Friday, December 27, 2019

Farewell to Old Frontiers, with a Side-Eye to New Ones

  Sacchi Green

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.


Tuesday, December 24, 2019

A Bittersweet Farewell

By Tim Smith

Since this is my last post for Oh Get a Grip, I wanted to leave you with some seasonal fan fiction featuring one of my series characters, former cop-turned-private-eye Vic Fallon. This is a romantic trifle to get you in the holiday mood, and to say Thank You for allowing me to be a part of this great group of writers. I’ll miss you all!

“One Lonely Christmas Eve”

Late December on northeast Ohio’s Lake Erie coast was consistent from year to year. The winter chills rolled in a couple of weeks before Thanksgiving and hung around until the first of March. Along with the bitter lake effect air came snow, usually measured in feet instead of inches. Great for snowball fights, terrible for driving.

Vic Fallon had lived his entire life in the lakefront town of Sandusky, and knew how to cope with slippery streets. More importantly, he had learned how to avoid those who suddenly forgot how to drive when the snow fell. He recalled a trip he had taken to Dayton one winter. An inch of snow came down, and people acted like it was a blizzard. 

He sat at the counter in Dianna’s Deli on Christmas Eve. The place was decked out in decorations that evoked a sentimental feeling. An old foil-lettered banner that spelled out Happy Holidays was strung over the doorway, wreaths adorned the walls, and a three-foot-high artificial Christmas tree with cheap decorations and tinsel sat on a table just inside the door. Holiday music played in the background, the soothing tones of Como and Crosby adding a touch of nostalgic comfort.  

Vic sipped his coffee then glanced at the clock mounted on the wall behind the cash register in the nearly empty restaurant. 6:45, and it’s pitch-black outside. Not that much traffic, either, especially in here. Guess most people have had their pre-holiday dinner and gone to church, or decided to pack it in for the evening to wait for Santa by the fireplace. I should do the same, but I don’t really want to go home to an empty apartment.

Denise Del Florio approached inside the counter, with a glass coffee pot in hand. “Refill, Vic?”

Vic’s gaze traveled from her head to her feet then back up again, taking in her trim form encased in snug black slacks and a white shirt with a name tag. Her light brown hair was pulled into a ponytail, and a few wisps carelessly hung over her face. Her hazel eyes seemed to take on an extra bit of sparkle when she looked at him.

“Thanks, but I’ve had enough for one night.”

She exhaled a deep breath. “Good decision. We’re getting ready to close, and this stuff would take the paint off your car.” She stretched. “I’m definitely ready to get off my feet after today.”

“I’m surprised you aren’t busier.”

Denise poured herself some coffee then took a sip. “You should’ve been here earlier. It was non-stop from lunchtime on. People stopped in for their holiday pie orders, and decided to eat while they were here.”

“Sounds hectic.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t really mind. It kept me busy, and I made a fortune in tips.”

Vic laughed. “I figured that’s why you volunteered to work the holiday shift.”

Denise gave a shy smile and cast her gaze downward briefly. “I keep forgetting what a good detective you are.”  

He finished his coffee. “It wasn’t hard to figure out, Denise. I suspected you didn’t mind working tonight for the same reason I’m not going home yet.”

She looked into his eyes for a moment. “I’m not ready to face an empty house, especially this holiday.”

“The first one alone is always the hardest.”

She was silent for a few moments. “How long did it take for you to…”

“Still working on it,” he finished. “I’ve been divorced for eight years, and there are some holidays I don’t look forward to. But I know it’s different in your case.”

She drank some coffee. “Yeah, you could say that. Divorce is one thing to adjust to, but losing your life partner in the line of duty is something else.” She paused. “Is that why you’re here tonight?”

“Where else would I be?”

“I heard you’ve been seeing someone. Thought you’d be with them.”

“So happens the young lady is spending the holidays in Louisville with her family. Why do you think I only came here to check up on you?”

“Because I know you, Vic. You and Tony were close friends before you had to leave the police department. Even after you went private, you kept in touch, and you were there for me when he got killed earlier this year.”

He cast his gaze down. “Guilty as charged. Maybe I was worried about you.”

Denise placed her hand on his and squeezed. “I appreciate that, more than you know. You gave me a shoulder to lean on when I needed it, and you’ve been there ever since. That means a lot.”

Vic felt embarrassed. “Come on, Denise. I was just doing the right thing. Tony and I were patrol partners before I became a detective, and we were fishing and drinking buddies.”  

“You might not know this, but he really valued your friendship, and so do I. We both enjoyed all the cookouts and fishing trips we did together.”

Vic suddenly felt nostalgic. “I enjoyed those times, too. I always thought of Tony as one of my best friends.”

“He was.” She flashed a playful smile. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. I’m alone, you’re alone, and neither of us is in a hurry to get home tonight. Think we can find someplace where two good friends can have a drink?”

Vic brought her hand to his lips then kissed it. “I think there must be someplace out there that caters to people with nowhere to go on a lonely night like this.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Vic stood, put on his coat and scarf, then went to the register to pay his bill. Denise rang it up then hesitated for a moment, looking upward. Vic followed her gaze to the sprig of mistletoe hanging above them. Denise took hold of his scarf with both hands, pulled him close then planted her lips on his, giving him a lingering kiss that took him by surprise.

“Wait for me?” she asked.

He palmed her cheek and peered into her soft eyes. “Don’t be too long.”  

Monday, December 23, 2019

Doing the Gingerbread Man

As my last post for Oh Get a Grip and as sort of a good-bye/holiday pressie, I had intended to bake gingerbread men for you lovely lot — you know something nice to share over our Christmas morning coffee. I’d never done it before, but I thought it would be fun. How hard could it be, right? As with the best made plans, the undertaking turned out to be a bit more of a challenge than I had expected.  I found a recipe, made a grocery list and discovered that not a single grocery store in all Guildford had any ground ginger. Not one to be deterred, I decided to be a little more creative and make my gingerbread man fictional. I didn’t need ground ginger for that, and you can still have your Christmas morning coffee and enjoy my gingerbread man. The story is short, very sweet, and complete. Oh yes, and it’s plenty naughty.

