Seriously Sexy 3

by Miranda Forbes

  Seth turned to face him, and held out his hand to guide him into the shadows. He stroked Paul’s hair and his face with his dirty hands. His thin lips smiled mirthlessly and his eyes glittered in anticipation.

  Paul stood motionless as Seth undressed him slowly, dropping each garment on the wooden floor. He caressed Paul’s stomach and thighs with his fingertips, and then brought his calloused palms together to clasp his cock, which stood upright, rigid, swollen, and red.

  He rolled the column of flesh in his palms as he kissed Paul lightly on the lips, and then dropped to his knees in front of him. Paul shuddered as Seth took the head of his cock between his lips and began to suck.

  The shadows darkened and quivered, as Seth took more and more of the cock into his mouth. He sucked harder and harder, his fingers pumping at the shaft, until the climax hit Paul and he groaned as he shot burst after burst of hot seed into Seth’s mouth.

  The shadows vibrated crazily and slowed as Seth sucked the last drops. He stood, kissed Paul again on the lips and played gently with his soft cock, which began to grow hard once more. The shadows grew tall and enveloped the pair in darkness.

  “You were a long time. What did he say?”

  Paul looked blurrily at his wife.

  “Nothing. He wasn’t there.”

  “But … where have you been, then?”

  Paul shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Jane stared silently at him.

  Tiny black shadows began to dance in the corners of the room.

  When We Were Two

  by Sommer Marsden

  “This is the story of how we begin to remember,” Steve said and locked the front door.

  “What are you talking about?”

  My mother drove off. She beeped three times and I saw a flock of hands waving from the car windows. Her exhaust pipe plumed in the cold air as she took my children for four long days.

  “How we begin to remember what it is to be Steve and Laurie.”

  I folded the throws scattered around the living room. I fluffed pillows, glanced back out the window, looked for something to keep me busy. With a house full of kids: fourteen, twelve, nine, and seven, it’s never hard to be busy. Now it was quiet. Silent. Eerie. I wanted to whip out my cell phone and call my mother. I wanted to demand my busy, chaotic house back.

  Stephen read my face. He took my hands and kissed me. It took the edge off the anxiety but not entirely. “What do we do?” I asked. And sadly, it was a sincere question.

  “Relax and enjoy it. I know it’s odd. It seems entirely new. Like we have never, ever been alone before,” he laughed. “But close your eyes and think way back. Way back when. Once upon a time, we were two. Not mom and dad. Steve and Laurie.”

  I closed my eyes and found it hard to breathe. My ears kept straining for the sounds of siblings fighting or something being broken. The sounds of a shower running or a too loud stereo or someone on the phone demanding that the caller, “Shut up … Noooo … oh, shut up!”

  “That was a really long time ago. I don’t think my memory goes back that far,” I laughed. But it was a nervous, high laugh. A dead giveaway that I was telling the truth. Spitting out a fact disguised as humour. “I can’t remember what it was like before they filled the house up with noise and kids and chaos.”

  And it was true.

  “I seem to recall that you liked this,” my husband said and dropped to his knees. His jeans made a whispery sound on the hardwood floor and he peeled my leggings down like he was unwrapping a present. My black Danskin leggings that were so much easier to put on than a fancy outfit. Even faster than jeans when it came to a hectic schedule.

  Instinct took over. Anyone could walk in. I pressed my thighs together and twisted away from his face. Contorted in the opposite direction despite the fact that his face being near me, his breath on my plain cotton panties, made me wet between the legs. Made my heart speed up from something besides anxiety.

  Steve put his hands on my hips. Hips that has supported four pregnancies and were definitely wider than when we started our marital adventure. “Shh now, Laurie. No one here but us. Now just let me. Come on, let me.”

  I did. I let him peel down my panties in the bright sunny living room. Let him touch his tongue to my clit. I let him slide his fingers into me and probe against those sweet wet spots that made me clutch at his big shoulders. I let out a little cry as he slid his fingers free of me. When he latched his lips over my clit and started to lick more of those lazy circles, I felt tears leak from the corners of my eyes. It felt so good to let go. He felt good. I let my thighs fall open in invitation. He could finish that or he could slide into me. I was happy either way.

