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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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from Dirty Martini

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“Okay,” he sighed. “I give up. What makes your martini dirty?” he asked.

She finished eating the olive, and placed the sword onto a napkin. She eased her middle finger into her drink, stirred the gin inside with it, then pulled it out and slid it delicately inside her mouth. She removed her finger from between her lips with a slow reveal, skin wet and glistening. When she arrived at her fingertip she released the finger with an almost inaudible pop.

She traced a path down her chin and neck with her fingertip, clawing at her flawless white skin of her neck with her middle fingernail, leaving a wet and reddened trail in its wake. She continued down, between her tits and the subtle shadow of her hardened nipples, down her stomach and between her legs. She lifted the edge of the dress, pulling it up for him, showing him a peek of her hallowed thighs before sending her fingers disappearing under the hem of her skirt. He could see in her face the instant her finger insinuated its way into her pussy, the way her eyes widened and lost focus, the way her mouth grew slack. He watched her as she took her wet length inside, as deep as the length of her finger would allow, every inch.

She met his eyes frankly as she explored the depths of her pussy. He wondered if anyone else was watching this raw display, but was unable to take his eyes off her long enough to check.

After an endless moment, she pulled her finger almost shyly from under her dress and made the same deliriously sexy journey back up her body, except instead of returning her finger to her mouth, she slid it back into her drink. She stirred the clear cold gin with her scented skin, the taste of her pussy mixing with the liquor. After several swirls she took her finger back into her mouth, licking her finger not with her lips but with her tongue, from the base of the finger to the tip. Again, the almost inaudible pop.

“Me,” she said. “That’s what makes the martini dirty. I do.”

   –  from Dirty Martini, by J G Cain

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from Business Casual

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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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from The Taos Hum

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Ashe said, “There’s this sound some people hear. I heard about on the radio, late night talk radio about crazy shit like the New Jersey Devil, or the earth being hollow. Anyway, it’s called the Taos Hum.”

“Are we near Taos?”

“About a hundred miles away.” She continued, “They say like one percent of the population can hear it. Low pitched, right on the edge of perception. It ruins their lives, most of em say. They can’t sleep, can’t concentrate, can’t function. And they all describe the moment of waking to it, this moment where the world changed and was never the same again. When they heard the Hum. The Taos Hum, they call it. Government conspiracy, they say. Weather modification experiments. Weapons tests. Some secret submarine base at the South Pole. Big machines tunneling under the earth. Something alive living below the crust. Almost as many reasons for the Hum as there are people who hear it.”

“Is it bullshit?”

“I dunno The people who call in, on the radio show, they sure seem to believe it. And it doesn’t ruin everyone’s life. Some people who hear it, they fall in love with it. Some of them say it’s like music. Like beautiful music. The music of the spheres. The sound of the earth turning. The sound of the stars spinning. Like they’ve been waiting for it, a missing piece. Something they lost once, but have found again.”

– from The Taos Hum, by J G Cain

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Enraptured

Erotic model with metal chain around neck

She lay beneath him, a finger deep in her pussy, another hooked around the chain between the nipple clamps, pulling on them, her tits pulled and distended from her body, knowing how much he loved the sight of it. She was performing for him.

He stood on his knees, between her legs, stroking his cock as he watched her, a pearl of pre-cum dripping down the tip of his cockhead with languid slowness. He saw the look in her eyes. He was performing for her.

They were bound in an ever-tightening net of desire, she watching him, he watching her, each performing for the other. Each the sculptor, each the stone.

He reached down to slide two fingers deep inside her, moistening them, using her juices to lubricate his hand as he jerked off. She pulled more tightly on the chain, her nipples thickening, her skin reddening. She arched her back, her head lolling, exposing her neck for him. He knew she was about to cum; it spurred his own gathering orgasm. She cried out, her body corkscrewing beneath him. He moaned low as hot white plumes of cum spewed into the air, onto her belly, her tits, the sparkling metal clamps that held her nipples tightly entrapped, her body helplessly enraptured.

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from Click

1953437213-0c7a6f81-c227-4131-98d8-4f87cc0ac1c5She loved dressing up for him, wearing anything he asked, making herself into a fetish doll, a sex toy. Anything he asked. Fishnet thigh highs, fishnet gloves. Collars and leashes. Thick, whorish makeup. He didn’t ask every time, but he did often. He found his mind took a series of photographs when she dressed like this, snapping away as he climbed her, rolled her, fucked her, used her: click, click, click.

He wondered what part of his mind was taking those photographs: the porn-y, objective part that loved seeing her dressed as his perfect fantasy woman, the part that worshiped thigh highs and chains and nipple clamps, or the emotive part of his mind that loved her for wanting to be the vehicle for all his desires, for taking on whatever role he requested. He’d switch back and forth, one moment fully immersed in the experience, the next slightly distanced as he watched her transform herself into his literal fantasies, mirroring his inner sexual life with uncanny, shape-shifting skill.

They had tried documenting their fucking with a cellphone a few times, and while taking the pictures was hot, the result was flat and insubstantial. Looking at them afterward was arousing only because the images were a talisman from the moment, taken while the moment was actual and happening. They were not the same as the pictures he took with his mind while they were fucking; those pictures were living breathing things, fully fleshed the instant they breached his waking mind.

 – from Click, by J G Cain