It might have been too much mulled wine, or perhaps a sugar high from eating damn near as much of my holiday baking as I … well as I baked. It might have been just a longing for a little bit of that holiday magic I remembered from my childhood. Whatever it was, on a whim, I decided to bake gingerbread men. I mean why should kids have all the fun. I was alone over the holiday and I had decided that I was going to make the best of it, that I was not going to feel sorry for myself. I was going to have a good time if it killed me, and that good time involved making, decorating, and eating gingerbread men.
The recipe I found online not only promised that my ginger bread men would be tasty, but that they would also be chewy. My mouth watered at the thought. I had all the ingredients, and in my cupboard I found red hots for buttons, dried cranberries for lips and slivered almonds for eyes, plus I had several tubes of icing in primary colors all ready and waiting to spiff up those men when I took them out of the oven.
The recipe was supposed to make sixteen gingerbread people – gender of your own choosing, but I never was great at following a recipe. I reckon they’re just guidelines anyway. Instead of the requisite sixteen biscuit boys, I opted for one giant, macho, gingerbread man, one that would fill the entire cookie sheet. By the time I had the dough mixed up, I’d switched from mulled wine to Prosecco. Truth be told, most ginger bread men were entirely too unmanly for my taste. I intended to create a testosterone charged, hunk of a gingerbread man, one that would seriously make my mouth water and give me something to wrap my lips around. I wanted my big GBM – something that size had to have a name — to have bulging biceps. I’m a commercial artist by trade because it pays the bills, but I’m artsy fartsy by nature, and well-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.
When a girl has her hands on a man’s cock, and she gets the feel for it, the shape of it, the way it responds to her touch, well how can she not get a little wet, a little squirmy, a little hot and bothered, and who would have thought that was true even with a gingerbread cock? I’ll admit I took time out from my efforts for a little browsing of the internet researching just exactly how I wanted GBM’s cock to look, making him wait on the table unformed and unfulfilled while I checked out schlongs online. I decided to go for heavy, somewhere in between flaccid and semi, resting languidly against GBM’s golden tan belly so as not to obscure the view of his weighty balls.
I remember as a little girl secretly pretending that my Barbie and Ken were fucking, even though poor Ken didn’t have the equipment for the job. I only ever did that when my rather conservative mother wasn’t home, and even then I felt guilty. Not tonight though! Tonight I felt empowered. Tonight was all about indulgence, all about my fucking pleasure, and here I was making it up to poor Ken by creating right proper, and proportionately substantial, bits for GBM, shaped to suit my very active fantasy life. For a long time now, my sex life had been solo, so my fantasies tended to be doozies. That meant I saw and heard sexual innuendo everywhere in everything, and eating a hot gingerbread man was just too delicious not to fantasize about.
When I finally got down to serious hands-on with GBM’s meat and two veg, my buzz was way more than alcoholic. I was the queen, I was the creator, the dominatrix, I was GBM’s goddess and he lay before me passive and obedient to my will. And then the true artist in me came out. In my imagination, the feel of a cock became almost tactile. I imagined a man asleep not yet aroused to my touch. I imagined sliding close to him, under the blankets, all naked and needing, needing the feel of maleness — of maleness needing me back. In my mind’s eye, I traced the silken smoothness of hard growing beneath soft. I cupped the weighty sac, slightly cooler to the touch, full and tight, resting in my hand. My mouth watered anticipating the taste of maleness, ginger and spice and everything nice, everything so fucking nice.
“Run, run, as fast as you can. You can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man.”
“Oh trust me, my little humunculous, you don’t want to run from me, not when I have your cock in my hand. Oh yes, I can see that smile on your face. You can’t fool me. I know what you want, and when I’ve made it so hot you can’t stand it, I’m going to eat you.”
I would have considered taking a break to tuck my set of shiny love balls up inside me, to jiggle and tease me while I worked on my creation, but I couldn’t leave him alone in such an unsatisfied state. Instead I stood at the counter hunched over his prone body, shifting from foot to foot, pressing my thighs together. The heady smell of ginger and heat flaring my nostrils and filling my mouth with saliva as I touched and fondled and formed the cock of my dreams. Lust heated the kitchen far more than the oven did. Sweat trickled down my spine, and thoughts of Pygmalion, in love with his own creation, thoughts of breathing life into grain and spice, leavening and oil connected me to an age old story of wanting, needing to create something to love, something that would love me back, something that I knew intimately because I had touched him as no one else had or ever would. Even in my state of arousal, my state of need, I found myself waxing all Biblical to GBM, with my slightly enebriated, more than a little bit self-centered version of Psalm 139.

For I created your inmost being;
I knit you together on my kitchen counter.
 You are fearfully and wonderfully made,
Even if I do say so myself

