Erotic Microfiction: The Joys of Waiting

This is a piece of erotic microfiction designed to be read by adults, 18-years old and older. If you're under the age of 18, please leave this page right now. Thank you. 

 

 

Kassie hated to wait and Darren knew this. She was always in a hurry, always racing from one thing to another, from one work meeting, to a spin class, to a friend's Pampered Chef event. Kassie had been born with natural speed. She was always going 200 miles per hour to wherever life took her. Except for times like now, except for times when she forced herself to, well, lay back and accept the joy of waiting.

Darren had tied Kassie's wrists to the bedpost with her favorite violet silk scarves. Kassie even asked for the leather strap to bite down on. The week had been busy and stressful and it was about time, she thought, to visit D and have him do that thing he did.

Darren didn't sleep around but he kept the option open, especially since Kass was always unsure. One minute she wanted them to move into together, the next, she was "taking a break" and wanting the freedom to see other people. In the end, she always called back and asked to come over, usually when things in her life were spiraling out of control.

"You free D?"

"I'm never free girl, you know that."

"I know. You know what I mean. Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Tease me."

Kass always sounded desperate. She always sounded like if he didn't tell her it was okay, that he was free, that the world would come to an end.

Whenever she came over, it was the same old thing, the same lame chit chat, the same smoking of blunts before the preliminaries began in earnest. D knew the game, he let it play out, he didn't love Kass, but he liked her, he liked her enough that he wanted to make her happy, even though he knew she wasn't going to stick around.

It started down at her ankle, just inside her ankle right next to the heel, with a long slow wet kiss. D knew the benefits of dramatic effect, of taking his time, of lingering, of moving forward, just when Kass was getting antsy.

From the ankle, D took his time, working his way up Kass's leg, enjoying each taste along the way. She squirmed with each new kiss, she rolled this way and that with each knew trace of his tongue. D held her leg still and took his time. He worked his way up her sculpted calf, enjoying how smooth and taut her skin was. Each taste he savored, each kiss he lingered, in the back of his mind knowing that each one could be the last. With Kass, he never knew what to expect.

He flicked his tongue behind Kass's knee, feeling the soft tender skin there and goose bumps quickly spread all over her body. D could hear Kassie bite down on her leather strap and stifle a moan. He smiled in spite of himself as he took his first good, deep long kiss on her thigh. From here on out, every kiss, every touch, every lick, would just heighten Kass's arousal, D could feel it in her body, in the way her muscle's got tense.

Still he took his time, every kiss as slow as the previous kiss, every lick, as though he were licking the last of his favorite mint chocolate chip from a bowl. He took his time, slowly, savoring every gooses bump as he worked his way slower and slower up Kass's inner thigh. He was getting closer now, closer to the finish line, closer to giving Kass what she wanted.

Kass kept her eyes closed, feeling the tears well up inside as each kiss, as each flick of the tongue worked its way up the inside of her leg. From the first kiss on her ankle time stopped. She was no longer in a hurry. With each kiss, with each flick of the tongue, she forgot more and more about all the different things she had to do in the days and weeks ahead. As D slowly worked his spell on her, taking his time with her leg, one kiss, one soft feathery lick at a time, Kass gave in, gave up all the things she rushed through life trying to do. Kass learned to appreciate the joys of waiting.

Copyright, M.R. Caffery, 2009. All rights reserved.

Erotic Microfiction: Favorites

This is a piece of erotic microfiction designed to be read by adults, 18 years old and over. If you're under the age of 18, please leave this page now. Thank you. 

 

 

 

Diggs was a breast man, plain and simple. He liked 'em big, but not too big, and firm. They had to be firm. He liked to plant his thick full lips square on to a woman's breasts and kiss them and kiss them and kiss them again. Over and over again.

There were ass men and leg men, to be sure. Not Diggs. He was a breast man. Give him a nice set of titties and he was in heaven. He thought about all the different women he'd been with, all the different breasts, all the slightly different shapes. Big was the one thing they had in common. He didn't go under a D-cup.

