Sitting on the Dock of the Bay

The lake was always a ghost town the Monday after the Fourth of July holiday weekend.  All the weekend warriors trying to jam a season’s worth of R&R had faded away for a few days, until then next round of stressed-out people arrived at the cabins the following weekend. After the blare of ghetto blasters and the whine of jet skis, Nancy was happy to pull her long arms through the water, stroking her way from one end of the quiet cove to the other.

This was her solace – her’s and Joe’s—the little house on the lake with the blue canoe and the wooden dock floating on the water. They loved it here, the intimacy and the stillness. As she neared the edge of the cove the water began to get cloudy from the soft sediment around a fallen tree, so she flipped around and headed back to the dock. Joe was there now, his morning coffee steaming from the mug in his hand, his swim trunks already on. They rare wore anything else at the cabin, swim suits and cover-ups – or nothing at all. She stroked her way back to the dock, admiring her sweet husband every time her head emerged to take a breath. When she got to the dock, she folded her arms carefully on its splintery surface, her legs bobbing below her reflected in the otherworldly green of the water. Joe wasn’t in a talking mood yet, something she could tell by the pinch in his still-waking eyes and the high level of coffee in his mug.  But she could see that one part of his body was certainly awake. The red fabric of his trunks was distended like a pup tent around the hard morning wood of his cock.

 “Hey you,” she said squinting up at him through the late morning sun. “Why don’t you shimmy on down here and let me take care of that.” Joe shivered slightly as she put her hand, wet and chilled from the lake on his warm crotch. “What?” he said startled, fogged. Nancy pointed to the ladder descending from the dock into the water. If he sat on the top plastic step, she could hold on to the hand rails and give him quite a blow job. “Oh!” he said, a smile of recognition and delight spreading across his face.

Considerably more awake now, Joe put down his coffee and dropped his shorts in record time. “Geez! That’s cold!” he said, stepping on to the ladder and lowering his feet and legs into the water. “There will be shrinkage!” he quipped. Nancy gave a short bark of a laugh. Even with shrinkage she’d have to breathe carefully to control her gag reflex. The man’s length was something of a legend. Joe shivered again as his ass touched the chilly water and the cold plastic of the step. The he spread his legs wide, showing her his balls, shaved and swollen the in water, and his cock arched long and red above the wetness. She loved the way his skin glowed shiny and supple, like butter-soft leather, the foreskin pulled back tight in his fullness, the slit of his head open like a mouth making a small ‘o’. She loved stroking it with her hand or her tongue when it was fully distended like this. She did so now, just a light pressure of her thumb on the underside of his cock from the base to the tip, while her fingers curled lightly around him. This procured the desired effect as the first drop of cum emerged, glistening on his tip. “Mmmm. First Cum.” she murmured. Joe knew this was her favorite dish. She picked its sticky goodness off his tip with a flick of her tongue. He put hands on her dark wet hair and moaned.

Sliding her mouth onto his cock, Nancy flicked a few drops of water on Joe’s chest with her long fingers. He shivered at the contrast of her warm tongue and the cold water. Now droplets of water sparkled in his golden chest hair like diamonds. She tipped her head sideways as she took him and in and out in long strokes, enjoying the view when her face was far enough away from his crotch to catch it. After just a few strokes, Joe was pulling her head hard against him, thrusting forward slightly and striking the back of her throat with the head of his cock. Nancy pushed away, pulled her head back. “No,” she said, “wait.” So Joe put his hands behind him, leaning back into them again the dock, throwing his head back instead so the sun struck him full on the face. He looked so gorgeous, arched back in the sunlight like that, his chest sparkling, his waist lean and bare, his entire lower body glistening with water, the legs on his thighs framing her head, the hair on his legs slicked back by the water and the stroke of her hands. Nancy was eager to eat him, eager to please him, eager to drink him down.

Joe’s semi-reclining posture had opened up another opportunity as well. When he leaned back, he tipped his tailbone back slightly on the stair step, and his ass was no longer pressed firmly against the blue plastic. Nancy decided to use this to her advantage, and holding on to the railing with one hand, she maneuvered her other hand under water, pressing her finger against his asshole the next time she descended upon his cock. “Oh God!” Joe exclaimed, his voice echoing across the still water. “Oh God! Oh God!” Nancy slid her finger in, tipping her hand to protect him from her nails. “God.” Joe moaned again. “Deeper.” Nancy loved the sense of power she got from fucking him this way. She felt her own cunt swell tighter as she increased the speed of her long sucking and the depth of her penetration. Joe continued to moan. Nancy came down long and hard on his cock, taking in as much of the length as she could into her wet mouth, sliding a second finger into his ass as she went. She twisted her hand slighting, turning on the pulse. Joe was barely breathing with sensation was so strong. “Fuck!” The word exploded from his mouth and his cock exploded in her mouth. Hot salty cum was rolling over her tongue, spilling out the sides of her mouth. He arched his cock hard against her, his ass lifting fully off the step, his legs flexing on either side of her lifting her out of the water slighting with the strength of his thighs. “Fuck! Fuck!” he exploded again, as the waves of orgasm ran through him. She could feel his muscles ripple in her mouth, feel the rhythmic contractions around her hand. Nancy bobbed her head a few more times until Joe begged her to stop, collapsing back down on the ladder. She slid her fingers out and held on to the step railing, looking up at him with a please smirked as he collapsed back in exhaustion.

“Yummy?” she asked. “Definitely,” came his reply ,weak from the release. Nancy laughed and pushed off from the dock, resuming her swim. “Hey, where are you going?” Joe said, propping himself up on his elbows. “Isn’t it your turn?” Nancy just kept up her stroking, leaving him in his afterglow. There was time later, with him on his knees and her spread wide and naked in the hammock….

A Boy of Her Own

She could hardly believe what the last 72 hours had brought. The suddenness of it, the near cataclysmic change in her world, in her perception of her place in it. The sway and the shock of it rocked her so; it was almost akin to violence. How in the world had she become lover to this much younger man?

They had known each other for awhile now – a year, maybe a little more—had engaged in small talk and the vague kind of flirting two people do when they know there is no. possible. way. …. but find each other attractive nevertheless. She supposed something had been percolating there in the back of her skull. But she had been unaware of its unattended to presence.

Nothing had changed really, other than a slight shift in her work schedule, leaving him and her off at the same time, and her children still safely ensconced in school. She couldn’t really see what had prompted, three days ago, the slight brush of his lips on her cheek as they hugged hello, the trailing of his fingertips once along her neck as he pulled her hair out from the collar of her coat; and again his lips on her neck as they said their goodbyes, so light she was half doubted their tender reality.

A day passed where their paths did not cross and now on this third day they saw each other under completely normal circumstances—he making her coffee as her favorite barista, she browsing the magazines while she waited for him to steam her foam. She watched him from the corner of her eye, the deft way he measured and tapped, the length of his fingers as he snapped on to-go lids. She realized with a start that she was feeling proud of him. Proud of his measured efficiency, the obvious master of his skill.

Pride was a mother’s prerogative. She knew his mother, for crying out loud—had been friends with her in that way that you are friendly with whoever you sit next to regularly in yoga class. Side by side they had lined up their mats, chatting for weeks before she had made the connection that the son her friend spoke of was the handsome young man at her favorite coffee house/bookstore. Small world, indeed. The closeness of the connection made her squirm in discomfort.

