapping #eunuch

By Lisabet Sarai

Five Stages

“When did she disappear?”

“Four years ago.” My companion hardly looked old enough for this to be plausible. She examined her manicured nails and sighed. “She’d be seven now. More coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

She sipped hers, deep in thought. I scanned the sunny backyard, noting the jungle gym in the far corner. The lost girl had been an only child. I wondered at the woman’s serene composure.

“How do you manage?”

“Therapy.” A wan smile. “I’ve learned the five stages.”

“You mean, like the stages of grief?”

“A bit. But simultaneous. Grief is the first. Every day I spend some time in despair.”

I nodded. “And the others?”

“Acceptance. I have to realize I may never see her again. Then there’s service. Like volunteering for the lost child hotline. And giving this interview.”

“Which I appreciate.”

“Stage four is continued investigation. I have a top PI on retainer. I’ll know as soon he finds a shred of new evidence.”

I tapped some notes into my tablet. “And stage five?”

She smoothed her hands over her designer slacks. Her lips tightened into thin line as she met my gaze. “Retribution. I won’t rest till I’m holding his bleeding balls.”

Ready

I’m ready.

We’ve been making out for more than an hour in his dad’s car, parked by the fields on the outskirts of town. I’m on fire from his roving hands, his evergreen cologne, the masculine roughness of incipient beard on his high-school-boy cheeks. I’m eager to lose my innocence, to step through the gateway into womanhood.

He’s ready, too. He’s stashed a blanket in the trunk. A full moon rides among the stars over our heads. Hand in hand we wade through the tall grass to the top of the hill. I strip, feeling his eyes on me, knowing my own power. He does the same. His erection is massive, scary, thrilling. Power indeed!

From his discarded jeans he pulls a condom. Fascinated, I watch him tear the foil, extract the limp bit of latex, try to roll it down over his cock. It’s not working.

“Can you help?”

I’ve touched him before, even stroked him to messy climaxes, but now my hands are clumsy. The head is inside, but the rest seems stuck. As I fumble, his cock wilts.

Finally we lie defeated on the blanket, in each other’s arms.

Guess we weren’t ready after all. 
 

For the Queen

“It’s not true, you know.”

“What?”

“Castration doesn’t eliminate sexual desire. Not when you’re cut after puberty.”

“You still feel aroused? You still want women, even after—”

“And men. Eroticism begins in the mind, Eleanor. Imagination is a potent aphrodisiac. When someone attracts me, I start spinning fantasies. Usually, of course, I don’t act on those notions, but they’re surprisingly satisfying.”

“Usually?”

The chief eunuch gives an enigmatic nod.

“Why did you do it?” I can’t conceive of a motivation compelling enough to make me give up my breasts or my clit—which I notice is tingling due to this turn in our conversation.

“For the Queen. She needed my counsel, my wisdom, my admittedly Machiavellian skills, to develop into the steel-spined ruler the kingdom needed. She was so young when she came to the throne. But she already understood the distractions and dangers of sex.”

“Does she know?” Our Majesty is no longer a green girl.

A buttery smile stretches his pudgy cheeks. “She guesses. She trusts me now.”

I should be wary of this powerful creature, but I can’t resist.

“How–when you’re aroused, how do you–?”

He lays a soft hand on my thigh. “Let me show you.”

What would Sigmund say? #spanking #psychoanalysis #flashfiction

By Lisabet Sarai

“What would Sigmund say if he could see you now, Nathan—stretched across my lap with a bare bum and a hard-on?”

“Ow! Hilda...”

“Dr. Schultz, you mean.”

“Right, right...Damn! That hurts!”

“Stop squirming and answer my question.”

“Um—probably something Oedipal—ouch!—something about wanting to crawl back into my mother’s womb...”

“I’m twenty years your junior. Though you certainly do like to suck on my tits.”

“Gorgeous—ow!—gorgeous tits, Dr. Schultz. Take your blouse off and I’ll play with them while you spank me.”

“My diagnosis? I’d say you had an overactive Id, Nathan. Only stern punishment can keep your ravenous lusts in check.”

“And you, Hilda, with your crops, floggers and dildos, have penis envy—OW! Your fingernails are like knives.”

“I’ll carve my initials into your ass, my infantile little analyst. You won’t be able to sit for a week.”

“Oh no, don’t... Marilyn will see the marks!”

“Doesn’t your conscience bother you? Deceiving your unsuspecting wife?”

“Ow! Yes! No! Not really...Oh, Hilda, Dr. Schultz, please. May I come?”