Women told him they liked the way he grabbed them, they liked that he didn't treat their bodies as if they were made out of glass or fragile. Breasts were the best Diggs though, pliable, squeezable, soft, once he got his large powerful hands on them he didn't want to let go. He loved watching the woman he was with tilt her head back, her mouth opening just so, to let out a moan of pleasure. He loved the way pert erect nipples felt under his fingers as he brushed his fingers across them. There was something to the way the skin and the areola came together, that boundary between the one and the other that Diggs loved tracing his tongue over.

"Two things in life you need son, air and pussy."

Diggs' dad had 27 kids. There were 18 different moms. Diggs never understood how some of the moms had been repeat customers. Diggs' dad didn't care much for women, but he loved him some pussy. If he could have had pussy, just pussy, if he'd been able to grow it somehow or make it himself, maybe order it over the Internet, without a woman attached, he'd have had it made. All he'd do would be to knock it out, day after day, after day.

Tessa shifted about in the sheets. It was still dark out but Diggs was up. He needed to shower. He needed to get ready for work. To look at him one expected him to be a model, tall, chiseled, with a jaw that looked like it had been drawn on for a comic book super hero. His bald head was sleek and smooth. The only thing that gave him away was his rough hands, hands that did work everyday, construction, big powerful, crooked hands with calluses, hands that had seen the world, helped shape it and been shaped by it.

Diggs stared at Tessa's hair, shoulder length, curly, all natural. Brown with blond highlights. She was tiny, compared to him. When she took him all the way inside her he was afraid he'd split her in two or something. But she just took over. That was a few years back now and he remembered it as if it had just happened. Those breasts, almost too big for her small frame, right there, where he could play with them, where he could bite them, where he could suck them. All the while, she dug in and rode him, rode him hard, rode him like there was no tomorrow.

"We only get one chance at life D." Tessa would say this, sometimes, after the sex, her voice trailing off in the distance as she finished as if she'd transported herself somewhere, far away.

She left fingernail scars in his back. When she bit him, she bit him hard. There was nothing about Tessa that wasn't intense. She wanted everything, to the last drop. When she took him in her hand and brought his dick to her lips he felt shivers go all over his body before she did anything, just remember the last time and the time before that. To the last drop.

Her first day back at work was today. He'd wanted to talk to her about it last night, he wasn't sure what he'd say, but he wanted to try. She just "hushed" him. She grabbed his hands, forced them on her chest and took him, right there, on the couch. It had been their first time in a while. They way she stared into his eyes. Diggs wouldn't forget it.

He showered. The hot water hitting his face felt good. If he'd waited another hour the complex's hot water would be all used up. He wasn't a morning person, not naturally, but he'd made himself into one simply because he loved hot water more than he loved sleeping in.

"You got to know the right time to leave 'em, to avoid too much drama. Goddamn they'll give you drama if you don't look out!"

Diggs' dad was the master of the good-bye. He was there one moment, all smiles and love and gone the next. It was his way. Love 'em and leave 'em and be gone to the next adventure. Diggs' mom wasn't the talkative type, at least about his dad.

"Your dad did what he did. He lived how he lived. Not much more there is to say, really."

The shower had to end, as all good things did. Diggs finished drying off and headed back to the bedroom. Tess still was lying on her side but he could tell she was awake.

"Do you love me?"

He stood in the door, admiring her perfect bare back, the way it made its way down to her hips and her beautiful, tight ass, and those short, but muscular legs. He could smell her, even across the room, even while working on a job site. He could feel his hands on her hips, wherever he was, whatever he was doing, as she bore down on him, working him harder and harder, staring at him the way she did, curly bangs falling down in front of her eyes, her eyes staring out form behind them like a tiger, looking through the tall grass.

"Of course I do T. I'm not going nowhere.."