As he passed through the line of customers, she sat alongside him at the counter. He pulled orders with confidence, making light conversation with ease. Not long ago he had passed her a mug made warm by his touch. Now it radiated heat into her cupped hands—a prophetic echo of the way her own hands would be cupped around his the heat of his body later that day. How could she have known? How could she have predicted the wrapping of her fingers around the curve of his neck, his protruding hip bone, the hot swell of his cock grown large under her touch.

She stayed at the counter until his shift was over. He had asked her to hang out, to wait for him. Her chest was tight with unspoken possibilities. He was young. So very young. Young enough to take a barista job seriously. Just barely of age, and well below the cougar equation of “half your age plus seven”. This was the common knowledge the magazines seemed to promote about women her age – too young to be old, too old to date college. She rolled her eyes at herself. Ridiculous. She cracked open her book trying to convince herself that nothing would come of this unseemly flirtation. She read while eating her scone in small nibbles.

After his shift they sat and talked books, he consuming an enormous sandwich appropriate only to the metabolism of the young. She tried to ignore the ache in her chest, the hunger at the back of her throat. He asked casually, could he come to her house? Drop off some books he’d found for the kids? They had just arrived at the shop. The next novel in an adventure series. Yet another picture book about dogs for the little one, obsessed with all things canine. She spun the mug in her hands, peering at the dregs in the bottom as if to find guidance amongst their leavings. Yes, she answered. Yes, everyone is gone now, but the kids would be home in a few hours and would be happy to find his gifts on the dining room table. A look passed between them then—not short, not long, but she thought, knowing. Breaking her gaze she gathered her things to go.

At the house she had let him in, dropped her bag on the sofa. Almost as soon as he shut the door, she was on him, and he upon her, his lips like the opening of petals. Their tongues were quick to find one another and the built up heat of the past weeks escaped on their breath. The teased each other with their kisses, their smiles emerging at the fluidity of it all. There were words between them, a brief few about discretion, the probable short lividness of this their small adventure. They did not rush, sinking eventually onto the bed, one that had not seen so much of someone else’s skin for quite some time. They moved through all the lovely, languid overtures, pausing from time to time for her to look at him, for her to stroke his neck. He had moves this young one. Skill beyond her imagining in one so fresh-pressed and new. There was a confidence there he had not previously portrayed, accept amongst the coffee mugs. She knew he would have some experiencing of course, remembering her own years of high school blow jobs followed by door room couplings. But he moved like a man–not like the yoga friend’s son that she had expected. He turned her so her hips aligned with his, quickly pinned her arms above her head, laughed at her surprised smile. Soon his fingers were slipping under the scoop of her shirt, exposing her breasts held aloft these days only by bras with infrastructure. Deftly he sipped them out of her satin cups; his lips too light for skin that had fed children – this the only indicator of inexperience, of a young man’s limited knowledge of women’s ways.

Without even thinking her fingers found the waist band of his jeans, unbuttoned the fly, sank below the edge of his boxers. He moaned ever slightly as her hands slid down and cupped his ass. Kissing her more intensely now as they rolled on their sides, he pulled her leg over his hip, pressing his hardening cock against her. They smiled at each other often now as they continued their journey; he asking her not to feel guilty about the age difference, she surprisingly angst free. This was not love after all, connection yes, but almost entirely physical. Pure sex. For the first time she realized what men meant when men said that it was “just sex.” She felt empowered by the scandalous truth of this reality that was right now before her…under her…perhaps soon to be in her.

He palmed her chin on his fingers, tipped her head up and moaned before burying his face in her neck, sliding his tongue down her throat to the hallow of her collarbone, then descending once more to her breasts. She mentioned almost like an aside, that perhaps he deserved a younger fitter body than her own. For the first time since they’d touched he called her by name, his voice somehow stern, as if shocked by this treasonous thought. Then without another word he returned to his lapping exploration. Looking directly at each other without pretense they ground against each other half-dressed, pants sliding down and skirts hiked high. She moved on top of him to ride him while they kissed and kissed, devouring each other: lips, tongues, earlobes. When her thighs grew tired of the rhythm she slid to her side, licking every inch of available skin until her hands found his velvety hardness. He groaned as she worked him, sank back and surrendered to her touch. She drove the blood into him, drifting over his shaft, cupping his balls, fingering along the edge of his stretched foreskin. Once he touched her hand to slow her, guide her. They entwined their fingers together stroking as one, she growing ever wetter at the unexpected union.

She wasn’t sure how far she wanted to take it, this first coupling with her ridiculously young lover. In fact, she had already called his hand away from the wet lace of her bikinis, his teasing fingers suddenly seeming too close, too intense for the flighty uncertainty that lay within her. These first glimpses at sexual adventure with the barely-twenty set were still new to her, and she was unwilling to surrender herself to the vulnerability that would accompany her cumming under his touch. She was too hesitant to stray too far to fast from the morays of hearth and home. There would be time—hopefully many other times, to build on this delicious adventure. So instead of letting him slide into her, she moved him more forcefully towards his end. She was giddy with the first shinning drops of cum on his cock, swirling the moisture around his tip, using the sweet flow to slicken his shaft as she stroked him. She realized with a bit of a start that she was longing to watch him cum, to see his juices flow. She would have to mop him up with whatever sheeting was at hand. But even the thought of the smear of him in her bed heightened her arousal. She whispered what she wanted in his ear, how he wanted to watch him come, to taste his salty sweetness only after it had seeped between her fingers. His body arched up into her almost before her sentence was done. He gasped at the thought of it, and with just one stroke, and then another her palm was absorbing his hot offering. She slid into the mess eagerly, thrilled by its sticky heat, using the lubrication to swirl her hand a few more times around his tight balls, his pulsing cock, overstimulating him with pure unadulterated desire. Eventually he pulled her away, unable to take another second more of a good thing. He kissed her then, laughing. She slid one wet finger indulgently into her mouth, then slipped one long digit between his own lips bidding him to taste himself on her. She pointed out that perhaps they were being ridiculously inappropriate. He commented that after that experience, he really didn’t care.

He offered to reciprocate, and she declined, saving that sensation for another day, savoring things. They mopped things up then, fixed buttons, adjusted clothes. The agreed to infrequent meetings—surely not dating–but meeting each other as they could. The unspoken anticipation of the next stage, and the next, and the next rested like a gift between them. She was dizzy with the change within her, the sound of her pulse in her ears, the rush of adrenaline in her body. She had forgotten, over this long dry spell the power she had wielded, the pleasure she could offer.

At the door, she slid her tongue around his mouth one more time as they said her goodbyes, and he slipped away before the children came home from school. This gave her time to catch her breath. She moved on with her day–switching the laundry, putting away toys, remaking the bed – all with the memory of his skin against her palm and her body wet beneath her clothes.

Consumption

He leaned over my desk this morning, his face serious and still, whispering ideas for another rendezvous.

Sometimes we are like glassy waters, lying placid and every day. Then, suddenly, the boiling starts, the rolling waves of hidden heat. This then, is when hunger overtakes us and we hold an ache behind our breastbones, moaning inwardly at every brush-by of touch or breath.

We touch each other just daringly outside of the sight of others. I lick his neck, drag my hand across his chest. He palm my ass, kisses me quick and silent, just the soft pull of his lips on mine in an abandoned hall. Under conference tables, we slide our hands too high on each other’s thighs, heightening each other’s arousal until finally in some hidden place he twines his fingers in my hair, pulls my head near his skin, kisses me in dangerous places.