In the heat, I had shed my shirt and jeans, standing before my man in my red Christmas knickers and bra with a sprig of mistletoe in my damp hair, anticipating some serious mouth action when GBM was complete. At last, pleased with the shape of him, I got down on my knees and tuck him on his non-stick surface into the oven raising my arms to the heavens as I shut the oven door and steamed the glass all but shouting, “live, damn you! Live!”
Okay, now I know this sounds insane, but the second I did that, there was a flash of lightning and the electricity buzzed popped and crackled, and then went out, leaving me in the dark with GBM in his super-heated prison. But never fear, my oven is gas, and while I lay half naked curled on my side with my fingers in my panties, GBM got hotter and hotter and more and more ready, and I swear, his cock got bigger and bigger. Okay, yes, I know that’s the result of baking soda, but you gotta remember, I was in an altered state, I was just this side of Nirvana, I was having a religious experience.
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 always figured I’d be a beneficent creator, so I laid back in front of the oven and let GBM open my legs and run his hot, gingery, very talented tongue all over my juicy landscape. And just when I was writhing and grinding and guiding his ginger head closer to my itch, he pulled away, and I got my first look at that magnificent spicy, bronze cock, raised for the occasion.
The heat of him all but scorched me raw as he shoved his sizzling thickness up inside me and began to hump and thrust, filling the whole kitchen with the spicy, humid scent of sex and ginger – some of it his, but a good bit of it mine. He rode me until I knew I’d have bruises on my ass, and I didn’t care. I wrapped my legs around his floury ribs and met him thrust for thrust, slipping and sliding up and down his well-buttered torso. When I came, he pulled out and straddled me, holding his heavy staff up to my lips. “Eat me. Eat me now,” he said. I barely managed a few delicious licks and sucks down his gingery length before he came in buttery, spicy purts at the back of my throat. “I heard you love cream fillings,” he managed as he exploded again and again until butter and ginger and crème ran down my chin and onto my tits and I sucked and slurped and mewled like a kitten. How could anything taste so good?
“There. That’s better, isn’t it?”
I came to feeling a little singed around the edges and looking up into startling brown eyes. I blinked, not sure but what I was still dreaming, then I blinked again as I took in the total package, looking up into an outdoorsy tanned face with strong cheekbones and a slightly crooked nose that looked as though it might have been broken at one time. There was a full-lipped smile and a dimpled chin and the whole lot was topped off with bed-headed ginger-bronze hair and matching stubble.
“What happened?” I managed through a parched throat.
“You had me really worried there for a minute,” his voice was a toffee rich baritone I could have eaten with a spoon. “I think it was some sort of an electrical surge, or something. I heard it from outside and saw this bright flash of light. When your door was standing open, I feared the worst.”
“I was baking.” I did a quick glance at my oven, then did a double take only to find that the cookie sheet was empty and smoking heavily.
“Mm,” the man said, glancing first at the recipe for gingerbread men on my phone, which now lay on the floor next to me. Then he stood, grabbed a potholder and pulled the empty cookie sheet from the oven with a hearty chuckle. “What happened, did your gingerbread men run away?”
“I guess maybe he did,” I replied, looking around the room, as he offered me his hand and helped me to my feet. “I did threaten to eat him, after all.”
“There was just one. A big one.” It was then that I noticed my state of undress. “Oh god, I’m sorry. It was, well it was really hot in here, so I …”
“It is, hot.” He said, the smile twitching at the corner of his lips as he looked away to give me a little privacy. “Could have been all the heat that caused the electrical surge.”
“I’m sure that was it.” I replied.
“I’m Nick, By the way,” he said, still keeping his eyes averted. “I just moved in next door.”
“Janet,” I replied, zipping my jeans and turning to face him. “Welcome.”
He shot me a quick glance and when he saw that I was decent, he offered his hand. “I was just delivering a little Christmas cheer.” And then he gave me a flirty little grin that made me feel hot all over again. He nodded to the plate of gorgeously perfect gingerbread men setting on the table. “Perhaps these’ll make up for the one that got away.”
“Thank you. I had my mouth set for gingerbread men.” Then I added quickly, “sometimes my imagination runs away with me.” I looked around, half expecting GBM to be peeking out from behind the pantry door. “With the size of the one I made though, I imagine he’d still be gooey in the middle.”
“Gooey in the middle is all right as long as he’s hard where it counts. Oh God, I can’t believe I said that.” He ran a hand through mussed ginger curls.
“Well you can hardly be blamed under the circumstances,” I replied. “What with finding me in my underwear all sprawled on the kitchen floor in front of the oven.”
He looked around. “You don’t suppose he has something sinister in mind, this giant runaway gingerbread man of yours, do you?”
“I did feel a bit like Dr. Frankenstein when I was making him,” I said. “It’s possibly he’s now out on the street running amok.”
“If the villagers all turn up with torches and pitchforks later tonight, we’ll know why,” he said.
“Best be vigilant.” I put on the kettle and nodded him to sit at the flour dusted kitchen table, still wondering what had happened to GBM. “So what do you do for a living, Nick?” I asked.
“I just opened a bakery down the street. While I do seriously delicious cookies and cakes, my specialty is breads.”
“Oh my God,” I dropped into the chair next to him, feeling like I’d just stepped into the Twilight Zone. “You own The Ginger Bread Man?”
He raised his brown eyes to meet my gaze, and a smile split his face. “Yup, that would be me.” He pointed to his hair. “I am the ginger bread man.”

Happy Holidays to all of you, and all the best in 2020! It's been a pleasure blogging for Oh Get a Grip! 

Saturday, December 21, 2019

Come Away With Me, a post by @GiselleRenarde

Thank you for reading my musings over the years. It has been a pleasure bringing my thoughts to you and I'm honoured you've taken time out of your days and nights to read my words.

Today's will be my final post here at The Grip.

Not because I'm done with writing.

Not because I'm done with blogging.

Not because I'm finished sharing my life with you.

I've been writing erotica professionally for nearly 14 years, and I'll continue to do so.  I hope you'll keep reading the words I put out into the world.

I've maintained my Donuts and Desires blog for well over a decade. I'll keep updating that site with new works as they emerge.

I celebrated 10 years on Twitter this September. You can still find me there most days.

In June, I started a daily music blog.  I've published over 200 posts there this year, and I plan to keep at it. Yes, that's right: I'm there every day. I hope you'll join me.

You can also support me on Patreon for access to weekly audio erotica: my stories, my voice.

I'm not going anywhere. I just won't be here. But you can still find me all over the internet.

Go to your local library's website and search the name Giselle Renarde.  See what pops up.

I tell you, I'm all over the map.

And if all else fails... subscribe to my newsletter?

