by Matthew Pridham
by Matthew Pridham
by Matthew Pridham
by Matthew Pridham
One evening, beneath a new moon, a man in a robe embroidered with odd symbols finished chanting a song of desire and power. Candlelight lent only a fluttering glow to the room around him and when he looked up, he had to squint to see a clock in the corner. Almost time.
by Elizabeth LeFay
She wanted that feeling, that one just before she came, that one, where it spreads across your whole pelvis and if you catch it just right, if you inhale just right and grab it in your breath you can carry that feeling, that orgasm brewing, that storm of electrical impulse up your stomach and into your lungs and down your legs into your toes, and that, that full fire spread, that was what she wanted.
by Elizabeth LeFay
The air was thick and heavy on her arms, like a soft blanket and she pushed through it and the green of the leaves along the path to the beach, struggling to catch her mother and stepfather before they got on the boat.
by Jean Mullen
Jenna loved her tile saw. Water dripped over the blade so delicately that she almost expected to hear wind chimes or whale songs rather than the whirr and crunch of metal digging into thick ceramic. She pushed the tile forward, torso arched back, hands placed firmly away from the blade. Soft water slid over her fingertips. She loved the feeling. She reached for the saw’s switch and examined her cut. It was perfect, straight and even. She smiled. The last piece.
Jenna stepped into the kitchen, examining the neat rows of dark green tile. It was not a color she would have chosen herself, but the homeowners loved it, and they wrote her paycheck. She was grateful they had chosen to go on vacation while workers like her remodeled their precious home. The tiles need a day to dry in place, then another day for grouting, then yet another to dry before they could be stepped on. The homeowners could only ruin them.
Leaning from the back porch through the kitchen doorway, Jenna spread thin-set over the back of her final tile, raking the thick gray adhesive into even rows. She reminded herself of a zamboni swirling precisely over ice carved by clumsy skaters. She bent over and set the tile in place.
She could feel Ben watching her from the porch. She wiggled the tile, forcing it to lie evenly with its neighbors, and made sure to shake her ass slightly more than necessary. She was wearing shorts, something often frowned upon on a construction site, but she was her own boss, and she knew her ass looked good.
Jenna set the rubber, cross-shaped spacers around the edge of the tile. She raised her ass higher, leaning so close to the tile that her nose nearly touched it. She imagined Ben behind her, covered in dirt and sweat, hands still clenching a shovel, his eyes following her body. She imagined his long fingers grasping the shovel tighter and tighter as her hips danced up and down.
The tile was in place. She turned.
“Oh, Ben. How’s it going?”
“Just great. Just great,” he said, caught off-guard. Jenna looked him over, pleased to find him much as she predicted. His skin was deeply tanned from his labors, his shoulders broad under his filthy t-shirt.
“I think I’m all done here,” she said. She peeled off her gloves and kneepads and tossed them on the porch. “For today, that is.”
Ben leaned his shovel against the porch railing. “Me too. I sent my guys home. I was hoping for some cold water, but I guess this entrance is closed.”
“For now,” she said. She stepped closer to him. She had watched him work under the July sun for days, but he never seemed to smell. She didn’t understand it.
“These things are so funny,” Ben said, picking up the hard plastic kneepads. Before she could protest, he was strapping them on, pretending to marvel at their appearance. He dropped to his knees.
“Well, hey. They work pretty well,” he said.
She stepped closer to him. He grabbed her ass and pulled her hips toward him. He began kissing her bare thighs. How could she ever regret wearing shorts? He ran his tongue under the denim hem. She sighed and began unbuttoning her shorts.
He looked up at her and smiled, teeth white against his skin. He pulled the shorts down and dug his fingers into her ass, his thumbs at her hips, kneading and massaging. He bit at her underwear, nipping at the cloth, applying gentle pressure to the skin beneath it. She sighed again, feeling herself grow wet, feeling the warm surge more quickly than she had in a long time. She would not ask him to stop. Day after day, she had watched him haul dirt through the back yard, muscles plain beneath his clothes. She had watched him lift his shirt to wipe sweat from his face, exposing the trail of hair leading from his belly button to his jeans. She had watched him watch her.
He again ran his tongue over her skin, playing with the crevices around her thighs. She put her hands on his head. He pulled away her underwear. Finally his tongue entered her. He swirled it over her clit, coaxing her blood to rush to him, for her cunt to swell and burst. His fingers journeyed from behind, reaching to stroke her. He reached two fingers inside of her, arching them toward her g-spot as his tongue flicked over her clit. She shuddered. Heat astounded her body. She pushed his shoulders away.
“What?” he said.
She sank down in front of him and kissed him, biting and sucking at his thick lower lip; he fought her back, his tongue gentle and firm in her mouth. She didn’t mind the taste of herself.
As he pushed against her, she lay back through the kitchen doorway, over the tiles. They shifted gently beneath them as Ben rose over her. His cock was thick and hard, pointing from his muscled pelvis. She smelled him now, a musk like lumber and soil. Now she grabbed his ass, marveling at its firmness. She pulled him to her.
She slid with the tiles as he entered her. She squeezed her cunt around him with such force that he gasped and sank against her. She loved that trick. She kissed his neck, sucking the dirt and sweat. He tasted perfect. She swung her legs over his shoulders and felt his cock fill her completely. The tiles rocked them into each other, encouraging their hips to sway in rhythm. She tightened her cunt again, expecting his to come.
Instead, he returned to his knee and raised her against him. She wrapped her legs around his torso, thrilled at the way his clavicle shone with sweat. Their tongues slid together. He thrust into her, holding her up as his cock rubbed against her clit. She remembered the sweet way the water ran over her fingers.
Jenna arched back, reaching her hands past her head toward the tiles. Her palms landed on the cool ceramic. She pressed her hips into his. She held herself steady as he cried out and rushed into her, his cum warm, his fingers pressing oval bruises into her ass. He gasped for breath.
She allowed their bodies to fold under their weight, sliding her arms down until they both rested on the floor, her back to the tile, his face to her chest. She felt his heartbeat race against hers. He slid out of her and they shuddered together.
“We ruined the tiles,’ he said after a moment. He kissed her chin.
“That’s okay,” she said. “We’ll just have to redo them tomorrow.”
(image from piqueyour.tumblr.com)