“Naughty, naughty boy. You’re a mess of unconscious urges and repressed fantasies.”

“Argh! God, I can’t stand anymore...”

“It’s fortunate you have me to play the role of your SuperEgo.”

Slow Seduction

I’d been chasing this twink for weeks now. He’d show up every Friday night at the bar, sometimes Saturday too, and I’d get hot and bothered just watching him work it out on the dance floor. With a drink in hand, a lithe body in sticking-to-his-skin sweaty clothing, and a radiant smile that beamed across the whole club, I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

But he ignored me the first few times we crossed paths. I’d watch him from my seat at the bar and sometimes he’d glance over my way mid-bump-and-grind, but the eye contact would be fleeting at best, non-existent at worst. I had a good twenty years on him — I had to be double his age — and no matter how fit I was, nubile twinks didn’t go for daddies like me. They wanted the jocks and twinks, so their sex would be like porn.

But all I wanted was to buy him a drink.

The fourth consecutive Friday of being in the club at the same time, I finally broke the ice.

“Hi,” I said as he came up beside me at the bar so he could order a Smirnoff Ice. God, he was even more delicious up close.

“Hey,” he said, barely giving me a second glance.

“You’re a good dancer.”

That made him smile — and, God, his smile was gorgeous. “Thanks, man,” he said to me, then he nodded as the bartender handed him the bottle. He took a swig and I watched his Adam’s apple bob with the swallow. “You should join us out there.”

I chuckled and looked at his small group of friends, all of whom were dancing and oblivious to my obvious attempts at picking up their friend. “I don’t know about that. I’m a terrible dancer.”

“You need one of these,” he said, tipping his drink back for another swig, “to loosen up. Just have fun!” And with that, he sauntered off, hips swaying to the music as he wove his way through the crowd and back to his friends. He looked my way a few times that night, but with eye contact that lingered.

I went back the next night and he was there too. I watched him dance — he was with only a few friends that night, but still seemed to have as much fun as when his entire group was there. He had an energy that attracted me and drew me toward him.

Fuck it, I thought, and flagged the bartender down for a Smirnoff Ice. With some liquid courage, I sauntered onto the dance floor and did my best not to look like a fool. The boy’s face lit up when he saw me join his small circle of friends. I realized then that I still didn’t know the guy’s name and he didn’t know mine. Right now, though, it didn’t matter. I took another swig of alcohol and sugar and tried to let the music flow through me, tried to match what the boy was doing.

He grabbed my free hand and helped me ease into a smoother rhythm. My heart started to beat faster, but not from the dancing — it was from the electric touch of his fingers on mine. He laughed as I made a goofy move and I started to relax a little more, overcoming the self-consciousness I fought against.

Several songs later, I was as sweaty as him. I headed back to the bar for another drink and winked at him over my shoulder as I peeled away from his group. When I got to the bar, I saw I had been victorious in my attempt — he had followed me.

“I never got your name,” I said. I held out my hand for him to shake. “I’m Tim.”

He grasped my hand and shook. My thick fingers dwarfed his fine features. “I’m Caleb.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

We spent most of the rest of the evening chatting at the bar while his friends kept dancing. I caught them looking over at us and gossiping, but they didn’t interrupt. As we talked, I learned that he was more than just a pretty face — he was smart, studying chemical engineering.

I sat a little closer to Caleb and he seemed to like it.  When a slow song came on, I dropped my hand to my thigh and brushed my fingertips against his leg. He put his hand on mine and held it as we carried on with talking. I felt my heart race again with a new feeling — this was no longer just sexual … I wanted this boy … I wanted Caleb.

We kept holding hands long past the end of the slow song, until the bar was starting to close down. Caleb’s friends had apparently ditched him, likely thinking he was in good hands. I already like his friends, I mused. When the DJ finished his set and the house lights came on, we stood, still holding hands.

“Do you need a ride home?” I asked.

He smiled rather mischievously. “I’d love that.”

He didn’t let go of my hand, so we walked together out of the bar and toward my car. When we entered and closed the door, he pulled me close and pressed his lips hard against mine, kissing me with a passion that easily matched what I’d been feeling all evening — what I’d been feeling since I first saw him weeks ago.

Overwhelming lust consumed me and as he kissed me, I struggled with his clothes and mine, lifting up his shirt and undoing his pants and him trying to do the same to me in our frantic and chaotic moment of passion. I wrenched his hard dick out of his pants a second before he did the same to me and I went down on it, taking it in my mouth, sucking on that youthful shaft. He moaned and quivered and leaned back in his chair. He never let go of my dick; he started stroking it in time with my sucking. With his other hand, he wove his fingers through my hair. It was a tender gesture, a caring one, and it only spurred me to suck him deeper.