Friday, December 20, 2019

Gay Love and Other Christmas Magic (#newrelease #gayteens #gayromance)

by Cameron D. James (and his YA pen name Dylan James)

Gay Love and Other Christmas Magic

Dylan James

Can Christmas magic reunite two sets of young lovers before the night is over?

It’s been six months since Benjamin finally came out and publicly declared his love for his long-time best friend Jordan. And in those six months, so much has changed. They’ve both moved out, living in the university dorms, and they’re both overloaded with homework.

Although heading home on separate flights for the holiday, they still plan to spend this Christmas—their first as a couple—together, making up for the months of limited boyfriend time. But, when the snowstorm of the century hits New York City, Benjamin is stranded at the airport, with Jordan trapped at school. Unable to get in contact with each other, this very special first Christmas seems destined to be the worst one ever.

While Jordan is devastated, believing Benjamin to have already left the state, Benjamin is determined to get back to the dorms and into the arms of his boyfriend. The perilous trek through New York City is beset with obstacles all along the way, and he worries he’ll never make it back to Jordan. Yet, a little Christmas magic, and help from a few strangers, teach Benjamin not only is the impossible within reach, but that his relationship with Jordan is the best Christmas present of all.

This very special holiday follow-up to the bestselling Gay Love and Other Fairy Tales is a heartwarming journey that uncovers the true meaning of Christmas.

Purchase your ebook copy now:

Purchase your paperback copy now:

Thursday, December 19, 2019

So long, and thanks for all the fish #AsheBarker

There are two problems with this post. The first, it’s a day late, which has become something of a habit, sadly. The second, I am departing from the agreed theme of Fan Fiction.

I have no quarrel with Fan Fiction, it’s just that it’s not really me. And today is not the time. I did toy, briefly, with the idea of a short piece where Christian Grey and Heathcliff meet in a pub to compare notes, but maybe I’ll save that for another occasion.

Instead, and given that this is to be my last post on OGG, I wanted to say a little bit about my journey over the last decade or so.

I used to work in a regeneration company. I was a Director, so I was well paid, I suppose, but it was basically admin. High level, but admin all the same. Signing holiday sheets, dealing with disciplinary issues, financial forecasting, Board reports. Nothing especially inspirational, but beck in 2009, just as the crash started to hit and everyone was worried about their jobs, it seemed important to stay employed. A job’s a job, you stick at it. Right?


I decided otherwise when everyone at my level was handed a sheet of paper with their redundancy entitlement on it. It seemed they were prepared to pay me a year’s salary just to go away. I didn’t need asking twice. Someone else could worry about the paperwork. I took the cheque and I went.

There followed  a couple of lean years. The life of a self-employed regeneration ‘consultant’ is hard. Fierce competition for contracts and clients who wanted their pound of flesh and more besides took their toll eventually. Times were hard. I loved being my own boss, working from home, but I had bills to pay and hardly any income. Reluctantly, I began to look around for a new job.

Then, something happened that set me on another course, one I hadn’t ever considered.

E.L. James published Fifty Shades of Grey

I read it, as did pretty much everyone I knew that summer. I loved the brash, out there BDSM themes, but was less than blown away by some aspects of the book. Did the hero have to be so tortured? And such a dickhead? And why was the heroine so terminally stupid? I decided I could write something better, something with all the raunchy bite of Fifty Shades, but with central characters I’d actually like as my friends.

I sat at my desk and started to write. The result, three months or so later, was the first draft of The Dark Side, my first novel and probably still my favourite. My hero, Nathan Darke, was wealthy and successful, a nice bloke (mostly) who was into BDSM because he liked it. He wasn’t ‘damaged’, just turned on by non-vanilla sex. My heroine, Eva Byrne, had an IQ off the scale, a brilliant musician, mathematician and linguist, she was both fascinated and terrified by the enigmatic Nathan. And he couldn’t keep his hands off her. The attraction between these opposites was electric, and the sexual chemistry explosive.

I wrote it in a sort of vacuum, not knowing if anyone but me would ever read it. Was the writing any good? Did the story work? I knew I liked it, I’d buy it, but would anyone else?

I got lucky first time. Totally Bound liked it and offered me a publishing contract. I’ll never forget the joy when I received an email asking me to send the rest of the manuscript to one of their editors. Nor the delight with my very first book cover. The rest is history. A hundred or so titles and three or four publishers later, I think of myself as a ‘proper’ writer. I can live off my royalties. 

Yee ha!

I really knew I’d made it as a credible writer in my genre when Lisabet Serai contacted me to ask if I wanted to join the small but perfectly formed bunch of authors who contribute to Oh Get A Grip every month. I was flattered and delighted to accept. I’ve loved writing pieces on many and various themes, topics I probably wouldn’t have thought of myself. It’s been a blast, but even the best things come to an end.

So, I am bowing out at the end of 2019. This will be my last post and I wanted to say a huge thank you to Lisabet for inviting me in, and to the other OGG contributors whose wit and wisdom has inspired me month after month. I’ll miss the routine of sitting down to write a few hundred words on some truly wonderful topics, but I know the blog is continuing and will be in safe hands.

Thanks also go to the readers who have dropped in to read my ramblings. I hope I amused you, perhaps inspired you occasionally, and managed not to bore you.

My sincere best wishes to you all, for Christmas, for 2020, and for all the years to come.

So long, and thanks for all the fish.


Tuesday, December 10, 2019

Sex, Steam, and Snow--"Meltdown"

I think this had better be my last month on the Grip. I've been repeating myself, struggling to think of new approaches to themes, and then rambling on too long when I think of something. This time, on my final promo post, I'm still going to go on too long, but with a complete story that I may only leave up through December. It appears in my collection Wild Rides.

"Meltdown" is a very seasonal story, not about any holidays, but feeling exceptionally appropriate right now since I've already coped with eighteen inches of snow from a single storm this year. Too bad I don't have access to a real sauna like the one in the story, or, even better, to characters like the ones here in complex couplings. Then again, since I've created them, I guess I do know them, and can sweat in the steam and roll in the snow with them better than anyone else could.

