Shades of Pink

by 33 authors

  Abso-fuckin’-lutely, the best feeling in the world was slowly pressing my cock into my first wet, hot pussy. And it was agonizingly slow; Candi insisted on being on top to control the penetration (yeah, she was only sixteen, but she knew what she was doing). I remember curling my fingers into the blankets of her bed to keep myself from grabbing her and pulling her down hard on my aching dick. I couldn’t help the thrust of my hips as I tried to feed her more of me, faster than she wanted to take me. I was young, but still pretty goal oriented: cock buried balls-deep. It was a simple goal, but a worthy one.

  I lucked out with Candi as my first lover. In the six months we snuck around, she taught me to appreciate the nuances of sex. The sounds: talking dirty; asking your lover for what you want in very explicit language; letting those sex noises out so your lover can appreciate them, whether they’re moans, screams, or tiny hitches of your breath. I learned the taste and scent of sex found in sweat, lubricants and lotions, or a weeping pussy. The feel of sex: hard or soft, fast or slow; running hands and fingertips over skin to give and receive pleasure. Most important, to me anyway, the visual stimulation of sex: the heavy, half-mast eyes that close tightly just before orgasm; the mouth that strains then slackens as she builds to, then reaches climax; watching the wet, glistening slide of my cock rocking in and out of a woman—her pussy or her mouth. Fucking. I learned to love it all. To appreciate everything little thing about it. Those lessons carried over into every one-night stand, two-week date-a-thon, and month-long infatuation I’ve had since then.

  Two words: Statutory rape. Damn.

  So I promptly re-upped the Navy and asked for an assignment out of the country, and got my ass shipped overseas. What in Hell’s fuckin’ name was I thinking, mooning after a girl eight years younger than me? I was sent to the Middle East for a little over two years. Not much opportunity for meeting women or dating over there.

  By the time I got back in the States, Teresa was eighteen and I planned to look her up and finally do something about the hard-on I’d been carting around for three years. I imagined her five-foot-ten body stretched out on my bed. Her ripe tits cupped in my palms. The taste of her juices in my mouth. Her scent in my nose. Her lips on my cock… either set of lips, I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. I mentally took her in every way I could think of. Once again, I had a goal; it was simple, but worthy.

  I finally made it back home at three in the morning. Too early for a reunion with the folks, so I just crept in the back door of my parents’ house and crashed on the living room couch; it was just too much trouble to make up the bed in my room, and I didn’t want to wake the family by moving around. As much as I needed sleep, I was awake and restless a few hours later, so I dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, deciding to take a run to burn off some excess energy. I bumped into Sherry Dangerfield while I was on my way back to the house. She and I had dated years before, so when she expressed an interest in, well let’s just call it what it was, a quick fuck, I thought it was a way to take the edge off until I could wine and dine Teresa properly.

  It was five twenty-nine on a Sunday morning when we entered the kitchen from the back door; by five thirty four, I had Sherry stripped and spread out on the island counter, and my face buried between her thighs. God, I missed the smell of pussy and the salty, honeyed taste of it. Five minutes later, she was wet and ready from her first orgasm with three of my fingers stabbing in and out of her cunt. She was a fairly quiet lover, shy and breathy, given to little catches of her breath before exhaling in an almost silent moan when she found her pleasure. My groan was a bit louder when she dragged her nails up my back, forcing my shirt higher in an attempt to remove the offending fabric. Ever helpful, I pulled the tee off and swiftly unbuckled my belt. Her hands were eager at my zipper, slipping into the opening to cup the length of my erection. I was stone hard from enforced celibacy over the last few months and the tip of my dick was dripping cum, making my boxer-briefs damp. I barely got my shorts over my ass when she grabbed my cock and growled, “Now.”

  Heaven. And hell. That slow, hard push of the fat crown of my dick, pressing into a hot, slick pussy. Sherry’s body bowed high off the counter, as she strained away from the intrusion and at the same time begged me to go deeper. Her eyes were squeezed tightly closed and she held her breath as I buried in the next couple of inches.