Maybe it was the effect of the alcohol or a sign of how horny we both were, but he came quickly, filling my mouth with his tart heat. I swallowed it all down and licked him clean. He sighed with immense satisfaction, but when I sat upright again, he immediately dove down toward my crotch, sucking on my dick like I’d sucked on his. His warm, tight, wet mouth wrapped around my shaft and slid down to the base. The muscles of his tongue and cheeks and lips and throat all rippled and moved against my sensitive skin. This boy was talented. Or maybe I was just so fucking horny. Or … it was likely both.

I had a shocking lack of stamina and seconds later I exploded in his mouth, shooting jet after jet of cum. He swallowed it all down, not letting a single drop escape. And when I had finished shooting and he had finished swallowing, he carefully licked my head and shaft, cleaning off the last bits of cum.

He sat back in his seat and we both stared out the windshield, struggling to regain our breath. Our dicks, now limp and glistening with spit, still hung out of our pants.

“That was…” I said, struggling to find an appropriate description.

“Incredible,” Caleb said. He smiled and I couldn’t help the expression of sexual triumph that was likely plain as day on my face.

After a few more moments of comfortable silence, we packed away our dicks and I started the car.

“Where am I taking you?” I asked.

He looked at me and bit his lip rather demurely. “How about your place?”



Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Dominating the Freshman. He is publisher at and co-founder of Deep Desires Press and a member of the Indie Erotica Collective. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.

Evidence #FlashFiction

By Annabeth Leong

They were definitely not her panties. Sarah stood beside the bed dumbly, dangling them off her pinkie finger, staring as if she might remember when she bought them if she just thought hard enough.

But they weren’t hers, and she knew it. Sarah owned practical panties, the kind that wicked moisture away from her crotch efficiently when she worked out. These were lacy, embellished things, sexy specifically because of their impracticality. The pale blue scrap of material was little more than a ribbon, really, but it summoned images of hips and inner thighs. Not Sarah’s hard, muscled body. The panties conjured a softer woman, one who smelled floral, not sweaty.

Christ knew, she hadn’t been with a woman in forever, which meant Todd must have.

Sarah waited, but no anger came. After a moment, she realized she was rubbing the panties between her thumb and first finger. They felt nice. She wondered how they smelled.

She felt like a perv lifting them to her face, but she did it anyway. She took a deep breath, remembering college, her roommate, the things they did but never talked about. Metaphors of salt and ocean had never made sense to her. Woman smelled like woman. No other scent came close.

The panties had at some point been very wet. Sarah wondered what Todd would tell her if she asked him about them.

She knew she wouldn’t. It was time for her own secrets, and she wouldn’t be so careless as to leave olfactory evidence. Her body thrilled with anticipation, not only at the thought of the place between a woman’s thighs, but also at the idea of the careful application of lotions to cover incriminating scents. She tucked the panties back where she had found them, and smiled to herself when she imagined how Todd would jump when he saw what they could reveal, and how he would feel safe, and how he would be wrong.

Faded Plaid Flannel (#FlashFiction #chemistry #olfactory)

By Lisabet Sarai

He’d left it behind when he moved out. Guess the old bathrobe became too ratty even for his casual tastes. She can’t look at it without seeing his wiry frame wrapped in the faded plaid flannel, crouched over his poetry at the kitchen table. Vodka on one side, smoldering cigarette on the other, close enough to touch, a million miles away.

She holds it to her face, breathing him in, sweat and tobacco, and underneath, that elusive musk that first hooked her. Addictive, intoxicating—in an instant she’s drunk with the astounding lust that first drew them together. Eyes closed, she relives their ecstatic frenzy, the clarity of pure connection. In bed they were one body, obscene and holy. She never cared what they did; every carnal act felt like a sacrament. The loss of him, of that glory, is a vast, black, aching wound in her chest.

He’d felt it, too. Inhaling her female perfume, he lost himself, drowned in her lushness. Scary. One reason— along with his wanderlust—that he’s gone.

Chemistry’s not the same as compatibility.

She stuffs the rag between her thighs. Eventually the flannel will smell only of her.

The Beta's Pleasure (#gayerotica #gaysex #gaybdsm)

My Alpha stands over me, towering, dominating. He’s all man — more than I’ll ever be — made of muscle and hair and tanned skin. A leather harness wraps across his broad chest, his bulky lower body is encased in a tight pair of leather pants.

