from Quicksilver

eyeThis look is the one that hangs in his mind. In these wee hours of the morning, for it is inevitably morning when they have finally spent themselves on each other, they lie side by side in the dark. He brushes back her hair with his fingers and contemplates her feline smile, her dimpled cheeks. She looks so pretty, afterward. Always. The transformation from her heavy-lidded hunger to quieted beauty leaves him breathless. Her eyes are stilled now, twin lakes of placid water on a cool, windless night. He strokes her hair, brushes her cheek with his thumb, whispers each passing submarine thought, diving into the fathomless quicksilver depth of her eyes.

– from Quicksilver, by J G Cain

from Mindful

il_570xn.1050093739_32mvHe watched her as she stood at the far side of the bed, taking off her jewelry, piece by piece. Rings first, twisted gently off her fingers and set on the end-table. Her bracelets next. Then her necklace, revealing a feverish curve of neck to him as she reached back for the clasp. He loved watching her take off her jewelry. She did it so carefully, so mindfully.

He thought, how demure.

He stood. As he walked around the far corners of the bed toward her he began to take off his belt, slipping it through the loops one by one.

Her back was to him when he reached her. Playfully he slapped her ass with it. She gasped. She turned her head to look at him, over her shoulder. She was smiling, but something crouched behind the smile.

Her fingers were outstretched toward her last piece of jewelry, the single shimmering diamond mounted at the end of a strand of silver, left dangling from her ear. It seemed important he not let her finish taking it off.

“Bend over,” he said.

Her hand froze.

from J G Cain’s Mindful

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 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

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