  How quickly I had changed my mind. It was starting to come back to me in bits and pieces. Like a dream that you only recall hours later when you sit quietly with a cup of coffee.

  “Not yet,” he said and continued his languid tour of my cunt. “We used to take our time. Remember?”

  “Not always.” More of it came flooding back to me. The time when we were two. Sometimes we were hurried. In a frenzy of clothes and hormones and I could barely breathe until he slipped his cock inside of me and fucked me. “Sometimes we were like crazed animals,” I laughed. This laugh was lower. More sultry. Not nervous at all.

  Stephen kissed the jut of my hip bones and the swell of my belly. Little silver stretch marks tattooed that skin. I hated them for the most part, but when he kissed them they seemed important. Meaningful. He drew his tongue over the surge of flesh that were my hips, the little landslide of freckles that I loathed and he loved. He kissed my ribcage below my breasts. He did all of this slowly. As if we had all the time in the world. And we did, or so it seemed.

  His tongue wrapped the very tip of my nipple and an invisible cord of pleasure inside of me was tugged. I felt the warm sensation of want shoot from my nipple to my pussy. I spread my legs wide and wormed my hand between us to find his erection. He skittered away from me, “Not yet, not yet,” he scolded.

  “You are stubborn.”

  “I am remembering. I am recapturing the time long ago. Now we constantly wait for the knock on the door or the sick kid or the fight that interrupts. Or we have to wait until the middle of the night and then we’re both tired. This is nice right now. This is what it used to be for us. This is what we are going to make it again. Starting now. A new leaf.”

  His mouth came down on me again. Hot and wet and very welcome. I arched back, into his embrace. Calming myself. There was time to be frenzied later. Four days. Four days of … whatever we wanted.

  A little breathless at the thought, I pushed him away. He argued but then his eyes found mine and he let me go. His curiosity won over his desire to keep his mouth on me. “I seem to remember,” I said, climbing slowly to my feet. I stifled a small groan. The wooden floor was unforgiving and I was no longer twenty, “that you liked when I danced for you.”

  A ribbon of unease unrolled in my belly. Could I pull this off at forty-something? Could I be the sexy dancing siren? He smiled up at me. His face a mess of dark stubble peppered with grey. More lines around his big blue eyes. His jaw line a bit softer than it was back in the day. Gorgeous. He smiled wider and I had my answer. I could.

  I touched my toe to the stereo button and our station came on. Something classic, something slow. I moved to the music as best I could. Focused on his eyes on me. Of how his mouth had felt on my skin. I closed my eyes and let that feeling take over my motions. I let my hands peel off my plain mom bra that Stephen had bunched down under my breasts. I tossed it over my shoulder with attitude, as if it were the most expensive black lace lingerie.

  My husband growled low in his throat and I forgot my self-doubt.

  “There she is,” he said and reached up between my legs to touch me.

  I let my head fall back. Let his touch and the music move me. Push me and pull me. “Who?”

  “The Laurie I fell in love with. She’s always been here but I haven’t seen
her so clearly for a long time.”

  Me either, I wanted to say. I didn’t. I swallowed the words and focused on how I felt.

  “You are more beautiful now than ever.”

  “After four babies?” I laughed, swaying my more generous hips. I squeezed my breasts and swayed to the music.

  “Absolutely. More beautiful after every one. Most beautiful now,” he said. Then he was on his knees again, his head pressed against my lower belly as I moved. I slid down to join him, pushing him back.

  “If memory serves, this is something else you like,” I said and kissed my way over his chest. I trailed my tongue down his belly and the muscles fluttered just under his skin. His breath caught, a sound that never fails to make me wet, to turn me on. The sound of stealing a man’s breath is amazing. The fact that I still could, even more so. I smiled and captured his cock in my mouth, sliding the length into my throat. I had memorized his taste and texture long ago but this time seemed new. New flesh. New meaning.