Late last night in a haze of heat and pheromones I came to stand behind him at his desk, where he works his vampire hours. He turns his eyes from the glowing screen, spins his chair to face me, his hands up my skirt, past my stockings, and sliding straight inside me in seconds. I am in a haze, just a blur of desire and wetness and the ever deepening ache, ache, ache in my chest, my gut, my thighs. We are playing a dangerous game. I break away from him, pleased as a cat on a hunt, drunk on his desire for me.

But that was just a moment late on a midweek work night. Today we circle each other in the presence of others, steaming like bodies emerging from a hot shower into a cold room. He whispers to me his hours, tells me of the place where he will be alone, most likely with an erection in wait. I thrill at this invitation, at his aggression, his assertiveness.

Instantly I swell, and then I wait. All the long day I wait – meetings unfolding before me, emails, phone calls, small chat around the coffee maker. All my tasks feel like mosquitoes, distracting me from the time and place where I will be his presumed conquest, but truly he will be mine. I wait for the time when his hands will be under my clothes, his lips on my neck, his tongue between my teeth. I will thrill at how he takes my fingers into his mouth, obediently, hungrily. He will want me on his lap then, both of us sitting in his office chair, grinding against the heat of his cock. He will bite my tits, rub his fingers insistent and sticky on my clit until I pulse and cry out, die a little death. I cannot wait to feel his eagerness cut through me, to gasp at his arrival in my void, to rock him to climax deep in my cunt, held tight between my thighs.

“Playmates, not soulmates” is our motto. Still, the urgency of this scares me; the intensity of my need for his body is like one I’ve never known. Unexplainable. Visceral. When I see him through the glass walls of our offices, serving all the long hours to our master, the firm, I yearn. I hunger. I WANT. So what is that then? This thing too intense for play, too insanely carnal for love? Like a beast, it wants to consume, and I am surprised to find myself wiling prey. I realize with a thrill of terror that we are both in the grip of a predator, more than willing to be consumed.

The Need of Memory

a friday fantasty from the imagination of Miss Virginia Prude

I can hardly breathe to think of it, that it was—it is—real. That you wanted me with such unchecked determination. That you spoke my name, one word laden with meaning, hushed like a lover. Like one who loves

That you came to me in the night smelling of club and cigarette, all hands and hunger, fingers all places at once, the ache of it with me still. That you drew my leg across your hips, your hand drawing across my thigh, your eyes half asleep. You pressed your lips on my neck, ate my mouth with your lips—so full, so clever. Wrapped your lean arms around me, drew me into your body. The intensity of it leaving me as hazy as a dream.

I want to remember: your confessions, your fantasies. That you wanted me in you and on you and you on me and in me. I want to remember your fingers in my hair, lifting it away to reveal my face, turning us in front of the mirror to watch me take you in.

I need to remember your smile, breaking like a door that opened to shine a blade of light across your face. So rare to see a man smile in the midst of hunger—pure, impulsive, like a secret joke, a riddle just for two. And your glee…at being under my hand, under my control, submitting to the press of my hands on your wrists, the ever-lengthening stretch of your body, the pressure and stroke of me everywhere while your skin tightened along all the delicate edges. The tension in your voice groaning out your readiness.

I need to remember the way you longed for me, with hunger and the need to be touched, to touch, to be lost in the sensation of one another. I need to hold on to the soft touch of your kiss on my inner thigh, of your chin glistening in the bed sheets. The husk of your parched voice asking “Do you like this? This? This?”

Will it continue, the richness of these things? Your skin in my mouth, my tongue on your neck, your hands on waist, your lips on my breasts? I hedge against uncertainties, against the vagrancies of personality and time. In case this fails, in case one night is unexpectedly, unforeknowingly, our last. I stokepile memories, rebuilding these things in my mind, in my body until I am sure they are real.

Really Darlings, Miss Virginia is finding it most difficult to write a full-fledge erotic story every week. Perhaps she was a bit ambitious initially in saying she could get one up in time for each and every Friday. Every other week, or even once a month seems to be more reasonable, you see. While Miss V does have loads and loads of brilliant ideas floating around in that dear little head of hers, she is simply not able to find enough time to get them all down on the page. Oh, my what a predicament!

But dears never fear, Miss Virginia Prude is not without resources. What she would like to suggest to all her lovely Steam Room guests, is that we all try our hand at writing the teeniesty weensiest piece of naughty prose. What do you say? Are you up for it? (Oh my, Miss Prude does seem to be ever so inclined to the obvious metaphor, doesn’t she?)

To prepare the Steam Room for this project, Miss Prude has set aside her regular reading of Miss Manners’ Guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behavior (a must-read for every good Southern Girl like herself.) Instead she has been enjoying the rather refined work of Miss Susie Bright, author of any number of books and collections of erotica, and mistress of the most informative and scholarly webpage. Now gentle readers, Miss V will be the first to admit that some of Miss Susie Bright’s work is slightly-too-brash for the most sensitive of the evangelically inclined. But Miss V must say, she has enjoyed it all rather well, in spite of the occasional discomforting blush. At any rate, this week Miss Virginia has been reading Miss Susie’s, How to Write a Dirty Story (of which she has an autographed copy, so la-di-da darlings.) In this helpful text, Miss Susie is ever so kind to have given her readers any number of helpful writing prompts, some of which I look forward to using as the impetus for future steamy stories. It is her suggestions in How to Write… which have inspired me to start a little story and then ask you, kind readers, to finish it.

Please recall that Miss Virginia’s Steam Room has a policy of being “heavy on the hot, light on the nasty,”(TM) so please do refrain from allowing your characters to engage in threesomes; cheat on one’s spouse; be too awfully submissive/dominant; or get involved with anything other than the most delicate of tie-me-up-tie-me-down play (what else are those satin dressing gown sashes for , darlings?) And of course, Miss Prude hardly thinks she has to mention that nothing should be done to any character against his or her will. We simply do not play that way in this particular Steam Room. All of those things may be just fine for some audiences, but they tend to be a bit much for the Vodka Tonic Ladies. We don’t want to send the VTL into the dangerous sort of heart palpitations, now do we?

Alright then darlings, at long last here’s your prompt. I know you’ll do Miss Virginia proud….

Valerie had what she supposed was a somewhat uncouth habit — she liked to read in the nude. To her reading sans clothes seemed to signify total relaxation– it had something to do with peeling off the uniform of work clothes and remaining completely unadorned in her own skin. Her bedroom was her favorite place to read. Propped up against a stack of pillows, Valerie let her breasts relax from a taxing day of being pent up in underwires. Her cooch didn’t mind the airing out either, and all around she was unbothered by the pinch of a waisband or the chaffing of some unrequired piece of elastic. Valerie paused from her reading a moment and glanced in the mirror besides her bed. She thought she looked well, posed as she was, with her ’sexy librarian’ glasses perched on her nose.

Today, in this unseasonable heat, the sheets felt cool on her pale skin, sliding across her legs in the most caressing of ways. Although the book at hand was nothing more erotic than Dickens, the sensation was beginning to moisten her libido. The breeze stirred the thin curtains of Valerie’s window, and it occurred to her that there was always the possibility her across the-quad-neighbor might have (his or her) windows open too.….