Fair warning: A friend has mentioned I seem to specialize in stories with characters who are already in relationships, or at least have histories with each other. That's certainly true with this piece, and in fact I've written two previous stories about one of the couples. I've found that many fans of romance don't like to bother with established relationships, so if that's your opinion--well, try this one anyway.        

Sacchi Green

“Some piece of work you got there.” Sigri jerked her head toward the door. Or maybe she was just flicking a trickle of sweat out of one eye, since her hands were occupied with hammering a rod of red-hot iron into submission. She’d been wearing goggles but shed them when we came in. “Ought to keep a shorter tether on your toys, Roby.”
It was just as well Maura had already flounced out in a snit when she realized that we weren’t going to focus on her—although Maura’s every movement was far too elegant to be termed “flouncing.” Even when she’d knocked over a short trollish creature built using trowel hands and garden-rake teeth, tried to right it, got those long auburn waves that had sold ten million crates of shampoo tangled in another contraption, and knocked that one over, too, her taut ass was as elegant as it was enticing. She could have been modeling those stretch ski pants for a fashion spread in Vogue. Probably had been, in fact, when she’d been here in New Hampshire in October for an autumn leaves photo shoot. Now, in January, the outfit suited the snow coming down outside.
Sigri’s boi, Rif, edged deftly among the metal sculptures, righting the ones Maura had knocked over, touching some of the others as though they were friends. Or lovers. In their shadows, her slight body and pale short hair were nearly invisible. She hadn’t spoken a word since I’d been here. Now, at a gesture from Sigri, she followed Maura out of the barn.
Maura needed to be the center of attention. Someplace deep inside being in the spotlight terrified her, but she still craved it. She didn’t know how lucky she was that Sig and I had been ignoring her, catching up on old times and our lives over the past twenty years. She’d brought us together for her own convoluted purpose and pushed me over the edge of anger into rage once I knew what she was up to. Could have been part of her plan; Maura’s plans were never straightforward. I didn’t care whether she was listening outside the door or not.
“I’m not her goddamned keeper!”
“No? Somebody sure ought to be, and I get the impression she thinks it’s you.”
I perched gingerly on the seat of an antique hay baler stripped of its wheels, waiting its turn to be cannibalized into parts for the scrap metal beasts and demons Sig sold to tourists and the occasional high-end craft gallery. “Not a chance. Don’t tell me she hasn’t been trying you on for size.”
Sig concentrated more intently than necessary on the metal she was bending across the edge of her anvil. “‘Trying’ is the word, all right.” Her hammer came down hard. “The magazine crew was doing a photo shoot down the road with my neighbor’s big black Percheron mare close by and sugar maples in the background. Rif hung around watching, kind of dazzled by the glitz, I guess, so when Maura asked about the weird iron critters out front here, Rif dragged her to the barn to see more. I knew you’d worked with her—Rif keeps some of those fashion mags around for some strange reason, and I don’t deny taking a look now and then. Just to see whether your name’s in the small print as photographer, of course. Not for those skinny-ass models.” That brazenly lecherous grin was just the way I remembered it.
“Yeah, Maura has a thing for sharp scary things, the weirder the better. So I guess one thing led to another?”
“One thing led to—zip! Nothing but some crazy maze of ‘yes…no…wait, maybe…’ Does she have any fucking idea what she wants? Won’t negotiate, won’t submit, won’t bend, likes to be hurt but mustn’t be marked anyplace it would show when she models bikinis. I tell you, Roby, I don’t have the energy anymore for games like that. No topping from the bottom.” One more hammer blow and a curse, and then the warped metal was cast into a tank of water where it hissed as it cooled. From what little I’d glimpsed, I didn’t think it had turned out as Sig intended.
“She doesn’t know what she wants until she gets it,” I said. “Looks like just now she thinks she wants it from you.” And she has the gall to want me to show you how to give it to her. I’d given in to Maura’s pleas to come back with her to the Mount Washington Valley in New Hampshire for a long weekend visit with my old friend Sigri, which did sound tempting, and then just as we arrived at the farmhouse, Maura had told me casually that she wished I’d teach Sigri the right way to hurt her. I had never come closer to hurting her in all the wrong ways.
“Screw it. I wouldn’t have bothered at all if Rif hadn’t been all for it.” Sig pulled off her heavy leather apron and straddled a wooden bench. “Why’d she drag you here, then? Not that I’m not glad to see you. Every time I see your name on one of those photo spreads in a nature magazine I think about getting in touch, but somehow I never get around to it.” She considered me for a moment, the fire from the forge casting a red glow over her square, sweaty face and muscular arms. “Good thing you moved on from the fashion ads racket. Your stuff is too good for that.”
“The fashion biz pays better.” I didn’t quite meet Sig’s gaze. “I still do it once in a while.”
“You didn’t come when Miss Fancypants threw a fit last October and insisted they had to get you because she wouldn’t work with anybody else. So why now?”
“I was in Labrador on assignment from the Sierra Club magazine! And next month I head for Patagonia. In any case, I do have my limits. The guy they had here was good and needed the work.” I looked her full in the face—a face I’ve seen in my dreams through the years more often than I’d like to admit. “This location is a big draw, though. So many memories…”
“Ohhh yeah!” Her smile this time was slow, reflective, and genuine. I wondered what she was remembering. My second most vivid image from those days was Sigri’s fine broad, muscular butt in tight jeans twenty feet above me on the face of Cathedral Ledge.
We’d been casual friends, members of a fluctuating group of dykes renting this very same farmhouse for a few weeks in the summer while we hiked and climbed, and again in the winter as a ski lodge. Both of us usually had a girlfriend in tow, but when it came to rock climbing, we trusted each other and no one else. Even on easy climbs with iron bolts not more than twenty-five feet apart, when you take the lead with a belaying rope and call "Watch me," you damned sure need to know that when your partner on the other end answers "Go for it, I've got you," she has absolutely got you, her end of the rope firmly anchored, and will hold on if your grip fails or a rock edge breaks away and you start to plummet down the unforgiving cliff face.
