The Crystal Girl
by Rose B. Thorny © 2007

Perhaps this time. Perhaps the thousand other times would be sucked into oblivion like so much murky bath water and this time would be real.

His lips fluttered, lit on her eyelids, a butterfly on a warm summer breeze.

She felt hot breath against her cheek, heard urgent, rasping sighs in her ear, inhaled his scent.

He kissed her mouth, explored the moist depths with an insistent tongue. He traced the line of her pulsing throat, the smooth curve of her shoulder, the soft slope of her hip with restless, burning fingers; slid his hand between her legs, caressed the shaven lips.

She was wet, all sensation, all anticipation.

He probed her throbbing, humid, secret space, massaged her to rigid want. He kneaded, stroked, whispered. He loved.

She clenched, quivered.Prayed, pleaded. This time…this time for certain. Yessssss. Now.

He buried himself in her; stroked her, filled her, and when he erupted inside her, she screamed with him, for hm.

The crystal girl shattered.

She gathered up the pieces of herself, mending once more, with silent tears, all but the lost shard; the one she could never find, the one that would make her real.

Next time. Perhaps, next time.

* * * * *

Overture
by Volponia © 2008

They met at the airport: he, dressed as promised; she, holding a sign that said “Wanted: Tchaikovsky,” in honor of his Internet identity. After one brief, assessing hesitation, they embraced.

They rode home in silence, somehow unable to voice the ardor of their e-mail exchanges. But when the apartment door closed, awkwardness fell away, along with their clothes. The long-distance courtship had served as foreplay. She was wet, willing; he was eager and erect.

They tumbled joyfully into bed. With a velvet tongue, he worshipped her. A chain of orgasms shook her, and she felt his grin across her lower lips. When at last he rose and slid into her, it seemed the cosmos rearranged itself in tribute.

With long, graceful thrusts, he set the tempo, his cock stroking against her pubic bone like a bow, drawing from her throat an aria of amazed sobs as he rose from Lento through Andante, then seamlessly to Vivace, a brief pause as he poised above her, and then a joyous climax, announced with an imagined clash of cymbals.

With a sigh, he lowered himself, trembling, into her embrace. At last, she cleared her throat and said, “I’m Susan. You must be Ben.”

* * * * *

The Doldrums
by Nan Andrews © 2008

Sheila met him at a wedding, but even catching the bouquet was no guarantee. Now she inspected the tea leaves as he slept in her bed. Hot. Wet. Forever. Sounded promising.

She woke him with wet lips sliding down his cock. Tad pulled her hips over his mouth. His mustache tickled as his tongue worked on her clit. Sheila laughed as she came.

Three days in bed and she was hooked. On his tongue, on his cock, even on his soft patter in her ear as she drifted off to sleep. Tales of foreign ports and vast oceans. When the time came to leave, he begged her to join him. She looked around her apartment at her meager life and thought of the tea leaves. She packed a bag.

Weeks later, they drifted across the equator, somewhere in the doldrums. They made love on the deck. He whispered stories of Neptune coming out of the sea, when suddenly a rogue wave appeared and swept Tad overboard. Sheila hung on for dear life.

The boat righted, but no mast, no Tad, no radio. Sheila hunkered in the bottom of the hull. Hot, wet, forever. The tea leaves hadn’t lied.