The Lake House

a steamy story from the imagination of miss virginia prude

Though it would be thronging with friends in just a few short weeks, the lake house was quiet this early May weekend. Just a few of the co-owner-friends came out so soon in the Spring. Only four of the eight fair-weather residents were here now, and two were out hiking when she heard him call her name from the sleeping porch.

The chaises lay there, all in a row facing the thinning forest and the lake front beyond. They’d yet to unroll the striped awning, and though the sun was shining down in full force on the house, it was still cool in the midday at this time of year. Alec was reading on one of the chaises, a blanket near by in case it got too cold. “Kara,” he called, “come over here.” And he extended his arm towards her from across the veranda. She crossed the threshold and walked towards him, taking his hand. He drew her wordlessly down to lay at his side.

They had often lain like this, mostly platonic, friends enjoying each other’s closeness and warming themselves with each other’s gentle heat. But that was before. Before they hit the second half of their 30’s. Before real life rushed in. And most importantly, before their break ups.

Kara had recently ended the most significant relationship of her life—an eight year saga that sank with a vengeance just three months ago. Its emotional undertow still sometime pulled her under into the damp world of loss. She was only just now staying above the surface for extended periods, gulping great breaths of air in her renewed singleness. Sometimes, Kara thought she could see a distant but possible shore where she might be happy again.

Alec had divorced a year ago, after finding his wife in bed with his closest friend – two life supports collapsing at once (and two less visitors to the house on the lake.) He had recovered more quickly than Kara, telling everyone that he had known it was over before it was over. In truth, it was the loss of his friend that hurt more than the end of a marriage that had always been thin-ish – like a drink when the ice has melted into it.

Now they were both “getting back to normal,” as their friends described it, and the lake house had been a healing shelter for them both.

Kara lay with her head on Alec’s shoulder, while he curled his arms around her. Soon, he was stroking her hair, pulling his fingers through the long silkiness of it. Except for this stroking motion, they lay very still. Each felt the heat of the other’s skin where it touched in the areas that were newly exposed after a long winter of turtlenecks. Kara’s bra strap slipped below the capped sleeves of her stretchy knit top. Alex’s bicep brushed against it where his arm emerged from his plain white tee.

Kara reached out tentatively and stroked the skin of his neck, drifting from the stubble on his jaw line to the edge of his shirt collar. Once….twice…again, before slipping the pads of her fingers under the neck of his shirt, and sliding along the edge of his collar, pulling down just slightly to expose the light hair on his chest. At this gesture, Alec turned on his side and rotated her towards him. He grasped the back of her thigh, throwing her leg over his hip, making her jeans stretch tight over her ass. He wrapped her body around him like one who had rehearsed his movements in his mind. Kara breathed sharply inward, then smiled at her friend. Their faces were just inches apart as he pulled their bodies even closer together with a hard tug. Kara immediately felt his hardness against her pelvic bone and tipped into press it. Alec’s breath came out with a hot sigh.

Without speaking they did what they always should have done, their mouths finding each other, consuming lips and tongue and skin in hungry mouthfuls. At first he held her head in his hands, pressing her to him in his eagerness. Then his fingers trailed down her hair, her neck, along her breast bone and the v neck of her shirt. When he reached the edge of her simple bra, Alex plunged his fingers under the soft fabric to pinch her nipples. The pleasure rushed into her chest like a hot drink. Kara moved against him then, pressing her hips rhythmically against his cock, rubbing him through their jeans like teenagers at a drive in movie. (They had known each other since then, after all.) They looked at each other with eyes wide and laughing. “Finally,” was the unspoken message, and their hands flew to take off the other’s clothes—Kara pulling off his t-shirt, Alec dragging away her blouse, swiftly unfastening her bra, slipping it off her shoulders with an appreciative gaze at her breasts, pink and firm with arousal. He bent and kissed each one lingeringly, taking her into his mouth like ripe fruit, like soft chocolate.

Again they paused, looking at each other with glee, Kara stroking the contours of his chest, his abs. She was straddling him now on her knees, and the crotch of her jeans pulled up a little, rubbing her with enticing friction. Alec pulled her down even tight against him and she felt her jeans pull up into her wetness. Kara closed her eyes, her tongue slipping out to lick her lips. Alec’s fingers moved to her buttons, undoing the fly, releasing the zipper. She rose up on her knees, moving her legs together and between his spread thighs so he could slip her clothes down over her hips, jeans and panties peeling away as one. Almost immediately Alec had lifted her a little higher on her knees, his hands under her buttocks, his face already buried in her hair. Kara groaned as his tongue flicked forward to her clit, lapping her with more hunger than she had ever seen in any man before. She bore her hands down on his shoulders and his drifted up to her breasts, finding their way by touch, pulling hard on her tits as he ate her.

Kara ground almost involuntarily against his face, unaware if she was being a fair lover, totally unselfconscious in her hunger to peak. He was already drenched in her juices and within minutes her body crashed into a pulsing orgasm. At her sharp cry of release, Alec maneuvered his hands between her legs and thrust his fingers into her to feel her pulse. He sucked her a few more times, moaning with a sort of satisfaction, then leaned back against the chaise, more than faintly triumphant.

“Proud of yourself, are you?” teased Kara from her stance above him, her fingers drifting lazily through her pubic hair and down the insides of her thighs.

“Definitely.” was his cheeky reply.

“Well then,” she said rolling off the chaise a little awkwardly and stripping her pants off all the way, “I suppose turnabout is fair play.” Alec reached out one hand to stroke her hip, drifting down her leg to her knee cap, the curve of her calf. Again with the ridiculous smiling for both of them.

Kara stepped her legs wide to straddle the chaise, and lowered herself down onto his upper thighs, her wet fuzz just a fraction away from all his swollenness. She brushed the hair of her cunt against his balls, licking her lip with the tip of her tongue as she stroked the downward arch of each of his hip bones. Reaching for his cock and she wrapped her fingers around him, stroking him lightly, slipping around in the wetness at its tip with the pads of her fingers. She knew she should probably extend this time teasing him; take him into her mouth, get him almost off before really fucking him. But frankly she didn’t want to wait. She’d spent most of the past decade being the proper lover. Now, with Alec, she just wanted to be herself in the moment. Still holding him in her fist, Kara pressed her other hand against his chest, lifted her hips, and slid herself onto him slipping her hand down his shaft and across his hip and she went down. Alec held her hips and laid his head back, eyes closed and she moved herself on him. She pivoted her hips in slow circles, rubbing his chest, watching his face express deep pleasure. After a time she tipped her hips forward and he put his hands on her thighs to feel her muscles flex as she lifted herself up and down the length of him, driving his shaft deeply into her, his head striking the tender spot behind her pelvic bone. Kara began to make short pulses of sound with every thrust, the sound of pleasure bordering on pain as the length of him created a delicious pressure inside her. Alec began that familiar male litany of ‘Oh Gods,’ and her own sound grew louder as his voiced pleasure turned her on and on. He was thrusting now too, in time with her, gripping her ass and driving her down harder and harder. Finally, Alec tipped his hips up higher and harder than the other thrusts, his head thrown back in ecstasy. Kara rode him a few more times, getting a few last strokes of pleasure before he twitched with over stimulus, then slowing to a gentle rocking before drifting to a stop.

“Mmmm.” She hummed as she lowered her self down against him, her breasts pressed against his now sweaty chest. “Yum.”