  His hands went into my hair. Immediately and forcefully. I sucked him harder. I worked my tongue over every ridge and dip and swell until I felt light-headed.

  “Come on. Now, Laurie. We’ve been patient enough,” he laughed and I laughed with him.

  “And we have the rest of today and then three whole days after,” I agreed.

  “Yes, yes, we can have dinner and go for an encore,” he said and tugged my hand. Pulling me up to him.

  I straddled his hips and ever so slowly lowered myself onto him. I stared him right in the eye. My husband. My friend. My gaze never left his and that itself brought a huge power with it. A renewed connection.

  “Baby,” he said. Nothing more. Just the one word.

  I came. My body squeezing around him as he lost his patient rhythm and thrust up under me, his hips beating an erratic tattoo against the scuffed but polished hardwood floor.

  “Baby,” I said back and watched his face when he came. I had seen it more times than I could count but it seemed like the first.

  When I kissed him and he pinched my nipple, I laughed. I felt grateful. Grateful for our family and what we had built, but grateful that for just a few days, we could be two again. To be adventurous again. To have sex on the floor in the sunshine.

  “Do you remember?” he asked.

  “I do.”

  Who’s Been Wearing Aunt Clarissa’s Panties?

  by Jeremy Edwards

  If I recall correctly, it was raining on the day I helped Megan sort through all the junk in her attic. Of course, it may just be that since the atmosphere up there felt so warm and snug, my memory has embellished the cosy scene with a proverbial rainy-day backdrop. Whatever the weather, I remember feeling that we were sort of like kids, taking advantage of a day off from school to mess around gleefully indoors.

  In reality, Megan and I were in our late twenties. At that point we’d been together for nearly a year, but I don’t think I’d ever been in her attic before. She had learned, however, that I had a talent for organising things – especially other people’s things. And when I’d volunteered to take part in the Great Attic Junk Sort of 1998, she had literally leapt at the offer, popping up from her snack at the kitchen counter and smothering me in peppermint-ice-cream kisses.

  So there we were, vacuuming up vintage dust bunnies; dividing toys into the “sentimental value” pile, the “yard sale” pile, and the “broken” pile; and talking at length about the highlights of Megan’s childhood. What I had anticipated being a chore had actually proved to be one of the most enjoyable, comfortable times we’d ever shared, a taste of what it would be like to live together and last together.

  I soon observed that Megan was particularly interested in a trunk of old clothing. As she explained, she fondly remembered playing dress-up with her sister Katie, out of this very trunk, in this very attic. You see, when her parents moved down to Florida, Megan had returned from the big city to purchase the house she grew up in. This was both strange and wonderful to me. Personally, I couldn’t imagine wanting to live out my adult life in my childhood home – pleasant though my family house, and my experiences in it, had always been. Yet Megan felt she belonged in her parents’ former house. And knowing this made me recognize the chummy old three-story as a sacred, privileged place in which to spend time with her, grow with her, and deepen in my love for her. In a way I couldn’t quite pinpoint, Megan seemed to really come to life here. This was where her personality seemed to reach its fullest expression, her joys attain their richest development, her wisdom and emotions gain their greatest depth. I could swear that she even had better orgasms here than over at my place.

  She was about a third of the way through sorting and folding the hodgepodge of clothes in the trunk. Suddenly she spoke with an intriguing catch in her voice, a noticeably different tone from that of the casual chitchat we’d been engaged in. “Now these I need,” was what she said.

  I looked up. In her hands was a pair of retro panties, by far the most beautiful thing I’d seen today in Megan’s attic – apart from Megan herself.

  Based on what I’d absorbed from old Playboys (many of which were in my parents’ attic), they looked like they must have been from the 1950s or 1960s. They were full-cut, black nylon panties – those high-waisted, generous undies from before bikini cuts took over. They had straight hems at the leg openings, where they would modestly clasp a lady’s upper thighs. And what made this pair special was that almost every inch was covered in lace ruffles, like you might find on the front of a tacky tuxedo shirt from the 1980s. But this was a lot better than a tuxedo shirt, I assure you.

  “Wow!” I exclaimed. “What are those?”

