Erotic Fiction: The Prize - Adult Stories

An extract from Affection: A Memoir of Sex, Love and Intimacy

It was all about the sex, and the sex was always fine. There was a lot of it. I was constantly buoyed along in the afterglow of one orgasm or another. I walked in a fog of sex. I was distracted by it. I bumped into things. There were always bruises. I looked at everyone as a potential partner and it was right to feel this way. Finally my world had caught up to me. I no longer felt like a secret predator, hiding my lust behind a friendly fac?ade. I felt more honest like this. I flirted with intent.

On this occasion, it was all about the timing. I was at the Ryan Street house, our house, clothed in evening wear. High boots and a dress that billowed. There was opera on the stereo. All this because I couldn?t bear the idea of washing up, a job I hated and rarely completed without the theatre of the dress and the music. I made a performance of it, treating myself to sips of chilled wine between each burnt-bottomed pan.

When he arrived the last of the dishes was dripping foam into the precarious pile by the sink. The door was open and he stood in the lounge room and the muslin cloth was flapping in a hot breeze and I turned around and it was like a scene from some movie. Him so beautiful, me in my evening gown and my rubber gloves, the opera screaming to an exquisite climax.

I almost laughed, the poetry of the moment struck me as comical. I had given him my address but I didn?t expect he would find me. He was a customer at the cafe? and every time I spotted him perched on one of the cane stools I became inept. I dropped cups, fumbled cakes off their plates; once I even dropped a whole tray, hot with dishes just washed.

So I didn?t try to speak to him when he stood in my lounge room. I took my clothes off, standing in boots and bra as the opera quietened to a duet.

I like the feel of lubricant and face cream and spit.

I walked past him into the bedroom where our king-sized futon kissed three of the walls and when he stumbled out of his trousers I noticed that his penis was too large. He was a tall man, and I was short enough to approach it warily. I could only fit a fraction of it in my mouth. I rolled the condom part of the way using my lips, but I was forced to back off, finish the job with my fingers. It was the first time this had happened to me. I wondered if it would hurt.

I was wet, which was unusual. I am not the kind of girl you read about in pornographic magazines, oozing juices. My excitement leaves me perhaps a little damp. Even after orgasm there is no more than a discreet slick, just enough to give a slippery edge. I like the feel of lubricant and face cream and spit, but I am like a desert, hot and fierce with passion but with only a hazy glimpse of moisture, a mirage.

On this day, perhaps because of the heat or the opera or the hours standing at the sink in high heels, there was little need for lubricant. I used it anyway, the size of his penis made a little knot in my lower abdomen. Too big for me. I thought he might hurt. I squeezed the clear stickiness onto my palm and marveled at the distance traveled by my fist, each stroke a journey all the way from the tip to the flat of his belly which was surprisingly pale and soft, like something newborn and desperate for protection.

I lay him on our bed, this man that I had wanted for so many weeks. I straddled his hips and settled myself down gently, only a small way.

How could I take much more of him into me? I measured the uncharted territory with my hand. I would need both hands to cover it. I stroked the vulnerable length with my fingers, my hand an extension of my cunt, massaging all the length of him. With my other arm steadying myself I wondered how I would bring myself to orgasm without loosing my grip on him completely.

The door was still open and there was Richard, standing in the doorway, grinning. I had brought him a prize, hunter-gatherer. It could have been anyone, a stranger on a bus, someone I met at work last night, anyone. He wasn?t to know that the soft groans from beneath me were the sweet chinking sounds of a jackpot paying out, the one I had wanted for so long.

He joined us without introduction. His hand linking fingers with, then replacing, my own on the generous length of penis, my body impaled on top of it, slowly relaxing to consume more of it. I felt his fingers edging into me, stretching the flexible skin, thickening the load. I felt him reach up inside me with his spidery hand and measure the length to the tip of the cock, marveling (I assumed) at the size and shape of it.

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Then the fingers withdrew and I felt his tongue touching my clitoris briefly before making the long journey down to that tender pale flesh of the man?s belly. I kissed the boy. He had a sensual mouth, wide and warm. His spit tasted of oranges. His tongue was long and it pushed up between my teeth and the soft underside of my lips. I wasn?t sure if he had felt Richard?s arrival, if he knew that the soft squeezing pressure was not some internal muscular sex-worker?s trick, but the excited fingers of my lover. I had told him about Richard of course, warned him. If you find me at this address you will find Richard there as well. I kissed this new-found prize and there was a gentle pressure on my anus, a tentative testing with a fingertip followed by the cold nozzle of the lubricant and a sudden icy trickle shooting inside me, slipping around the edges, readying me for the next part of this strange dance.

It is easy to disappear when there are two penises entering you. This is what I liked most about the double entry. As long as the smaller one is in the back there is barely any physical discomfort.

There was no pressure for me to perform. The men performed for each other. I was free to watch them find each other?s mouths over the slight obstruction of my shoulder. When their tongues lapped, I was there to watch. I saw them exploring the wet cavities of each other?s mouths. I felt their cocks butt up against each other. I felt them change their rhythm so that their thrusting would be synchronised.

They sucked my breasts, each tongue eager to prove itself more ardent. It was a competitive consumption of my body, their wrestling for position was half in earnest.

We felt the pulsing start, the two of us, this new lover and myself.

I felt the new lover reach around with his extra-ordinarily long arm I felt him stroke the sensitive muscle with his fingertips, slipping on lubricant, forming a perfect O around Richard?s penis. The extra pressure was too much for Richard. We felt the pulsing start, the two of us, this new lover and myself. We felt the uncontrollable spasms of his hips as he relinquished any thought of gentleness and pumped hard, forcing himself into me in a jerking rhythm.

The new lover thrust his head backwards to expose his throat. He was about to come too. I tried to lift myself off him to attempt a subtle retreat, but Richard was still collapsed on my back, his hips twitching in an echo of his orgasm. The boy bucked forward and it hurt, but it was also, surprisingly, pleasurable. He thrust high and hard against the shrinking swell of Richard?s penis. I was flushed with the effort of taking him in. I felt the pumping of it stretching me and I pressed my thumb against my clitoris, back and forth. I wanted to come. When there was a new lover in my bed I never came. I would save it up for later when Richard and I could be alone and have more time to reflect. But this was my prize, the boy who made me spill milk, drop cups, fumble cakes into customers? laps.

Krissy Kneen's first book, the memoir Affection was published by Text Publishing (AUS 2009) and Seal Press (USA 2010). Her books are available to buy on Amazon.

You can also follow her on her blog, Twitter, and Facebook.
You can find out more about Krissy Kneen by visiting her blog, or following her on Twitter and Facebook.