I’m on my knees, naked, my cock in a chastity cage. I’m the beta to his Alpha.

He likes to think he chose me. The truth is, I chose him.

He unzips his fly, revealing a sweaty jockstrap, and then grabs my head, mashing my face into his crotch. He thinks he’s demeaning me, that he’s doing this for his pleasure and his pleasure alone.

I inhale, breathe him in, let his musk surge through my body. He’s not the only one getting pleasure. I would argue my pleasure is greater.

I nibble at the cotton, teasing the sensitive skin of his shaft. He lets out a loud breath that I know is a barely contained moan. He doesn’t want to show such weakness in front of his beta. I play along, submitting to him, giving him what he wants — what he thinks he wants — while I truly get what I want.

He eases down the front of his jockstrap, his length flopping out. I eagerly take it in my mouth. I moan. It’s not an act, it’s not a way to please my Alpha — no, I moan because I’m getting what I want, what I need.

We’ve been Alpha and beta for years. We met at Folsom Street Fair, I sucked him off in the middle of the party, and we’ve been with each other ever since. I give him blowjobs like no other beta has ever done — better than anyone will ever give him, I know. He knows that too.

I’m true to him. He’s my only Alpha. He demands my faithfulness, though he doesn’t need to — I freely give it to him. I don’t demand the same of him, but I know I’m his only beta, his only fucktoy … his only lover.

I’m too good to him. In a moment of weakness last year — a rarity for my Alpha — he had confided that he’s always terrified of losing me, because he considers me irreplaceable. And so he treats me like a prince. Still a beta, still a submissive, still a lesser man than him, but a prince, nonetheless.

He lets out another loud breath, another barely contained moan, and I know he’s close to losing it, to filling me with his spunk. And I know he doesn’t want to do that — not yet. To do so would be to show weakness in front of his beta, an inability to control his urges around me.

Instead, he cups his hand under my chin and nudges me to his feet. I hate to abandon his cock, but my Alpha bids me to do so. With dominance in his eyes, but with a glimmer of affection, my Alpha guides me toward the sling, hanging from the ceiling, here in his dusty basement. He helps me into it and then ties up my wrists and ankles. Securing me. Restraining me. Owning me. Between my legs, my helpless cock, contained in a cage of plastic, decorated with a padlock, struggles to get hard, but it can’t. Beta males don’t deserve erections.

With my limbs secured, my Alpha says, “Let me know if it hurts. And don’t forget your safe word.”

Of course, I know these things. He says them every time. Yet, I’ve never been put in a position of harm and I’ve never used my safe word. For an Alpha, he’s very gentle and caring, very tender and compassionate. Those reminders, surely necessary among new partners, but less so between us, reinforce how much he cares for me.

The safe word gives me the option to end a scene at any time. For a beta, it puts me in a position of power. In a way, it makes me the Alpha, even if I shun that term, even if it doesn’t feel true. Alpha waits for me to nod, the sign that I’m okay and ready for the next step.

I nod, giving my Alpha permission to proceed.

He smiles, and for a moment I see relief, like he was scared I would put an end to this. I’ve never ended a scene early — not with him. I trust my Alpha and would let him do anything. I would give him permission to do whatever he wants to me and my body. Because I know his ultimate goal is pleasure — for him, but also for me.

He leans into me, pressing the head of his dick against my already-slick hole. I relax my muscles, unclench my body, and he slides easily into me. I moan loudly, to give my Alpha permission to silently moan along with me, my noise cancelling out his, letting him maintain his dominance and control over me.

Again, my dick struggles to get hard, to enjoy the moment, but it’s locked down and kept small. My Alpha hasn’t given me permission to have an erection. And I have given my Alpha permission to make that decision for me.

He drags his cock halfway out, igniting all my nerve endings, pleasure flaring through my core. Then he slams it home, the chains squeaking under the violent shudder. I moan again and it drags out into a steady rhythm of loud breathing and moaning as he starts swinging his hips back and forth, pounding me.

Every shove inside me has his dick stroking against my prostate, causing ecstasy to build and mount within me. He grabs my hips, to give him better leverage to fuck me. Our bodies collide and separate, collide and separate, over and over.

I can tell by Alpha’s breathing and the sweat on his forehead and the crease in his brow that he’s close to orgasming, close to filling me with his seed. I know he wants to maintain his superiority, so I give in to my own pleasure. Alpha has pushed me so close to orgasm, so close to that overwhelming joy, that it doesn’t much to push me over that inescapable edge.