  I speared my fingers into her hair, pinning her head down to the counter and arching her throat up, as I pushed in another inch. Damn, it was a snug fit and I wasn’t even half-way seated in her depths. It was difficult to force myself to continue a slow penetration, when all I wanted to do was plunge forward—hard and deep. Her lips parted and her mouth lifted, offering a kiss. I considered it briefly, but as much as Sherry superficially resembled Teresa, with her dark hair and eyes, she wasn’t the woman I had been craving for three long years. I just didn’t want to kiss her. My fingers curled against her scalp, pulling her hair a little, but her moan told me it was a pleasurable pain. I leaned over her body and bit into the cord of her neck as two more inches pushed inward. The walls of her pussy clamped down on me, and I could feel little ripples that signaled an orgasm. I held still, not willing to tip her over until I was embedded inside her. I was half-dozen strokes from cumming.

  “No,” she moaned, her breath hot against my ear. “Don’t stop, Bas. Fuck me.” For the first time, since I breached her, she curved her legs over my hips and used her heels to drive me deeper as she thrust her hips upward. My balls pressed to the crease of her ass, and she held me tightly to her body, absorbing the shock of having my cock completely buried inside her.

  Holy. Effing. Shit!

  I loosened my grip on her hair and slid my hand down to cup her jaw. “Are you alright?” I asked. It felt great to me, sliding into that hot tightness, but I have to think that must have hurt her. We weren’t using any lubricant, only what was naturally occurring. It had been my experience that no matter how tight the woman, I would fit, girth-wise. Women were real accommodating that way. But I was long as well as thick, so I was used to exercising strict control of depth and speed. Some women were so sensitive to pressure against their cervix, that I’d had a handful that weren’t able to take all of me. There were ways around that, usually keeping a hand fisted around my cock to control depth, but I still tried to go slow enough to gauge their comfort.

  Sherry’s legs slid from my hips and fell bonelessly to the counter; my body was now framed by her splayed thighs. “God, yes. I’m fine Bas. But move, I’m so fucking close and you’re dickin’ around. Fuck me. Been here, done you; I can take it. All of it.”

  Alrighty then. So much for showing a little concern or consideration. I could feel the little contractions as her pussy milked me. It would be close as to which one of us came first. My cock twitched and let me know that it would prefer some friction. I leaned forward as I maneuvered my other hand under her ass to angle her hips, and I realized she smelled like the same shampoo Teresa used.

  One minute I had my face in her hair to breathe in something fruity and sweet, like oranges and mint; the next minute, I heard a gasp, and looked up. Damn, I had no idea she was even in the house, but there she stood: Teresa March. Wearing this transparent little top trimmed with tiny pink bows and thin, pink ribbon straps, sliding half-off her shoulders. Her nipples were stiff and prominent against the soft fabric. A matching pair of white panties spanned high across her hips. I couldn’t see a dark shadow of pubic hair and my mind went ballistic, imagining her shaved bare, and my cock twitched in delight at that image. Her long brown hair was messy around her shoulders and her eyes were heavy as if she’d just woken up. And that mouth... All I saw were those lips, soft and parted in surprise. Shock? I envisioned that mouth, and those lips, sucking my dick. In that moment, staring across the room into Teresa’s eyes, I imagined the body under me was the girl that stood in the doorway. Sherry’s vaginal walls clamped down, and my hips flexed. I was too far gone in four months of celibacy and the wet heat of the wo
man wrapped around my cock to stop. My traitorous hips started an involuntary push and pull, drawing my cock almost completely away from the slickness of the pussy fisting it, and thrusting deeply until my balls slapped her ass.

  Teresa turned and ran. Three thrusts later, Sherry and I hit orgasm, simultaneously.

  God, I was such an idiot.

  I looked for her. I shooed Sherry out the door with excuses that my parents would be getting up early for church. Teresa was nowhere to be found. I accidentally woke Janey up when I was checking bedrooms, and her screeches, sorry, her excited squeals of delight, woke the folks. During my two weeks of leave before reporting for my next assignment (aboard ship this time), I never even caught a glimpse of Teresa again. In fact, she managed to avoid me for the next twelve years.

