from Serious Moonlight

tumblr_moknfvfmbb1sv1szbo1_500In the still room she knelt on the floor with her head bowed; he stood behind her with the belt in his hand. They had formed this tableau many times before. It was one of their oldest and most favorite games. A ritual in which they both knew their parts, with their lines memorized: a play straight out of the BDSM playbook. He would bind her hands tightly with the belt, then walk back in front of her, his cock thickening inches away from her face. He would tease her with it then, rub it all over her face as she closed her eyes and purred.

Except that’s not what happened. That’s not what happened this time. That’s not what happened when he looped the belt in his fist, not what happened as he walked toward her, not what happened as he stood over her, entranced and aflame.

He paused. He inhaled the moment, marking it in memory, not truly even sure what he was going to do next as his arm seemingly developed a will of its own.

He lowered the loop of leather around her neck. He did not pull on the belt but left the loop loose as he walked around to stand in front of her again. He felt on the verge of some new world.

She raised her head to look up at him. Her face was aglow, as if lit from within. Her mouth was slightly agape, her eyes round with wonder.

When he remembered the moment years later, and he would, he would recall her expression as not even specifically sexual. He would remember the openness of her gaze, the complete lack of boundaries, the trust in knowing anything might happen next. It was the awestruck look of a child; it was the worshipful look of a parishioner deep in prayer. The look of an athlete milliseconds before the firing of the starting gun. The look of a girl about to receive her first kiss.

Their eyes locked. The air shimmered. The space around their bodies electrified. The moon broke out into clear sky, and moonlight spilled through the window, baptizing them.

Silence.

from Serious Moonlight, by J G Cain

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 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