She didn't cry. She never cried, least, not where he could see her. She was just still for a while. He thought about the time, a year ago, when it was getting serious, how he had her in the hall, up against the wall, and then the were in the living room, knocking a lamp over, and then, they were in the kitchen, using the kitchen table. She made him stop, just stop, right there in the middle of everything, to ask him, to ask him if he'd be there, no matter what.

He was pissed. He was confused. He didn't know what to say. Hell, he was moments away from coming all up inside her and here she was busting it, getting mad serious.

"Will you be there? No matter what?"

Those eyes. He stared into those eyes. He felt so much. His throat closed up.

"Yeah. I mean, yeah. Of course."

"No matter what?"

"No matter what."

The alarm went off. Tess stirred and stretched, like the cat she was. She'd been through a lot in life, Diggs wasn't going to be one other thing. He watched her stretch.

"First day back. I hope it's a good one baby." He walked across the room got on the bed behind her and kissed her neck. She reached out and grabbed his hand, led it to her chest, to the spot where her right breast had been. Then, she slowly rolled over, revealing that she no longer had her left breast either.

Diggs kissed her softly on the lips and took her all in. He brushed her curly bangs out of her face. He thought he saw the trace of a tear but he knew his T didn't cry. She was tough like that. So, he teared up for her instead.

Diggs. Diggs was a breast man.

Copyright, M.R. Caffery, 2009. All rights reserved.

Erotic Microshort: Murphy's Law

The following is a piece of erotic microfiction and is intended for readers 18 and older. If you're under the age of 18 please leave this page now. Thank you.

 

"I'm sorry, but, it must be a malfunction." Sally's voice changed. Big time. She wasn't talking in her sultry, sexy tone as she had before. She know sounded very official, very neutral, very, well, robotic.

"A wha?!" Jerry's voice was tense. The hotel room had been comfortable, in that computer programmed perfect comfortable kind of way. Now though, he could feel himself starting to sweat.

"I've notified maintenance. They're sending someone up right now. It happens sometimes."

"Maintenance? You what? Oh Christ! I need to be meeting my wife at a dinner party in a half an hour!"

"I'm sorry Mr. Murphy. These things happen. If you'll just relax..."

"Relax? Relax? How the fuck can I relax when my dick is caught in your, your, pussy? I mean, I thought this sort of thing was safer! That's why I came to you people, er, things."

Unit A8731, commonly known in the Lambert Adult Services Corporation as Sally ('Mustang' Sally to some, for the rough and ready way she was programmed to ride her customers) didn't take offense. She wasn't the newest of the new, though, even now, she had weathered well. Her model series, the Elegante Psuedohuman Adult Pleasure System had been ahead of it's time. With proper maintenance it was expected she'd be able to serve another four or five years until her systems needed a major overhaul. At that point the cost of upgrading would be simply too much compared to buying one of the new models coming out of Korea or China.

"These maintenance guys, they'll know what to do, right? They can fix this?"

"I believe so. I believe a piece of my vaginal wall molding simply came loose and has trapped your erect member inside me. I don't think it will lead to any permanent damage. The maintenance crew should be here shortly. I'm going to go into sleep mode now. It will make it easier for them to assist you when they arrive."

"Permanent damage?" Jerry was really sweating now. He knew the new adult entertainment systems were supposed to be much safer than human prostitutes. Need to knock one out, you go to the advanced 'toys'. With a bleach solution douche between customers followed by a saline flush they were STD free and programmed to perform even the most intricate acts of the fabled Kama Sutra. He hadn't expected anything to go wrong. He just wanted to hit it quick, get some stress out from work, and be on his way. After thirteen years of marriage his wife had never let him hit it from behind, doggie style. He missed it, remembering back to his wanton lustful youth at how good it felt to get in behind and just pound it out.

Jerry hadn't felt this awkward since his first time. The room's subdued lighting, the Barry White, playing in the background, it was all perfect. Sally was great too. That was her name, but, he knew, she didn't really have a name, not a real one anyway. As tense and scared as he was, he marvelled at how realistic she was, how close to life her skin was. Even know, with the malfunction, her body, if it was the right word to use, acted like a human body, to the extent that was possible. Instead of being 'wet' as she had been when they'd started, she was totally dry now, dry, metallic and cold.