“Yum, indeed!” he replied, pulling the chaise blanket over them and burrowing his face against her now messy hair.

“We should do that again sometime?” Kara asked, tracing around one of his nipples with one fingernail. Though she was trying to be casual, she knew she hadn’t quite kept the worried sound from her voice.

Alec drew back against the chaise cushions, moving away from her slightly and tipping her head up so he could look into her familiar brown eyes. “Yes.” he said steadily, “This—and more—again, and again, and again….”

Stress Reduction

A Friday Fantasty

The dull sounds of über warriors shooting each other descended through the floorboards to Tamara’s bedroom. Her older son Jacob was waging war on the gaming system and the twins, just 5 years old, were his dedicated audience.

Tamara knew they were too young to watch that kind of video game, but the younger boys had been hellions all day long. At one point, she’d even found the cat skulking around the house with wet Incredible Hulk underwear tied to its tail with a twist tie. This meant three things:

a)      one of the twins had waited too long to go and was currently going commando

b)       the sandwich bread for lunches tomorrow was drying out on the counter

c)       the cat had lost all will to live.

Tamara knew she couldn’t face one more harsh reality without committing infanticide. The moment Jacob came home from middle school, she had plopped all three of them down on the couch with a bowl of Doritos. She did not care how many acts of gaming violence they were witnessing or how many chips were getting embedded into the sofa cushions. She just did not want to deal with one more parenting crisis.

In the relative sanctuary of her bed room Tamara kicked off her sandals and lay curled up on top of the bedspread. The afternoon light filtered softly through the curtains and in moments she was drifting in that soft-focus world between sleeping and waking. She heard the front door click open, registered the sound of the boy’s distracted greeting to their Dad, but could not rouse herself to get up. Instead she curled herself away from the bedroom door and buried her head in her pillow.

“Babe?” Chris queried as he opened the bedroom door. “That bad, huh?”

Tamara rolled over on her stomach and buried her face in the pillow. “What happened?” he asked, as he deposited his things on the floor and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Hellions.” Tamara moaned. “Mayhem.”

“Babe, I’m sorry.” Chris rubbed her back in gentle circles. “I’ll order us pizza.”

Tamara exhaled slowly as Chris’ hands continued their pattern. Encouraged by even this little response, Chris moved his hands lower down Tamara’s back, working the tight muscles around her tailbone. Tamara moaned again, and he drifted down her hips to work the deep tissue in her buttocks. “Babe, you are so tight.” He observed. No answer.

Assuming no news was good news in the amorous front, Chris slid his hands down the back of her legs and pressed the folds of her peasant skirt between her thighs. “Honey,” Tamara whispered, almost whimpering, “I can’t. I’m so tired.”

“All you have to do is lie here.” Chris replied.

“I don’t know,” she said dreamily, drifting into the comfort of his hands stroking the stress from her body.

“I know just where you need to loosen up.” he said in a throaty whisper. Chris slid up her skirt up her legs, running the flat of his hands up her thighs, and then lightly stroking own again with the tips of his fingers. Tamara let her legs fall a little apart. Chris repeated his strokes a few times, then let the upward stroke extend just a little further until his finger tips touched the elastic edge of her panties. Boy shorts. Chris knew Tamara thought of these as “practical,” but they totally turned Chris on. He liked the way they framed the curve of her rear, and even though there was far more material there than the special- occasion thongs, he could still pull the pliable fabric aside enough to —well, to do just about anything he wanted. He fingered the edges of the black fabric, then slid his fingers up one leg opening, touching soft hair hiding there. As he moved his hand more deliberately between her she tensed a little, then exhaled softly and relaxed. Chris stroked her with two fingers, first gently petting her like a kitten, then splicing her hair with a gentle push. Tamara moaned as Chris slipped in between her folds, stroking her hooded clit with little flicks of his finger tips. He was pleasantly surprised to find that she was already wet, and he knew in moments her clit would swell past its hood, eagerly seeking his fingers. He circled the area delighted, then, before she got too close, slid his fingers down to lower regions.

Chris knew from past experience that Tamara held all her tension in three places. The large muscles of her hips, the long thin muscles of her arms lower arms, and the tight hot opening of her cunt. He’d already worked the curved sides of her ass, and frankly, he was not that interested in her arms, elegant though they may be. With a push Chris slide both fingers into her and she let out a soft breathe of pleasure. Envisioning his way on to other things, Chris let his fingers slide deep into her and back out, in and out, in and out as Tamara’s breathing continued to deepen. On a last outward stroke, he took the pads of both fingers and circled along just the rim of her cunt, pulling the edges out gently, tugging the skin where the muscles felt tightest slightly up and towards her ass

“Ooooh. That feels so good.” Tamara moaned.

“I know,” he answered. Across the room on his side of the bed their dresser stood with a large oval mirror. The mirror reflected back to him the goofy, pleased look on his face. Seeing himself there in his shirt and tie, fresh from work with hand up his wife’s cunt turned him on immensely. The half-baked hard on that had been his since he saw Tamara’s legs on the bedspread now got serious, and he felt himself swell against his slacks. Hot with the thought of being inside her, Chris stroked around her tight red curve on more time, then added a third finger. He knew she liked to be full. One thrust. Two. Three. Fourfivesix. Now she was moaning incessantly, smothering the sound in her pillow. Chris was grateful for the battle that was going on upstairs on the Xbox. He could please her as much as he wanted and the three boys wouldn’t hear a thing.

Chris felt powerful now as the strain of the day washed away from Tamara and drenched his fingers.  “Do you want more?” he asked. She lifted her ass slightly off the bed in answer and Chris added the index finger of his other hand into the fray, stretching her as far as he could, pulling her cunt open wider as his other hand moved in and out rhythmically. He could feel Tamara’s tension release under his touch.

“Oh God!” Tamara groaned into the pillow.

Now that she was fully aroused, Chris could feel the rippled sponge of Tamara’s g-spot. He’d moaned and licked his lips. He’d recently become an expert at working this pleasure zone, and in just a few thrusts of his hand and come-hither curls of his fingers he could feel her juices rushing over him as she came. Tamara half-shrieked with the intensity of the sensation. But Chris didn’t want to stop just because she’d orgasamed once; he knew he was capable of more. He repeatedly stroked her from deep within to the very edge of her cunt, pulling down hard on the lip of her opening at the end of each stroke, stopping just short of real pain. Again with the moaning.