  Janey, unknowingly, fed my fixation of all things Teresa by keeping me supplied with pictures of the pair of them. Those two girls did everything together, and Janey was insane with taking pictures of anything and everything. Never one to just take a picture of a waterfall, Janey stopped perfect strangers to snap pictures of the two of them in front of the waterfall. As much time as the two of them spent together, it was even more amazing that Teresa always managed to become invisible when I was in town. Once, I thought I caught a glimpse of her. Idiot that I am, I traversed the whole damned department store looking for her. No luck.

  I shared all my letters and pictures with my best friend David. He’d spend hours flipping through them, absorbing my stories about my sister and Teresa. I was hoping to set him up with Janey when we retired. We decided we were going into business together and I thought he’d be a stabilizing influence on my free-spirited sister. Janey’s not stupid, don’t get me wrong. Shit, David has one of those genius IQ’s and wouldn’t be able to put up with an idiot. Janey was just restless. David, with his focus and intensity, would be a good influence on her.

  Then, eight months ago, on Halloween day, the pictures changed. I could barely recognize the woman I loved in the pictures Janey emailed to me of Teresa in the hospital. Oh my god. Her beautiful face. Ruined. I’m not so superficial as to think she had suddenly become, I don’t know, less than worthy? Sure, people see me and make the stereotypical assumption; blonde, Ken-doll looks—equals empty-headed, right? Doesn’t matter to me if I’m underestimated, that comes in quite handy in my line of work. Her looks don’t matter to me, Teresa’s perfection stems from inside her, the wrapper just means I noticed her sooner. Her outer packaging caught my eye, but the exquisiteness of her soul held my interest and captured my heart.

  It was a fucking freak accident. Lightning struck a tree for fuck’s sake. Blew the damn thing up and it exploded like shrapnel, embedding into anything in its path. Teresa’s back had been to the tree, but, at the last moment, she turned around to look over her shoulder and a branch took her in the face. The scars were bad, but the real tragedy is that Teresa is now blind. Janey tells me she almost lost her right eye, and hell knows, from the photos, I can believe that. There’s no visible damage to the left eye, but she lost sight in that one too. I almost flew back to the States from ‘the undisclosed location’ I was assigned to, but Janey convinced me that Teresa didn’t want or need anyone around her. I had to watch her recovery via photos and videos Janey recorded on her cell phone.

  There was a physical ache in my gut every time I pulled out one of the hospital pictures. The deep scars, the raw wound that bisected her eye, leaving a jagged, angry line. How many times did I pull up one of the pics and just trace my fingers over the path of puckered skin? I couldn’t tell you. I loved her. I wanted to take this burden away and carry it myself. Here I was, in and out of war zones for the last twenty years or so, without a scratch to show for all those close calls—and there were many close calls. Danger and threat of injury were anticipated and accepted with the execution of each mission. And my girl gets shrapneled by a fuckin’ tree? It was wrong on so many levels.

  I hurt for her. I hurt for me. I hurt for the lost time and opportunities.

  I’ll get to see her today. Twelve years. How had she managed to stay out of sight that long? But it gave me a warped sense of hope; I mean, in order to avoid me, she had to be aware of me, right?

  Crazy-ass fate kept me from catching up with her two days ago when we were actually in the same house together, but I had been asleep in the other room. So fucking close, and yet it may as well have been a continent again. I had been in that half-awake state, where I had been dreaming of what I would say and do the first time I saw her again. I thought I caught snatches of her voice, just speaking in a low conversational cadence. Soothing.

  I remember the sound of a cell phone chirping. Then, Teresa saying something to Janey’s cat about my sister expecting company that night and Cat was not going to be getting any sleep with the racket the two would be making. TMI, it’s my fucking sister, for cripes sake; I was not interested in who she was screwing, let alone at what decibel levels. I had my legs over the side of the bed and I almost raced to the other room before I realized I was stark naked. Not a best first impression after so many years. Then again… The front door closed with a loud thud before I realized, duh, blind girl, she wouldn’t have known I was only wearing manly body hair and sporting a stiff dick. Hell, who am I kidding? I would have grabbed her up in a hug and kiss that would have left her in no doubt.