Jerry wondered what his wife would think. It wasn't really cheating, he comforted himself. Cheating involved another person, not a machine. The permanent damage thing though...that was unexpected.

The door opened behind him. He couldn't turn his head to see really but he heard someone coming in the room.

"Mr. Murphy, I'm Ted Kozwalzki, this is my partner in crime, Eddie Roybal. We're here to help you out of your, umm, situation."

The two maintenance men stood on either side of the bed, looking things over. Jerry still felt tense but figured things would be getting better now that help was here.

"What we're gonna' do here Mr. Murphy is we're gonna' aim for a double penetration. I'm gonna' go in with some clamps and a flashlight to see if I can peel the molding all the way back, giving your cock a chance to come on out. You may feel the cold metal of the clamps along your shaft. Not to worry. I'm not going to be grabbing you or pinching you or nothing. Got it? You ok?" Ted, Jerry figured in a case like this everyone was on a first name basis, slapped him on the back. He chewed his gum and slapped on some vinyl gloves. His salt and pepper hair gave him an air of authority and experience. He knelt down along Jerry and turned on his flashlight.

"This sort of thing, umm, happen often?"

"No sir. Not too often. But it happens. As with any technology, there's breakdowns, unexpected glitches." Eddie smiled, reassuringly. "Some piece of work, eh Mr. Murphy? They just don't make 'em like good ole' Sally here anymore." He reached out and slapped her, er, it, on its bare ass.

"I mean, really, feel that skin. That's good stuff. I still think this was a better pathway than the new synth stuff they're using now. Softer. More pliable. Takes more damage, true, but it feels so real. And that pussy, that's just something else right there."

Eddie bent over and took a conspiratorial tone. "These pussies were the first ever to be designed to custom fit the operator. Seriously. They expand to fit the dick that goes in there. Perfect fit, guaranteed, every time. In fact, if this had been an older model, you'd have been able to wiggle your dick out on your own, you would have had that much room to work with. But not ole' Sally here!" He slapped her, er, it, on the ass again. "Not Sally. Perfect fit man, perfect fit. Your snug as can be in there."

"Mr. Murphy, can you feel my clamp, running along your shaft?" Ted was bent over looking seriously into the dark recesses of Sally's machinery.

"I feel some pressure, kinda'."

"No coldness? Just pressure?"

"Yeah. I don't feel anything cold."

"Hmmm."

Jerry felt himself getting nervous. He didn't like the sound of that.

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Well, the way this molding is in there, it could be cutting blood supply to your cock. That could be why you only feel pressure, you know, and not the coldness. They sure designed these cunts good. Fuck. It's really tight in there."

Jerry watched as Ted tried to get some movement in the stuck vaginal molding. Eddie kept talking about the finer points of Sally's production line but Jerry was suddenly obsessed with Ted's efforts. He couldn't feel the cold, was all he could think about. What did it mean? How bad was it?

Ted pulled back, looking flustered. "Ok. I'm gonna' have to go get some more tools. Don't worry. I think it's gonna' be ok. It's just a little tighter in there than I figgered." He patted Jerry on the back and headed for the door.

"Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck fuck!"

"Calm down man. It's gonna' be ok. You heard what Ted said. He'll take care of it. He's good like that."

"I just wanted a stress reliever, you know? Something quick, something easy." Jerry fought off the urge to look at his cell phone for the time. He wasn't going to make the dinner party, his wife was going to be pissed.

"I hear ya' man. I hear ya'. We all got to knock it out sometime. Totally understand."

"I just, I just can't believe this shit. I mean, why did this shit have to happen to me? I can't believe this!"

Eddie smiled, knowingly. "There is just no such thing as a simple piece of ass."

