This 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
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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He 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.
from Firecracker Red, by J G Cain
He 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
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
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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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.
She 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