We’d only admitted to figuring in each other’s fantasies back then as mead companions, playing at being Viking warriors ravaging villages side by side as we bore off not-unwilling maidens. She still wore her yellow hair in that thick Viking braid down her back; I couldn’t tell in this unreliable light whether there were silver strands mixed in with the gold. My own dark cropped hair was still more pepper than salt, but not by much.
“Well, you’re here now, and I’m glad. No need to let that glitzy bitch spoil things.” She put away her tools and adjusted the damper on the furnace to let the fire die down. “Think we could make her sleep out here in the barn?”
“Not unless we made it seem like her own idea. Which isn’t impossible.”
“Never mind for now. Rif’ll show you your room, and once you’re settled in, we’ll eat dinner. She’ll have it the oven by now.”
“Rif sounds like a real treasure.”
“More than I deserve, that’s for sure,” Sig muttered, almost too low for me to hear. She made for the door. I followed, admiring that rear view the way I used to when no one was looking. Just a bit broader now, but even more muscular since she’d turned to blacksmithing. The front view had been admirable, too, but harder to enjoy covertly. Back then butch buddies did not openly ogle each other’s chests, and things hadn’t changed in that department. I could tell now that it was still remarkable, even hidden behind the leather apron shielding her from any runaway sparks or splinters of metal.
Snow was building up fast along the short path from the barn to the house, piling the existing banks along the sides even higher. Good thing we didn’t have to drive anywhere tonight. Maura had damned well better not make me wish we could get away.
Dinner was maple bourbon-glazed salmon with hot cornbread, mushroom risotto, and tossed salad with pecans and dried cranberries. Perfection. Rif was perfection, too. Maybe too perfect. Her cooking was excellent, and her serving of it—well, let’s just say she epitomized service in more ways than one while managing to sit for long enough to eat her own food. Quiet, efficient, never speaking without being spoken to, anticipating our needs, all with downcast eyes, at least whenever I glanced at her. Just the same, I could feel her gaze on me from time to time, and I was pretty sure she was sizing up Maura, too.
Maura was sizing up Rif right back, maybe taking notes on how to appeal to Sigri. At least she was putting on a pretty good demure act. Sig and I were wallowing in nostalgia, swapping recollections of cliffs we’d climbed, mountains we’d summited, ice walls we’d conquered, and après-ski orgies we’d enjoyed the hell out of.
Finally, when we were about done eating our desserts of individual pumpkin custards and sipping Rif’s excellent coffee, Sig turned to Maura like a good host. “How about you, Maura? Done any climbing?”
“Oh yes, I’ve been on some jaunts with Roby out in the Sierras.” She gave that trademark toss of her head that made strands of chestnut mane drift across one or another of her perfect breasts. Her navy silk shirt was conservative but clingy in all the right places. “You know how it is, though, hiking with somebody so much older, having to take things slower than you’d like.”
Sig shot me a “what the fuck!” look.
Okay, Maura was asking for it. I smiled, genuinely amused, but also irritated as hell. “Got a mouth on her, hasn’t she. Don’t worry. It’s just that insults are the best Maura can manage as foreplay.”
“So how does that work out for her?”
Maura’s glare in my direction was weakened by her belated realization that Sigri was just as old as I was.
“Depends on the circumstances. The last time she called me too old, she was already spread-eagled, tied to the four corners of a tent frame, and demanding to be gagged.”
Rif’s eyes flashed wide open for just a second. Sig nodded judiciously. “I can see getting a little something out of that.”
“What I got was a bent tent frame. What Maura got was my mark in a place even a bikini won’t reveal.”
Maura apparently decided to go with the flow. “Isn’t it cute,” she said with a sultry smile, “the way old folks’ memories get so fuzzy?”
Sigrid leaned forward and looked from Maura to me. “More foreplay?”
“Well, she seems to think so. It’d be cute if it weren’t so juvenile.”
Sig almost asked another question, thought better of it, pushed back her chair, and stood up. “Rif, how about you kids go take a walk while Roby and I have a nice chat about grown-up matters.”
“Is it still snowing?” But I knew perfectly well that it was. “They could just stroll around inside the barn, and Maura could decide which sharp-edged, long-toothed demon there she’d most like to fuck her in her dreams.”
Maura managed to stifle a smartass retort. Rif stifled a smile, then went to stand beside Sig with head meekly bent, speaking softly, before leading Maura away. Sigri and I moved into the cozy living room to sit by the fire and savor our after-dinner port, like any Old Country lords of the manor. Except that, instead of port, we savored excellent home-brewed mead a friend had given Sig and Rif at Christmas.
While Sig bent to pour a little of the golden elixir into my genuine bull-horn cup set in its own wrought iron stand, I felt her closeness with a jolt that startled me. In the old days, no matter what girl I was with, if Sig was in the room, I was more aware of her than of anyone else. Comradeship, sure, but I couldn’t deny that there’d been an intensely sensual element as well. Now she was so close I could have reached out and touched her breast, guarded now only by flannel instead of the leather apron.
“Your work?” I switched my gaze quickly to the elaborate Celtic swirls of the cup stand. “And this?” I ran a finger over the spiraling dragon shape carved into the horn cup in exquisite detail.
“The metalwork, sure. The carving is all Rif’s, though. She’s an incredible artist, hands steady, fingers strong and flexible, every stroke precise…”
Sig might or might not have seen the slight quirk of my eyebrow. The reddening of her face might or might not have been due to a sudden flare-up of the fire. She went on in hurry, “She did these in the tenth-century Norwegian Ringerike style, but she can do just about anything.”
“She’s really amazing, isn’t she? I hope Maura isn’t giving her a rough time.” If Rif had been dazzled by the October photo shoot and “all for” some D/s play between Sig and Maura, it would be a shame if Maura’s rudeness shattered her fantasies.
“Don’t worry. Rif can take care of herself, and then some. She—” Sig shook her head. “Well, enough about that. Tell me more about Maura. Did she really let you make a mark on her precious skin?”