One more stroke across my prostate has me whimpering and moaning as pleasure explodes within me. Even though my cock is contained in plastic, forced to stay flaccid, I have an incredible orgasm. Powerful. Overwhelming. My cum leaks from the plastic cage and flows down my taint.

And my asshole tightens, gripping Alpha’s thick girth. With a grunt — powerful, dominating, aggressive — Alpha shoves his dick in me one more time and presses his body hard against mine. He grunts again, long and low, and I know he’s filling me with his cum. My body is owned by him, inside and out, and this is him staking his claim on me one more time.

In the aftermath — sweaty and breathless — he looks into my eyes. That same dominance is there, but behind it, hiding, is a look of questioning. Did I enjoy it? I know he wants to ask me — I know he wants to make sure that I want him and only him — but he can’t ask me, not if he wants to maintain his Alpha dominance over me.

“That was incredible, Sir,” I say, between gulping down lungfuls of air.

And with that, the question disappears from his eyes, so that only dominance remains.

I let my eyes close and I sink into the sling, revelling in the moment, the feeling, the joy, the pleasure, the ecstasy. I’m where I belong.



Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Forbidden Desires: The Complete Series. He is publisher at and co-founder of Deep Desires Press and a member of the Indie Erotica Collective. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.

Deeds Without Words ( #FlashFiction #AgeDifference #StrangerSex )

by Annabeth Leong

There seems to have been something of a flash fiction theme going on, so I guess I’ll go with it.

***

Deeds Without Words

She didn’t like it when people said it had been a long time because to her that came off sounding cute and falsely modest, as if it was possible to still be demure, at this age, even while asking for more fingers in the ass.

But it had been a long time, whether she wanted to say so or not. She’d forgotten how greedy she could get, the unbearable wanting that made her say harder long past the apparent limits of her body.

She’d let a long time pass because for a while it had been impossible to say yes, but now that she’d started again, on this night, with this person she barely knew, it seemed as if yes was just about all she could say.

She got fucked hard, in the ass and everywhere else, with everything it occurred to her lover to put inside her. She got fucked until she understood that taking it wasn’t just about being a series of open holes. It could also be about draining the other person dry, reducing her lover to a shaking, straining, inarticulate mess.

When they finally stopped what they’d been doing, she felt separated into layers by all the fucking. One body, limp on a bed. One mind, blessedly still. One soul, flying high on everything she’d just taken.

The other person in the room seemed to exist only as gasping breath and lingering ecstatic soreness.

Then they pushed up onto one elbow. “It’s late,” they said. “I’ve got to get back to the dorm.”

“The dorm?” She echoed the words dumbly.

“Yeah. I have class in the morning.”

“Christ! How old are you?”

The lopsided grin that had made her say yes in the first place. “I’m legal. Do we need to say anything more than that?”

No. Words would have made this all so terribly awkward. She didn’t want to get self-conscious and start making weird jokes about decades-old bands and her own wrinkles.

She flopped onto her back on her bed, received a kiss on the forehead, and basked in the sweat-soaked aftermath.

Hooking Up (#flashfiction #gayerotica #gayflashfiction)

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Generational Rift (#communication #morals #flashfiction)

By Lisabet Sarai 

(In homage to Daddy X - exactly 200 words)

“Oh God, Mom. Is that really you in that corset? In public?”

“What? I think I made a rather fetching Magenta. Those midnight shows—well, they were wild.”

“But everyone can see your boobs! It’s so embarrassing.”

“Come on, I was only a few years older than you are now, Jen.”

“Still... Will you close the album, please?”

“Rocky Horror was a major influence on me. ‘Don’t dream it, be it’. That was my anthem. Back then, I was ready for any erotic adventure.”

“TMI, Mom!”

“You don’t want to hear about how I seduced my best friend Lisa?”

“God, no!”

“Or the blowjob I gave my grad school boyfriend on the Greyhound bus?”

“Enough, Mom!”

“Or the threesome your dad and I had at the swingers club, before we were married? The orgies, later?”

“Please! Stop before I throw up!”

“I don’t know why you’re so upset. You know I wasn’t a virgin when I met your father, that I’ve always been a very sexual person.”

“Yeah, I know. But the thought of all those other people around...”

Ding! “’Scuse me, Mom. Text from Jerry. Oh, my...!”

“What? What is it, hon?”

“No, don’t...”

“My God, Jen! Is that you?”