Copyright, M.R. Caffery, 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Super Short Fiction: Safe

The security door was wrought iron. Not that cheap stuff you can get at the local national chain home supply store. Specially ordered stuff. Thick. Strong. Ornate. The door behind it, steel core. Double dead bolts. Chain. All the windows had bars on them too, matching ornate wrought iron bars. There were thorn bushes in front and cacti on the sides and in the back, all sitting under the windows. As if the bars weren't enough.

Security cameras blinked and recorded and watched and saw and saved 24/7/365. Hard drives in what would normally have been a bedroom stored all the data. Nothing happening around the outside of the home escaped their notice. They were eternally vigilant.

The home had an alarm. Which, considering everything else, one could have probably guessed. It had pressure settings tied to each of the windows. Lasers protected the doors, once activated, waiting for something, anything, to try and cross them. Motion sensors in every room could be remotely activated by something as simple as a cell phone text. There were no pets to accidentally trigger them.

The windows weren't bullet proof. There is no such thing really. But they were 'bullet resistant'. Provided a bullet could weave it's way in between the ornate wrought iron bars protecting the windows that is. If. In that instance, the aforementioned bullet, having fortunately made it past this obstacle would be 'resisted' by the window's glass.

Guns were in every room, strategically placed but not obvious to the eye. All were easy to get to. Loaded. Cleaned. Regularly. Ready for use at a moment's notice.

His name....was a matter of some debate. Harold to some, Charles to others. He had a passport that listed his name as Albert Rothstein. No synagogue in the area had ever heard of him. A driver's license under the name of Alphonse Monroe indicated that he was not an organ donor.

Things were clean, meticulously so, in every room. It was almost as if all the precautions that had been made to keep others out had managed to, at the same time, seal the house against dust and dirt. And yet, if one were to make it into the home...if one were to float through the living room and make towards the hall, say, as a disembodied spirit, avoiding the motion sensors, making sure not to set off any alarms, one might turn down the hall and head towards the master bedroom where a bag of Rold Gold pretzels lay on the floor, it's contents spilling out of it in a neat, orderly fashion, as if it were a cornucopia. Brown pretzels, twisted into their instantly recognizable shape, sprinkled with white beads of salt that sparkled when the morning sunlight filtered in through the window and lit upon them.

If one were to float above the scene, one might see a pair of shoes attached to a pair of feet attached themselves to a pair of legs covered in a pair of oversized 'comfort jeans', sprawled out on the floor. The way everything was arranged, one had to drift over the bed to see the rest of it. the faded sweatshirt, the arms, the body, lying face down on the ground. The rumpled covers of the bed and the presence of pretzel crumbs added to the scene. The TV was still on. A shopping channel showed the latest in Austrian crystal for your dinner set. You too could entertain like a European aristocrat.

Harold Charles Albert Alphonse wasn't watching anymore. He lie still, perfectly still, eternally still, there on the floor of his bedroom, a bedroom protected by security camera, cacti, wrought iron bars and bullet resistant glass. A bedroom with five hidden, loaded firearms, motion sensors and preset pressure sensors on the window tied to his master alarm. And what remained of Harold Charles Albert Alphonse hovered above what had been Harold Charles Albert Alphonse, taking it all in, trying to wrap what was left of its intellect around the notion of a lone pretzel, accidentally, securely, perfectly, lodged in a windpipe.


Copyright M.R. McCaffery, 2011. All rights reserved.

Story Short: Shallow

You want to be attractive, I know. I know this. You’re not.

No. No. No. Don’t cry. I don’t say this to be cruel. It’s objective. Your numbers just don’t add up. The stats, they don’t lie. If you don’t have the figures, you don’t have a figure. You’re really not that attractive.

It’s not that the numbers are off by a lot. Just off. Just enough. It’s not for your lack of trying. You diligently gag all your food up after lunch at Five Guy’s Burgers. You make sure to brush your teeth quickly too. No one smells the vomit.

You try to be slim and slender and perfect but there’s still cellulilte there. And there. And do I have to point out there? Small patches of cottage cheese you try to ignore, to hide, because it doesn’t fit in with your scheme of who you are. It’s not you...you don’t see it, thus, it doesn’t exist.