  “Aunt Clarissa’s panties,” Megan answered thoughtfully. She clutched the garment to her chest.

  “Ah,” I replied. I waited the obligatory three seconds that we natural comedians instinctively feel. Then I said, “Who is Aunt Clarissa?”

  She placed the panties back in the trunk – tenderly, I noticed. “Clarissa is my mom’s younger sister. When we were little, she lived in New York, and so we got to see her pretty frequently. Katie and I thought she was so neat! She’s always been a real free spirit – an independent woman. I mostly remember her from the late 70s, when she would show up and take us waterskiing, or teach us disco steps. And when Clarrie was younger, according to Mom, she was quite the bohemian. She lived in London for a while, hung out with artists, wrote film reviews, partied a lot, and did her own thing. That would have been back in the 60s, before I was born. I’ve seen pictures of her at that age, and she was pretty hot. There’s even a family rumour that Aunt Clarissa did some nude modelling for a high-class photographer. Unfortunately, I’ve never been able to track down any of those pictures – and don’t think I haven’t tried!”

  We laughed at the image of Megan assiduously attempting to dig up nude pictures of her beloved aunt.

  “Mom loved her life here – Dad, the family, the house, yours truly and kid sister Katie – but I think she admired Aunt Clarissa for going out into the world in the way she did. One thing’s for sure: Katie and I idolized her. Sadly for us, Aunt Clarrie eventually moved out to the West Coast, and since then I’ve hardly ever seen her. I adore her letters, though.”

  “She sounds really cool,” I said, fatuously but sincerely. “And any hero of yours is a hero of mine. Now – uh – about the panties …”

  Megan smiled, enjoying as she always did the erotic tilt to my train of thought. “Yes, the panties.” She came and sat on the floor with me.

  “A few months ago, I was rummaging through the clothes in this trunk. At that stage, I wasn’t serious about organising things. To tell you the truth, I was probably procrastinating, when I had some type of deadline looming. Anyway, I came across these vintage panties – or ‘fancy pants,’ as they’re called.”

  I burst out laughing. “Fancy pants?”

  She chuckled with me. “Hey, that’s what they’re called. I looked it up.”

  “But that’
s the title of a Bob Hope movie.”

  Megan shrugged. “They’re also known as ‘sissy pants’, or ‘rhumba panties’, if you prefer.”

  “Can’t I just call them ‘Aunt Clarissa’s panties’?”

  “Works for me.”

  “Okay. But then … how do we know they’re Clarissa’s?”

  “Mom told me. She was here for a visit shortly after I’d discovered them, and I innocently asked her if they were hers. It was hilarious, Arthur! Mom raised an eyebrow, in that way she does, and said ‘Those were Clarissa’s.’ So I asked if we should send them to Aunt Clarrie in California, but Mom kind of cleared her throat and hinted that they might not quite fit anymore. I was going to donate them, and then …”

  Here was where I became even more interested. “And then … what?”

  “And then … I realized I liked them. I realized I liked them a lot. They were practically good as new, and it was as if they were just waiting for somebody to wear them again. After Mom went home, I came up here and held the panties in my hands. I thought about Aunt Clarissa wearing them, and how sexy she must have looked. And felt.”

  I was starting to feel a pleasant tension in my groin. “I bet you were tempted to try them on.”

  Megan’s eyes flickered mischievously. “More than tempted.” Her face lit up even further as she reminisced. “Arthur, they felt so – well, I guess ‘erotic’ is the word. They hugged all my – you know – womanly parts very sensuously. I stood looking at myself in the mirror, in a way I never had before. Looking and … touching myself.” She licked her lips.

  I was mesmerized, and my own erotic parts were buzzing with excitement as I visualized what she had described.

  Megan proceeded with her explanation. “When I was around Clarrie in my childhood, I was too young to understand sexuality. I just thought she was cool, and smart, and funny. She used to tell us riddles and listen to rock radio in the car with us. But looking back now, I have a strong sense of how sexual she was – still is, I’m sure, because that never goes away, even if you can’t fit into your sissy pants any more.”