Now Christ was starving for his hot little wife, his cum beginning to weep down the sides of his swollen head. Abruptly he pulled out his hand, gasped Tamara by the hips and rotated her on the bed until she lay on her stomach with her legs hanging over the edge. Chris’s sticky fingers flew to his belt pulling it out from the buckle. He undid the button on his slack, pulled down the fly. In seconds his cock was spring out of his boxers. He thrust his pants down around his knees and three Tamara’s skirt up over her back. Her black boy shorts were pulled to one side, a darker patch of wetness showing where they were soaked in a wide swatch all around the crotch. Chris stripped them off her, watching her ass jiggle as she shook them off her ankles. Tamara slid off the bed further stretching her legs so that her calves were tight as she stood on her tip toes, her ass high in the air, spliced open and dripping. Chris grabbed her by the hips and pulled her close, thrusting his cock into her well-lubricated cunt. Tamara moaned and threw her hands out in front of her on the bedspread, clutching at the fabric. She turned her head to one side as he thrust into her. He could see the top of her head in the mirror, her sandy hair tousled with her earlier thrashing. He saw the stripes on his work shirt, the dark split of his tie, the hungry look and his face, the movement of his torso as he fucked her. God, she was so wet.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Tamara had started to moan rhythmically with each thrust. Christ knew he would peak soon with that kind of encouragement. She slid her right arm down the bedspread and under her body, curling up slightly so her fingers could reach her clit. Chris knew he’d been dragging her swollen goodness against the textured fabric and that he was bumping her deliciously against the edge of the bed. Tamara was working herself hard, getting close to a second coming. He upped the ante, increasing the speed of his thrusts; angling his cock up deep and high; concentrating on the long slip of her skin from his head to his crotch. One. Two Three. Tamara arched her back and almost screamed in release. Chris felt himself explode within her, his cum flowing out around the edges of her cunt, joining the cream that already spilled out onto her thighs. He froze for a moment pressed all the way into her; feeling the waves of pleasure moving up and around him; his hands pulling her hips tight against him. He rode her a few more undulating pulses before folding over her and resting his chest against her back. They were both panting heavily. Chris reached up and pulled Tamara’s hair away from her face, so he could see the curve of her neck and whisper into her ear.

“Feel better?”

His only answer was a sort of humming moan.

“I guess I better go order that pizza.”

Front clasps, 501’s, and Easy Chairs
a first-time fantasy

They had been going together for two months, twenty-nine days. Tomorrow was their three month anniversary. It was the kind of thing girls her age remembered, though they seemed silly in the eyes of others— his friends, her father, the merciless teasing of her older brother.

It had started in the mornings, those crisp cold days at the end of winter, when the frost sometimes still iced the picnic tables in the quad. Stacy’s mother dropped her off at school too early at school, anxious to beat the gridlock of commuters on the bridge. Stacy was younger than most of her classmates, having started school as early as possible so her parents could forego babysitting payments and make the dollars stretch farther for their young family. Now she was one of the only students in the class of ’86 who didn’t have their drivers license yet. Not that it would have mattered. Stacy’s parents couldn’t have afforded another car, and her own money, earned at fast food joints and mall shops was being tucked away for college in one more school year. So it was that Stacy arrived at school too early. She was always the first to huddle at the scarred picnic tables, learning who loved who ‘forever’ in their scratched surfaces. Stacy always found it ironic that a declaration of unending love could be made by carving ‘TLA’ into some table top with a pocket knife. It was on one of these mornings that he surprised her by coming to her, the boy with the dark hair and soft eyes who she knew only a little—mostly just in passing.

James was older than Stacy and in the class ahead of her. He was part of the mod artsy crowd, with his jeans narrowly pegged in with big safety pins, and his vintage sports coats showing their paisley lining on the turned up cuffs of the sleeves. She had gone to his apartment once afterschool. A small place a few blocks away where he lived alone with his mother. They had drunk Cokes and watched MTV. But that was with her best friend Marnie, who had been the go-between and the outing arranger. Stacy had assumed that James was interested in Marnie. Everyone was interested in Marnie. She cheered, and starred in all the school musicals, and chatted easily with whoever was nearby. There was something about the way Marnie laughed and tossed her hair, the way her calves curved up above the school-colored stripes of her cheerleading socks. All these things attracted boys to the wonder that was Marine, so Stacy never even considered that James might be interested in her. It wasn’t within the range of possibilities that this cute, stylish boy might be attracted to the slightly geeky honor student whose long list of high school accomplishments contained nothing more stylish than a French award and being the secretary of the student council. So when he walked across the empty courtyard on that first chilly morning to sit beside her in the cold, she was slow to connect what he was doing there. She couldn’t figure out why he would come to school so early when his apartment was within such close walking distance to the school.

Stacy had been struggling with the assignments from her AP Algebra class and James sat down and offered to help. He leaned into her across the page as he wrote out the problems with his left hand. Stacy remarked outlook absentmindedly on this, that he was left-handed, as all artists are meant to be, using as they did the right side of their brain. James paused in his figures, and they both gazed at his hands for a moment. Stacy noticed with a sort of rush that rose from her collarbones to her throat, that James’ hands were beautiful, almost elegant, and the thought flashed into her head that she would like it very much if those hands would reach up and brush back a piece of her hair. Suddenly self-conscious, she rubbed her own hands together, more for something to break the stillness than for anything else. Her hands had grown cold without the scratching of her pencil to keep them warm. James reached out then, as she chaffed her hands together, and took her own small fingers into his, wrapping them in his own to keep them warm. It was then that she realized this was a flirtation—that this cute, interesting boy was interested in her, in Stacy, and not in Marnie. She felt her face flush hot with the possibility.

That was three months ago—well, two months and 29 days—and they had been practically inseparable since. Now they knew each other’s favorite bands (The Cure, The Smiths, and for Stacy, also Duran Duran); who thought Pepsi was better than Coke (only Stacy); and what kind of gift they wanted for graduation (James was holding out for a used car.) They had started slow at first, just kisses on the doorstep, then making out whenever they found his apartment empty, or her living room unattended. They stumbled a bit, when James sunk into a funk after his father appeared unexpectedly for a week, and then disappeared again without a word. Once Stacy had gotten James to find words for what was troubling him, together they had waded through the darkness of that moment, and lately, they seemed closer because of it. Just yesterday, in the now-warmer morning in the quad, James had presented her with a present. Stacy expressed surprise, eagerly unwrapping the tallish box. Popping open the lid she withdrew a delicate paper replica of the Eiffle Tower, a tiny silver bell tied to the top with a thin blue ribbon. James had made it himself, sketching it onto heavy art paper and painstakingly cutting out the delicate metal bars with an exacto knife. Stacy marveled at the intricate design, the way the whole thing folded and hinged from one piece of paper. It was a small wonder of artful engineering. Stacy had just won a scholarship to go on a study tour of France that summer. James knew how much that trip meant to her, and made her this treasure both to celebrate that, and to mark their anniversary.

Now they sat in her living room pressed together in the big almost-a-double chair Stacy’s mother had just purchased as part of a three piece set. It was made of a rattan frame and overstuffed cushions in a stylized Hawaiian print. It was the first truly new item her mother had ever bought for the house, and to Stacy it seemed heaven sent. The chair was just big enough to justify squeezing into it with her boyfriends, (boyfriend!), but it was small enough that their bodies were always pressed close. They had spent many a night curled up in that chair, watching television with her brother and parents – Miami Vice, Remmington Steele, endless reruns of M.A.S.H. on late nite. Even then, under supervised eyes they had managed secretive touches; his hand slipping under her in the half-darkness, her palm sliding high on his thigh. Stacy took a quiet inner pride at the way the proximity of her body made him grow tight against his pants, causing him to shift his weight around in the big chair to find a more comfortable position in the crotch of his 501s.