  With the heads up my sister was expecting company that night, I gathered up my shit and repacked my suitcase. Janey would have been happy to let me have the spare room, but I got a room at the Doubletree Hotel instead. I hadn’t slept in two days, and I needed rest. I refused to lay in the spare room listening to my sister and some bozo having wild monkey sex. I woke up late the next afternoon and let her know I was in town with my friend and business partner, David. Janey had long ago caught on to Teresa’s avoidance of me, so she planned to maneuver Teresa in to a family breakfast the next morning.

  Today, I’ll get to finally see her. I just want to wrap my arms around her and breathe in the fragrance of her hair. Would it still smell like oranges? Would she even give me a chance to make things right? I play a loop of conversations in my brain, trying out different scenarios for this first meeting. Damn, what an idiot I had been. Will she forgive me? All I can ask myself is, with the loss of her sight, will she ever really ‘see’ into my heart? I have to live with the idea that her last visual image of me, before she was blinded, was my body bent over another woman. I can never replace that picture in her head.

  We are parked in front of Teresa’s house, waiting for Janey’s boyfriend to bring her outside. Janey’s driving us all to breakfast, and her boyfriend, Ken (Yeah, his real name. I caught the Ken and Barbie reference too), is escorting her to the vehicle. Oh. My. God. There she is. She is casually dressed in blue jeans and a black t-shirt with an ornamental pink fish splashed across the front. Her height towers over the man at her side. The tall, gawky teenager has blossomed into an elegant, poised woman. She walks with a confident, easy grace, as she grips Ken’s arm while he guides her forward.

  My breath hitches in my chest and it feels like a weight has just descended like a stone, preventing me exhaling. My breath leaves me in a rush, but the heaviness is still there. Fear? Anxiety? Oh God, my mind goes blank, and I lose the speech I have mentally prepared. I’ve completely forgotten what I want to say, as I drink in the sight of her moving towards the car. Toward me.

  And there it is, her smile. Her head thrown back with laughter dancing in her eyes. I think to myself, I’ve loved her forever. Now, I just need to find a way to get her to finally see me. To see what I have seen all along—the possibility of Us. I open my door and step out of the car to greet her.

  ~~~

  T. Hammond lives in Spokane, WA with her goofy, neurotic, long-coat German shepherd, Dexter. Writing is not a calling so much as it is a compulsion. No one is more surprised than she is when characters take over the plot and dialog, and (re)direct stories in directions she had not (consciously) intended. She
is fully convinced that the writer is only the tool a story uses to tell its tale. Friend her on Facebook.

  THE LAST NIGHT

  Jean Booth

  Beneath the waves, on an ancient, mythological island, Atreyu and Cleito must choose between facing Poseidon’s wrath by thwarting fate, or initiating an ancient prophecy. Will they choose to continue their forbidden love, dooming their lost civilization to a watery grave in the ocean's depths or allow Atlantis to rise?

  ~~~

  Author's Note:

  This short is meant to be read after Choice, however, doesn't spoil Choice if read out of sequence. For more on the Origins of the Supernaturals, and to read more about Natasha and Raifuku, check out the rest of the series: Choice, Changed, Created and Consumed.

  1

  “I love you.” Atreyu said fiercely, his words coming out harsh with the strength of his desperation and conviction. “I should’ve told you centuries ago, but I could never bring myself to utter the words. I knew that even if you felt it, your bonds would prevent you from saying it anyway.”

  Cleito looked into Atreyu’s silver eyes, cupping his beloved cheek in her small hand and wishing she could let him know what she felt for him. She knew the words were better left unsaid.

  Atreyu was right. Even though she loved him with her whole heart, she could never tell him. She was bound and mated to another, and Poseidon didn’t share. She couldn’t tell Atreyu that if she had to choose, if she wasn’t mated, she’d choose him every time. She couldn’t let him into the very recesses of her heart, couldn’t bear to see the pain in his eyes when she told him he was her everything as she left him to return to her husband’s arms.