“You might put it that way. It’s not just vanity. Her agency takes out insurance on every inch of her, and at the slightest marking, the agency collects and she gets fired. It’s a clause from the days before everything and anything could be photoshopped, but they still demand it. Sometimes she really, really wants to be marked and hurt, to feel like a real person instead of a very expensive commodity. Even dreams of a scar on the face that the world sees so it will be all her own again. But she doesn’t want any of that enough to give up the life she has, and she trusts me to take her almost as far as she wants to go without going over the edge.”
Sigri was shaking her head by the end of my revelations. I picked up my drinking horn and took a sip of mead. “As you said, that’s enough about that. Too much, in fact.” Another sip. “Hey, this is really fine stuff! Smooth and intense. Wish we’d had something this good back in the day.”
“Nah, we’d’ve been too dumb to appreciate it.” She sank down on the couch by my side, took a longer sip than I had, licked her lips, and looked slantwise at me. “We were too dumb to appreciate a hell of a lot.”
“No kidding.” I raised my horn. Hers met it halfway. “Here’s to our wasted youth.”
A few more sips of mead later, I was on the verge of blurting out a maudlin confession, but Sig beat me to it.
“That pool.” She looked into the fireplace, not at me. “That day…”
I finished for her. “We bushwhacked off the Slippery Brook trail, discovered that huge gorgeous pool, and went skinny-dipping. The goddess place, I called it, and you told me not to go all woo-woo.”
“But you did. And you scrambled naked back up that rock to where we’d left our stuff before we jumped off, got your camera, and yammered on about how the rocks on each side of the little waterfall looked like spread thighs, and the knobby stone in between with moss on it was the pussy, and the—the water of life, I think you said, was pouring into the sacred pool.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s what I said. And you dived into the deepest part and came up with handfuls of pebbles that you kept throwing at me while I tried to get pictures from just the right angle.”
“Well, maybe I was as bad as your Maura at foreplay when it came to somebody like you. Girly types, no problem, but you? I figured you’d either laugh in my face or punch it if I made a move.”
I shook my head in self-disgust. “And I just kept on yammering to keep from jumping you and getting slammed for it. Talk about dumb kids! When you got fed up and left, I was desperate for the chance to jerk off, fantasizing about what it would feel like to be in a clinch with you.”
“Hah! I only made it to that other stream coming out of the beaver pond before my hand was in my pants. If you’d caught up with me then…”
I reached for the decanter of mead, poured us each a little more, and raised my horn again. “Well, here’s to the years of steamy dreams inspired by the sight of you naked in that pool.” Just as well not to reveal that I’d snapped a picture of her from behind that day, right when her muscular body arched, butt high, into the dive that got her those pebbles to throw at me. I’d carried a print of the photo around with me until I literally wore it out.
We were half facing each other by that time, up close. Somehow my left hand had reached over to her nearest thigh, and her right hand had done the same to me.
“You know that time when we arm wrestled a couple of nights later?” Sig’s grip on my thigh tightened. “The only time you ever beat me? Shouldn’t count as a win. I only lost because I was so distracted remembering how you’d looked naked, like a tougher, stronger version of those nymphs in old paintings. But I paid for that round of drinks anyway.”
“No kidding? I thought I only won because I was so mad at myself for thinking of you in pretty much the same way, and the adrenaline gave me extra strength.”
“How about—”
“A rematch? Not a chance. I’ve been hiking and toting my camera gear over some pretty rough terrain, but you’ve been hammering iron. No contest.” I set my cup back on its stand on an end table to free up a hand so I could grip her bicep for emphasis—and for something more. But Rif’s dragon carved into the horn seemed to be looking right at me. I paused. “Rif…” I said uncertainly, and as though the name worked a magic spell, the outside door opened and Rif herself came in. A brief gust of cold air blew right through the entrance hall, past the dining room, and into our cozy fireside haven.
She came right to Sigri, looked for a moment as though she were going to kneel before her, then thought better of it and just bent her head. “Excuse me, but Maura thinks it’s getting too cold in the barn with the forge turned so low, and anyway, I started up the fire in the sauna hut a while ago, like you said I could, and it should be getting nearly hot enough.”
“You still use the sauna? Great!” I hadn’t moved my hand from Sig’s thigh, so I gave her a squeeze, which she returned with interest. “All those rocks we dragged up from the river and the logs we cut!”
“We’ve upgraded it a bit since then, but yeah, the same old place. We use it quite a bit, and this time I’m pretty sure Rif thinks it’ll be the easiest way to get Maura’s clothes off.”
Maura herself came in just in time to hear that last part. “The fastest way, at least,” she said companionably, and from the look she exchanged with Rif, I figured they were up to something. If it got us all naked in the sauna, it was definitely a step in the right direction. And if they were in it together, I didn’t need to worry. Right?
“Upgraded” was an understatement. Besides the structural improvements, there were birchwood benches with armrests carved like voluptuous mermaids, leering gargoyle heads at the ends of the towel bars, and the coatracks where we hung our clothes looked like giant sets of antlers with minidragons twining through them. Not that I noticed all these details right away in the shock of coming into intense heat out of the cold and snow outside and then the delirious distraction of such a variety of naked bodies.
Maura’s delectable form was, of course, familiar to me, far more than it was to viewers of her photos even in bikini ads. Rif’s slim body seemed more graceful in the freedom of nakedness than it had clothed; she could easily have been a sprite or nymph out of mythology, and her open smile and gleaming eyes gave her face a kind of elfin beauty.
Sigri…I’d seen her naked often enough in this same sauna years ago, but now I hardly dared look at her, and when I did, a flush of heat beyond anything the fire pit could produce swept through me. We’d both changed over the years, Sig with somewhat more flesh and a lot more muscle, me with some shifting of what flesh and muscle I had in spite of gym workouts when I’d lived in the city and strenuous trekking once I’d switched my focus to wilderness themes; but I’d never needed so intensely to get my hands on her. And in her. I could already feel her eyes on me, sharing that hunger.