But now, this Friday afternoon after school, Stacy’s family was out: her parents going for drinks with work friends, her brother at an out-of-town baseball tournament. She and James were alone, alone and nearly at their three month anniversary. Already she was sitting astride him, her skirt pushed up above her knees. She was sucking his tongue inside her mouth, pulling softly on his full lower lip with her teeth. James’ hands wasted no time sliding up from her waist to her breasts, cupping them in his artist’s hands, squeezing her hard in his hunger. Then his quick fingers moved to the buttons of her blouse as they kissed. Stacy melted, arching her head back and away from the place on his neck she had been lapping, so now he could more easily get to the undressing. She thrilled as she felt his fingers touch her, running down from her collar to the edge of her white lace bra where her slightly dark nipples were already erect and pressing through the unlined fabric. James traced a line along the inside edge of each scalloped cup, coming to rest on the silver clasp at the front center of her bra. This he managed with one flick (hadn’t they gotten this far many times already?) When Stacy pushed the straps off her shoulders and her shirt and blouse fell away, James let out an appreciative moan, running his fingers across both her breasts a few times before sinking his head to take wide mouthfuls of first one, then the other. Now Stacy moaned too and pressed against him, her legs spread wide around his hips, her body grinding hard against his clothed erection. She loved the feel of his mass pressing against her through the dark denim of his jeans, and moved herself rhythmically against him until she was sure her wetness was soaking through her thin panties onto his button fly.

Stacy reached for his belt buckle, his top buttons, freeing James of belts and bindings as his lips moved around her neck, his tongue on her collar bones. His hands slid up her bare legs and under her flowered skirt, resting on her hip bones briefly before sliding down her thighs, then back up again. James slipped two fingers of each hand under the elastic leg of her panties and hooked them over the top of the waist band, cinching the small fabric tight and pulling it against her skin like a harness. She looked at him then, with a light in her eyes and let out a throaty laugh that surprised her in its womanliness. They exchanged a look of knowing. Then in a rush of hunger Stacy’s hands flew to his waistband slipping it over and off his flushed head, beginning the awkward struggle to get them off his slim hips. James lifted himself up eagerly, shoving his jeans and boxers down past his knees. She settled back onto his lap, gasping in her hand what she had only ever felt before in hidden stages behind clothing. James fell back against the chair’s cushions, groaning with pleasure. After a few exploratory strokes James let go of his grasp on her hips, and held on tight to the wicker arms of the chair frame. Stacy slid off her perch on his lap and knelt on the carpet just in front of him, eye level with his swollen cock. She was impressed by its size, and the way the tip glistened in the afternoon light that streamed through the living room slider. She licked it tenuously, the first drops salty on her tongue. Then smiling, she lapped at its crown like licking the dripping sides of an ice cream cone. She looked up at him, taking in his enormously pleased reaction and kissed the tip, taking it just slightly between her lips like a plum, then tipping her head and sliding her tongue in one long stroke from base to tip before taking him all the way deep into her mouth. In a moment James was pulling away from him, his long fingers in her hair, his breathe coming in gasps as he begged her, “Wait. Wait.” He breathed raggedly and slowly for a minute, fighting to hold back his peak.

Stacy rocked back onto her heals while his eyes were closed, stroking the inside of his thighs slowly. She was so wet the lace edges of her white cotton panties were limp and soaked. Her body was aching with longing and she seemed to be both swelling outward and contracting deeply inward in almost painful anticipation. Stacy stood decisively and stepped out of her underwear, gathering her skirt up high on her thighs and climbing onto James’ lap once more, careful to give all his sensitive parts breathing room. She leaned close to his ear and breathed out a question. “Where is it?” she asked, her breath hot on his neck, the soft hair of her triangle so close to his crotch that it brushed against him. “Back pocket,” he sighed. Stacy leaned over the arm of the chair rummaging through his jeans to find the metallic packet. She found that necessary treasure, and settled on top of him again, her bare thighs spread open across his legs. Stacy struggled with the package while James slid his hands under her skirt, just along the joint where her smooth shaved thighs met his lean muscled ones. Stacy ripped off the top of the condom wrapper, then closed her eyes and gasped with pleasure as his finger parted her, probing in her wetness. When she opened her eyes he was smiling, practically licking his lips in anticipating. Stacy awkwardly rolled the latex over him, struggling to focus as James slid his fingers in her, first one, then two, stretching her virgin skin. As she finished rolling the condom down his long shaft he slipped his hand out of her. Stacy pressed against him hard, sliding her outer lips against the ribs of the latex, playing a little, feeling the slip of her skin against the curve of his cock without letting him dive inside her. James reached to stroke her nipples, bent his head down to her neck. Mercifully the layer of latex had backed down his trigger switch and they could linger a little on the exploratory rubbing and grinding, the luxurious friction of their bodies as they moved against each other. James pulled his upper body back to watch his fingers slide into her, moving up and down her slit with languid motions, finally finding the place in her wetness that froze her for a moment as she involuntarily whispered “There!” Stacy pressed against him, placing her own hand over his and moving it in slow circles. James returned to sucking her breasts, mimicking her circular rhythm with his hand. Stacy’s breath came faster and he picked up the speed, then let go of her waist and bent his elbow to slip two of his fingers from his other hand inside her. She moaned and swiveled her hips in time with him. His fingers seemed to be everywhere at once and she was woozy with sensation. On instinct, James slid in a third finger, making her gasp a little. Stacy paused almost infinitesimally before grinding on. Seconds later she arched away from his lips on her breasts and gasped out in pleasure, while he thrust hard and circled rhythmically. James knew he had seen for the first time, a girl cresting under his touch. He withdrew both his hands and opened his arms so Stacy could collapse against him, her face hidden in shyness against his neck.

In a few moments he put his hands on her waist and without moving her face from his warm neck Stacy lifted her hips, encircled the base of his cock with her first two fingers and her thumb, and in a slow languid motion lifted her head to look into his eyes while sliding down onto him. Simultaneously they moaned: she at the sweet painful stretch of her skin as his length and breadth filled her; he as he felt her soft hair arrive against his lower belly. Stacy slid up once, then pressed again all the way down and James groaned, thrusting his hips up and his head back at the rolling sensation of his release. Stacy felt him pulse inside her and knew he was flowing inside his latex glove. She glowed with pleasure that the heat and friction of her very own body could create such pleasure and release in this boy she found she loved. She rode him a few more times with her hands pressed against his chest watching his face be both tense with pleasure and slack with relief at the same time. After a few more undulations of her hips, James opened his eyes and pulled himself more upright with Stacy still in him. He kissed and kissed and kissed her, Stacy smiling wide with glee and pleasure. It was then James said it, in that awkward wonderful ending. “I love you, Stac.” he whispered, his cheek touching her own, his mouth close to his ear. She turned to him, very deliberately and holding his head in her warm sticky hands, kissed him, happy in the heat of their messy after glow.

Steamy stories are featured on Fridays. Tell a friend, or better yet read a story to one. And remember dears, you can comment anonymously in Miss Virginia’s steam room, so do Do DO give her some props! Ta Ta!

Well dears, Miss Virginia is positively appalled to read that young women are not getting as good as they give when it comes to the department of oral stimulation. Now, Miss Virginia is fully aware that this was the case when she was young, back in the dark ages. But surely in our post blow-jobs-in the-White-House era there’s a little more oral equity? Alas, teenage and 20-something human of the male persuasion are not stepping up to the plate. And according to my Friends Who Date, there’s still a bit of a problem in the older classes as well. It seems that for some men, the fine art of eating out either:

1) ‘Grosses them out.’ (This from a gender which does not mind wearing the same pair of dirty socks for an entire baseball season. And does Miss Virginia really need to mention that on our part, there is actual swallowing?)  or…

2) Is foreign territory and they are unsure how to drive around Lady Town. or…

3) Does not even cross their minds because there is A REAL LIVE GIRL in the general vicinity of their penis, and they have therefore forgotten that she might, in fact, like a little action of her own. 

