from Open Door

She seemed so comfortable in her beauty. The woman grew momentarily wistful. When she was younger, when she was the girl’s age, she was as uneasy with her beauty as this girl was secure in her own, fearful of the blunt power of her gaze, unable to gauge the effect of her smile on a stranger. Only when she had gotten older had she been able to enjoy it, to control its authority, to appreciate her beauty for the gift that it genuinely was.

After the woman opened the door and wordlessly spread her arm to invite the girl in, they stood at the foot of the bed, facing each other as they had in the doorway.

“You are very beautiful,” said the woman.

“Thank you,” said the girl, serenely. “So are you.”

“Thank you,” she said. She had to fight the urge to steal a glance into the mirror.

The girl said, “I’ve seen you around the hotel. You and your friend.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t see a ring.”

“We aren’t married. We’re…he’s my boyfriend.”

“Yes,” said the girl evenly.

“Honestly, I don’t know what we are.” The pause that followed revealed more than the statement.

“I’m not going to fuck your boyfriend,” the girl said, unbidden.

The woman recoiled inwardly at the harshness of the statement. “I don’t want you to fuck my boyfriend,” she replied.

“No?”

“I don’t think my boyfriend wants you to fuck him.”

“He doesn’t?”

“Well, I mean, maybe he does, I don’t know, but he’s not going to.” She gathered herself.

“He thinks you’re attractive. You are attractive. He doesn’t know about this.”

“About what?”

“This. Me asking you up here. I don’t know. I’m not sure what this is. I’m not sure why I asked you.”

The girl smiled, and for the first time the woman felt some warmth escape from the glare of her beauty. The smile reached her, and touched her.

– from J G Cain’s Open Door

from Sexhair

The waitress came back to take their orders. Her eyes took in the woman’s hair a second time, and she took less care in hiding her smile. He told the waitress they needed more time.

“Sexhair,” he said, after the waitress left.

“Huh?”

“The waitress. She was checking out your sexhair.”

“I have sexhair?” Her expression was a mix of embarrassment and arousal.

“Yeah, it’s all disheveled, like you just got out of bed.”

“I did just get out of bed.”

“It doesn’t just look like it’s been slept on. It looks like it’s been pulled out of shape. Grabbed in a fist. It’s sort of, like, dented on one side.”

“She knows?” asked the woman.

“That we’ve been fucking?”

“She knows. I could see it in her smile.”

The woman’s hands shot up to attempt to fix her hair, though she gave up soon after she started, recognizing the task as hopeless. A loopy grin fell across her face, seeing the lust gather in his eyes.

“Do I look slutty?” she asked.

“You look hot.”

“Is that the same as slutty?”

“It’s not dissimilar,” he said, his grin spreading.

from J G Cain’s Sexhair

Serious Moonlight shines this month!


The Serious Moonlight project will start on Friday, February 15th, the day after Valentine’s Day, and publish a new erotic story every Friday for a full year.  52 weeks, 52 stories.

Serious Moonlight is a series of flash erotica pieces, along with the occasional erotic short story, that tell the story of a man and a woman who are witty, curious, creative, sexually adventurous and deeply in love.  Each story can be read as a stand-alone, but the series of stories, taken together, tells a narrative as well.

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from Firecracker Red

depositphotos_30944749_original-e1543259281798.jpgHe stood framed in the doorway to his office watching her as she flounced down the hallway directly toward him. He had no idea who she was, only that she snagged his attention like fabric on a nail.

She walked on impractically high heels that she wore with surprising poise, matched with stockings that could have been pantyhose but he prayed were not. Her short pleated burgundy skirt and tight crimson sweater sparked with sexual fire, fed by the black choker curled around her neck like smoke. Above it all, a mass of firecracker red hair blazed with color and bright promise, curls bouncing with each step she took. She was so perfect she didn’t seem real.

Several seconds passed before he recognized her.

It was his wife.

Maybe.

from Firecracker Red, by J G Cain

from Fire and Ice

Stallion-Barware-Vintage-2---SingleHe lowered himself onto her and kissed her, letting the sharp amber trickle into her mouth, feeding it to her as it leaked off his lips and tongue. She shivered at the taste of it.

He made his way down her body with hot glacial languor, biting her so that she could feel the sharp burn of the liquor where teeth met skin. The elegant white curve of her neck, then down to the meat of her tits. He lingered on each nipple, biting and pulling, letting the fire of the alcohol inflame her thickening flesh. He moved lower, trailing bourbon, letting a small pool form in her belly button before lapping it back up.

