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Parking in the 60's
By B.K. Bilicki
By G. Gregory
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By Lynne den Hartog
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The Long Ride Home
Leah And The Eagle
The Shades of Gray
The Nice Guy
The Love Song of...
Its Been Going Around
Dancing with the Banshee
The Last Thing You ...
Time in a Bottle
Dark, liquid amber.
Amber preserves, they say. Insects trapped in the viscous ooze, captured by a twist of fate that impelled them to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. They fight it. Do they understand, know that time has run out? The resin engulfs them, hardening around them, wresting the life force, handing them eternity on a deadly golden platter. Ageless, no more struggling.
My amber doesn't harden. It remains warm and liquid on the journey from the bottle into the glass thence past my lips and burning down my throat to sit in my gut trying to melt the black ice of emptiness, to ignite a fire that frightens away the spectre of the cold grave.
Unlike the insects, I'm still fighting it.
Where are you?
The image of you framed by the French doors to the balcony, back lit by the morning sun glancing off the sea, is as clear as if it were burned into my retinas.
A hot, salty breeze fluffed your sun-streaked hair, the silky locks my hands so recently grasped. You stood there defiant, daring time itself, one arm out straight propping you against the door jamb, the other bent, hand resting on your hip. My god, you had the sauciest expression knowing I couldn't keep my eyes off your cock. It swung like a boom when you moved. Never underestimate the resiliency of the twenty-year-old penis.
It had already charted every part of me, probed each snug harbour, and was ready to go around the world and explore again.
And I? I was more than willing to allow you passage into every port.
Lying there amidst the rumpled sheets, downy quilt half-slid off the bed, I could still feel the pressure of you inside me. I was shameless, beached atop the bed legs spread wide with your cum seeping out of me. It was sticky on my thighs and cunt and along the furrow of my ass. And it wasn't enough yet.
I rolled over and drew up my knees, spreading my thighs and raising my ass, undulating, rocking like a moored vessel, extending the invitation.
"You have permission to come aboard," I said. "Be a good mate and do your duty. I want my deck swabbed again."
You laughed and it was deep and musical and it rippled over me and made me throb. I worked the muscles in my cunt—clenching, relaxing, clenching, relaxing—knowing the sight of it was pulling you towards me again.
"Ma'am, you are insatiable."
Now I laughed. Ma'am. I hadn't even told you my name, though you could check it on the manifest, if you wanted to.
I wonder...do you lose track of the names? Do you even care about the names? Or are we all just so much fuckable aging meat? Well, no matter. You seem to enjoy your work; all of it. You more than earn your tips.
You certainly didn't balk at boarding me once more.
"In the ass, sweet Nathan. I want you in my ass again. The sun is nowhere near past the yardarm and I want you to fuck me till it is."
And how eager you were to accommodate. You dipped your fingers into my cunt and slathered the remains of our previous couplings over that hole that wasn't quite as tight and resisting as it had been the evening before.
It was one of the ports you'd found in the storm. I was glad it stormed; it kept your captain from putting out to sea and he gave you the impromptu shore leave. I was more than happy to have you wash up on my shore.
I gasped and moaned loudly feeling you probe with your finger first, forcefully, the way you already knew I preferred it. Oh, you are a quick study, Nate the Mate.
Then your cock pressing against the sphincter, like a belaying pin, blunt and hard, polished hardwood pushing into me. I made the screaming groan you said you liked to hear, not because you wanted to hear it, but because I couldn't stop myself. You dived deep and I felt your balls slap against my pussy.
Almost three times your age, but I'd never felt anything like that in all my years. Jeezus, the way you rammed into me, your fingers digging into the flesh of my ample hips, the bed rocking like a ship in a storm straining against its moorings. Long, hard plunges then rapid urgent strokes and the final lunge as the tide of our orgasms surged and drowned us both.
Two more times you plowed into me like the schooner you sail breaking through the rollers. You attended me fore and aft. The sea may be your mistress, but I gave her cause to be jealous that day.
We showered, lathering each other, playing with the foam in all our crevices, still exploring, always exploring. I scrubbed you down then gave you my parting gift. You didn't care about the cold tiles against your back as I knelt and took your delightfully flaccid cock in my mouth, sucking it to rigid attention once more. Able seaman indeed!
My farewells were inarticulate moans and cries, muffled by your flesh filling my mouth and pushing into my throat. One more time you spilled your salty brine into me.
You put out to sea on the evening tide. I saw you raise sail, could almost hear the creaking wood. I watched the schooner disappear around the headland. Another cruise. Another lonely, aging lady?
I have the souvenir you left me. Your tiny schooner encased in glass. Ship in a bottle.
Where are you?
Dark, liquid amber. If I pour it very slowly, it will last. Like time in a bottle.
Copyright © 1996 and on, Erotica Readers Association, Inc.
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