But we both glanced toward Rif, who stood between Maura’s spread legs gazing down at the shaved, smooth pussy on display. “That’s the mark?” Rif said. “What does it mean?”
Sig went to look, too, with a lingering stroke across my flank as she passed me. I knew what they saw on that triangle of smooth skin just low enough to be covered by the skimpiest bikini bottom; four tiny curving arcs, not quite meeting, formed a delicate circle like a secret mandala. Maura just smiled mysteriously and leaned far back, her long hair flowing downward, her face clean of makeup, beads of sweat beginning to show between her breasts, looking more beautifully alive than any fashion ad could ever show.
We were all sweating by then. Rif took down two of the birch switch bundles hanging on the wall, laid one across Maura’s lap, then approached Sigri with bowed head. “May I be of service?” she asked in a low, formal tone. Sigri looked toward me, shrugged, and took a position facing the wall with her hands braced against it. Maura was suddenly there beside me with her own bundle of switches, gesturing at me to do the same. I went along with it. We’d done this same sort of thing in the old days, ratcheting it up well beyond the traditional therapeutic usage. The idea of letting Maura use the switches on me was a bit disturbing, but at least it might distract me from the urge to shove Sigri hard against the wall and rub myself against her.
Apparently Rif knew all about the ratcheting-up part, and so did Maura. The sting of the pliant birch twigs went up and down my back, lingered on my ass, then traveled down my legs and up again, over and over, more stimulating the harder they struck. All I could think of beyond my own throbbing backside was how red Sigri’s must be, and how hot to the touch.
Sweat ran down my face, between my breasts, along my spine, between my ass cheeks, and down my inner thighs, although I couldn’t be sure how much of that last substantial trickle was sweat and how much wild arousal. Any second I would pull back, turn around, get to Sig—but just before I tensed to move, another movement distracted me—Rif darting between our arched bodies and the wall. Suddenly a rope was pulling me toward Sig and winding around her as well while Maura shoved me from behind so that I faced Sig and Rif tugged at the crossed rope ends so that Sig faced me.
We had to clutch at each other to keep from stumbling, and then the clutching seemed like such a good idea that I dug my fingers into the clenched muscles of her butt while she yanked me by my shoulder blades hard up against her big breasts. Resistance was so futile, it ceased to exist.
The girls wrapped more of the rope around us, but we scarcely noticed. Sigri’s mouth tasted of fine mead, and mine must have, too, but however intoxicating that contact was, there were other places that needed tasting. I licked sweat from the hollow of her throat and then down between and around her breasts while she kneaded my back and as far along my birch-switched ass as she could reach until she pushed my torso back enough to work her tongue and teeth down my chest to my belly.
Standing ceased being an option. The rope loosened, and a burst of steam swept over us. Someone, probably Rif, had poured water on the white-hot stones of the fire pit. As the steam cloud rose upward, Sig and I rolled on the floor, where there was slightly more air, first one on top, then the other, one knee thrusting and sliding between the other’s sweaty thighs until the positions reversed. Finally Sig growled “Dammit, Roby!” and held me down with her greater weight. What the heck, she was the host here. I let her big hand work into where I needed it most, arching my hips to meet her thrusts with equal force. A wave that had been building for over twenty years swelled, crested, and crashed down over me, through me.
In its ebb, still quivering and scarcely able to breathe, I swung above her, grabbed onto her wide hips, and went at her with tongue and mouth and teeth and, for all I know, nose and chin until she was as spent and breathless as I was. With all the meager strength we had left, we pulled each other upright, hands sliding along our sweaty bodies, and made for the door.
The snow was powdery, deep, and searingly cold on our superheated flesh. Just what we needed. We rolled together, still hot where our bodies pressed together, melting mystical runes into the white surface touched by our backs. When we finally chased each other back into the lingering heat of the sauna hut, Maura and Rif passed us, laughing, on their way out. Whatever they’d been up to, which wasn’t hard to guess, they’d clearly had a fine time.
Later, dressed again and heading back toward the house, Maura tugged me aside along the path to the barn. “Don’t you want to know which demon I picked for my dream lover?”
The others followed us into the dim space, now only slightly warmed by the embers in the forge and lit only by a single naked light bulb by the door. Maura proceeded along rows of strange figures made even eerier by the shadows. She paused once in front of a creature with a horned helmet, long braid made of straw-colored rope and sled-runner arms holding a shield made from a woodstove door embossed with a dragon silhouette, considered for a moment, then shrugged and moved on.
She stopped at last before a figure in the corner, limbs constructed from tent poles, one hand a saw-toothed adze blade used in ice climbing, and the other with a single digit, seven thick inches of spiral-machined, nickel-plated steel rod. She touched the tip of her own delicate finger to the tip of that rod where four tiny curving arcs of metal, not quite meeting, formed a delicate circle like a secret mandala.
“I might as well stick with this one,” she said casually.
“An ice screw! I knew it!” Sigri muttered behind us. Rif tugged at her gently and led her away, maybe thinking Maura and I would have some kind of tender interlude.
What actually happened was that Maura said, almost as casually, “I got a call yesterday from my agent, right before you picked me up at the airport. She said I got that movie role I was after. Not a lead, just the “bad girl” character, but terrific exposure. We’ll be shooting mostly on location in France and Switzerland.”
“Good going, kid,” I said, and put a comradely arm across her shoulders. We didn’t have anything close to what Sigri and Rif had, and that was fine with me. Maura three or four times a year was about all I could handle, and if she really needed me in between, she knew that I’d come. Even from Patagonia.