By the time he got to her pussy his mouth was emptied. He raised himself onto his knees.

“I am on fire,” he told her.

“Don’t make a fuel of yourself,” she replied, and they both began laughing, pleased this ancient childhood joke still held its power. It did not break the mood, but enhanced it, all aspects part of a larger whole: sex, humor, intellect, emotion. It was one thing. It was all things.

from Fire and Ice, by J G Cain

from Art

6c2bbe2894a53795b7a930fcb718120bHe wondered if anyone else noticed.

The dark leather strip, tied with a knot, and secured with a simple silver clasp in the shape of a crescent moon, wrapped around her wrist like a snake offering up an apple. She wore it with elegance, at the table of an equally elegant restaurant, surrounded by maybe thirty people.

The sight made him want to slide the leather from her arm, tie her wrists behind her chair with the strip and fuck her, right there at the table. The choice of bracelet roared her desire to be tied up and fucked.

How could anyone not notice?

The implications seemed so hot, so clearly stated, like the time they’d gone out to a club with her wearing a choker sporting a subtle ring at its center, just below the lovely hollow of her throat. That night, in his mind, the choker told the world she was his, collared and owned by him, paraded around at his will, readied to sate his desires. They wondered how many at the club had deciphered the message of the choker. One out of fifty? One out of ten? That both of them knew with certainty someone would get the message added to the sizzling sexual tension of the evening.

from Art, by J G Cain

Drowning

couple_shadows_1680x1050 He dreamed he died. Drowning. He woke up shaking, could not return to sleep.

She lay on her side, back facing him, sleeping. He slid his hand over her soothing breast, caressing her nipple. She sighed, half-awake.

He moved down to her pussy, found her already moist, opening to him. The same sleepy exhalation.

He slid his length inside her, slowly, gently, entirely. She came without words, he soon followed, nerves bursting in measureless joy. They rejoined each other in sleep.

We are blessed with certain spaces in our lives, carved by love and need and simple animal comfort. As fragile as prayer, as real as the walls around us.

They save us from drowning.

by J G Cain

from Elevation

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She walked across the crowded motel lobby in a snug red sweater, a short frilly skirt, and no panties whatsoever. Those she brushed past on the way to the elevator could have no way of knowing she was panty-less, but he still enjoyed entertaining the notion that all the men and women in the lobby knew she was naked under her skirt: the pudgy middle-aged businessmen in travel-worn suits, the young couples weary from driving all day, the parents padding wetly from the pool dragging soaked towels and float toys and irritable children behind them.

He knew she wasn’t wearing any panties because she had handed them to him in the restaurant, casually, as if passing a napkin.

They didn’t stick around for dessert.

from Elevation, by J G Cain

from Business Casual

581302702-c021911b-b6b6-45ad-8b61-de1e468d9823

He lay naked on the bed, his khaki pants neatly folded on the chair at the side, his polo shirt draped over it.

She stood at the foot of the bed, wearing a modest beige skirt and matching blouse, the dull black matte of the enormous hotel television a backdrop behind her. She kicked off her sensible heels. She unzipped her skirt and shimmied out of it, and when it was left dangling on her foot flung it onto the chair with a kick. She spent more time with the blouse, unbuttoning it one button at a time, maintaining simmering eye contact all the while. She opened the blouse, revealing the lacy bra that had been ticking in his imagination the entire day. She pulled the blouse off and tossed it next to her skirt.

Lacy bra and panties. He knew she had been wearing them; she had texted a picture of herself wearing them (and nothing else) that morning.

She hopped up onto the dresser counter that held the television. She slid off her panties, let them fall to the floor. She left on her bra.

And then in a move so fluid and cinematic it had to have been planned, perhaps even practiced, she opened the top drawer of the dresser with her toe. Her foot disappeared into the drawer, then returned into view with a thigh high fishnet stocking hooked onto her toe. She gathered the stocking with elaborate care, lifted her leg, and with studied slowness began to roll the fishnet up her leg. When she was done with the first stocking she slid her foot again into the drawer, pulled the matching stocking out of the drawer with toes foot, lifted her leg with a dizzying flair for the theatrical, and rolled it on her leg with the same considered slowness.

from Business Casual, by J G Cain

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