Your right breast is noticeably larger than your left one. And it’s a pointer. It sticks out, pointing to the right. A wayward tit, which might not be so noticeable except...both of your breasts somehow defy gravity.

Your nipples are terribly hard. ‘Knock on them and they knock back’. I find no pleasure in squeezing them for, they can’t be squeezed.

Your lips are perfect in that swollen, cosmetically enhanced way. Puffy and pouty but still kind of off. As if Nature has stamped them as fake, somehow, for all to see, so we know when we look at them and the momentary rush of attraction wears off, we can realilze they’re not normal.

But then, not normal is your normal, isn’t it? It’s what defines you. Your dead, soulless eyes. Pretty, yes, but vacant all the same. You never seem to look at anything. You see things but I don’t think you ever really look at any of the things you see.

You like shoes. And Coach. Names of things, of brands, define you. You seek to be that which you see on some TV show or another. You want your 15-minutes and a new pair of shoes or a new bag will do that for you. You have to be ‘in’ because if you’re not ‘in’ then you’re ‘out’ and you don’t want to be ‘out’ because you wouldn’t be able to stand yourself.

Other women, those women you don’t like are ‘bitches’ or ‘hoes’ or ‘sluts’. You put them down in order to raise yourself up. The clothing they wear is so much ‘trashier’ than yours. You have style. You have taste. They have....tramp stamps.

You have a tramp stamp. You call it a tattoo.

Wrinkles are a sin against God which is why you pray at the Church of Botox. You avoid panty lines the way you avoid panties.

You live for looks, even when the looks come from those clearly beneath your contempt. That guy in the wifebeater with the dirty feet, wearing the summer flip-flops and the frayed ratted jeans? Yeah, him. The one with the week’s worth of stubble. You loved every second of his eyes lingering over your body, every inch of it, as you walked by. You imagined his imaginings. He wanted you and that’s just how you like things. You live to be wanted. You dismissed him though. He looked like herpes, you thought. Or at least, the way you thought herpes would look, if it looked like a man.

You didn’t say that much to me. All you said is you were done. I heard the stories, as they made their rounds. How you said I was going nowhere and if there was one place you didn’t want to be it was nowhere, with me.  How you had given it your all, as if that was something you knew anything about, your all. Hell, you admitted to cheating on your SAT. How many times had your breasts gotten you out of a traffic ticket?

You said my shoes were old and they shouted to the world that I was stupid. You came louder and harder, gushing almost, when you bought a new pair of shoes than for anything I could ever do to you, for you.  Fucking shoes. I often had this recurring dream. I was a puppy. The only puppy you’d ever love and you loved me with all your heart. I chewed up all your shoes and those I didn’t chew up I pissed and shat on. And you cried and cried for days and days but you loved me anyway.

I gave you four years. Maybe they weren’t the best four years of my life but they were my four years to give. I gave them. They’re gone now. Along with any smiles you ever gave me. I reach back, hard, to find one. All I remember was the stress of trying to please you, of trying to win your love.

Your voice came out of nowhere. Carried on the air. Surreal, it seemed, so much so I felt a sudden chill of terror run down my spine. Was it that I was going mad? Where did your voice come from on this cloudy November day, calling my name? I looked around, and then, to the left of me, I noticed the stairs, leeding to the alley between the shops. There you were, down on the ground, ankle are bent askew. A broken heel lie behind you. Your mascara was running from all the tears you’d cried. You sat at the bottom of the stairs, in a leaf-filled pudddle from last night’s rain. You looked up at me, longingly. You tried to smile, tried to use your sweet voice, the voice that always told me something was wanted. I felt the bags in my hand grow heavier. A breeze blew and a car honked its horn at the light there up the street.

I saw you but I didn’t look at you.

I turned and walked away. I didn’t look back. 

Copyright 2011, M.R. McCaffery. All rights reserved.