Miss Virginia is sad to say that she expects number 3 is probably the most likely answer, as many men, young or otherwise, tend to get a bit of a blind spot when it comes to potential pleasures. But just in case the problem is a lack of knowledge, allow MissV to direct your attention to the clever and unabashed Pretty Lady, who offers gentlemen of all ages a primer in the Equal Opportunity Orgasm. This tasteful little number will give your hunky companion a map to Lady Town, and will help you heretofore unsatisfied ladies get a good night of post-coital sleep.

You may introduce this fine article to your potential playmate by writing an email that says something like, “Ohmigod, this is so hilarious! You have to read this blog post about ORAL SEX!”  Then send him the link. Hopefully it will help the apprentice advance to at least the journeyman level, because darling, as Miss Prude’s Vodka Tonic Ladies like to say, “If you go down to Lady Town, you have to at least act like you wanted to visit.”

And please, dear readers, do not forget that if you yourself are in possession of young person of the XY variety, your job as a Good Feminist and Adequate Parent is to educate your young one as to the necessity of fair play in this arena. You wouldn’t let your Young Man to go about thinking women belonged barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen, would you? Nor would you let the idea that women should be paid less than men for the same work reside in your Fine Offspring’s mind. So please, if you cannot breach the subject with any boys dwelling in your household, please have a favorite uncle, good friend, or the mail man introduce your son to the topic of Cunnilingus Equity. If we all do this for our Young Men, a whole generation of women will be deeply grateful.

Does anyone else have some helpful advice? Are there any parents out there who have had a talk with their XY offspring about giving as good as they get? Any stories of successfully negotiating the general problem with your man? Do tell Miss Virginia all about it….

Posted by Miss Virginia Prude, writer of  “erotica for the evangelically inclined.” Steamy stories are featured on Fridays.  Tell a friend, or better yet read a story to one!

Oh, it sounds ever more naughty that it really is, darlings! Miss Virginia has just signed up on Twitter, a fun little website that let us send each other adorable love notes. Miss Virginia thinks she will use it to send the kind of helpful little tips the Vodka Tonic Ladies do Do Do love to exchange. Want to keep up? Click here and follow me!

We were young then, and much in love, those days when he took my fingers into his mouth one by one, his lips a caress and a question. And then, a soft exchange, the pads of his finger tips on my tongue, long fingers, an artist’s hands, which I sucked with long strokes, my naiveté not quite catching the connection to other pleasures in other places.

It was the typical awkwardness of teen love – first times (too dry, too tight), bad angles (back seats, park benches), and of course, the ridiculousness of ‘protection’ (so embarrassing, so silly). In time though, we found our way–I always wet and ready for his touch, eager for new experiences; for the probe and search of his fingers, the paradox of his body at once both velvet and hard. Who can forget those early exploratory couplings? The instinctive arch of your body towards his, the thrust of his hips into your own. And finally, after weeks of near-misses, that first cresting gasp under his touch alone, the wave of your pleasure rolling over his fingers—or better yet, the pulse of your body sliding over his lips, his tongue, his wet and hungry mouth.

I never minded the ways we had to sneak and bumble. Mad couplings in parking lots, me astride him in the bucket seats, his jeans pulled low, my skirt hiked high. It seemed we were always half dressed then, boxers splayed open by a body with a mind of its own; satin things pushed aside, the lace wet with anticipation. Oh! And his army surplus coat used as a picnic blanket to save our backs from grass stains, my knees dented with the impression of pebbles as I sucked him, aroused by the salty drops first on my tongue, then rush in waves to my mouth.

Or if even those small minutes of solitude could not be managed there were always hands slipping behind belts, fingers under waistbands, palms sliding up a thigh and under the hem of loose shorts in the back row of movie theatres, or once, in the high shelter of a ferris wheel stopped mercifully long at the top of its arch.

And of course, almost as sweet as the every-time-we-can coupling were the love letters tucked under windshield wipers, flowers left on doorstops, silly stuffed animals with red satin hearts. And the phone calls, so long one of us would fall asleep on the other end. Or the heated glances across the classrooms–too obvious by far to other students and to teachers who turned towards the blackboard and rolled their eyes. Novel then, and thrilling were the kisses behind locker doors, hands held at orange picnic tables over Snickers bars and Diet Cokes.

Then always, after a week of those fine preludes, the weekends would arrive, when curfews lengthened and parents went out leaving behind empty rooms. There in whatever space could be stolen, there awaited the damp pull of skin against skin, and the new moans of hunger in the dark.

Miss Virginia is waxing nostalgic these days. She’s been watching Joan of Arcadia with one of the Beloved Offspring, who is, technically, a tween, but will be in the throes of first kisses and first crushes before you can say “pituitary gland.”

As in all shows about the dreaded high school era, there are a large number of crushes on Joan of Arcadia, including a darling first-love story between the title character, Joan, and her oddball pal Adam. Joan is a spiritually sensitive misfit; Adam is an oddball artist with a secret history of family trauma.

Miss Virginia is heavily reminded of her own high school era, whence she spent most of her days as a spiritually sensitive misfit ‘sort of’ dating her own oddball arty friend with family trauma. It was confusing, maddening, and…exhilarating. And although Miss Prude had to consume an entire box of Ho Ho’s when said oddball art friend took her best friend to the prom instead of Virginia Dear, I’d still take a little hit off that young love drug in a heartbeat.

Sigh. Don’t you kind of miss it, darlings?

Truly, high school is hell, and nowhere is it cattier, sillier, or more hellish than in the Deep South. Miss Virginia is ever-so-glad she did not hit her peak as, godforid, a head cheerleader or some other such rubbish. Miss V “likes to think the best of me was waiting just around the bend” in the real world. A late bloomer, Miss Virginia was confused 99% of the time when it came to teenaged members of the opposite sex. There’s an adorable actorboy who plays God in this particular episode. My Darling Offspring would say this boy was ‘hot,’ but I will need to opt for the term ‘jailbait.’ At any rate, the actor boy/’God’, points out that even if you were confused most of the time in high school, adding flirting to the mix certainly meant you were “introducing whole new levels of confusion.”

Still, in spite of the confusion, the heat and the hormones of first crushes and first loves curries its own kind of addiction. And, since Miss Virginia has always been the type of girl that believes love and sex are a mashup of physical and emotional/spiritual chemistry, the intensity of walking with crushes and loves through those first grown-up things, like family traumas and public dating, well, it’s all part of the deliriously heady package. The combination of that physical chemical rush and the emotional upheaval gives one a high that simply does not come with any other age. Now the eldest of my Beloved Offspring, the budding scientist, would say this has only to do with chemical highs and altered brain activity. But I prefer to think it has a little something to do with looking at a naked soul. Either way, that new love thing is addictive, and many Many MANY years of monogamy and parenting has made Miss Prude the teeniest tiniest bit jones-y for just a little bit of that old first-crush feeling.

Are you getting out your yearbooks yet? Googling names? Searching people out at Classmates? Miss Virginia thinks you should. It could be very good for the imagination (if you can get past the Embarrassing Horror that was your hair in 1985.)

Okay, now Miss Virginia highly recommends that you go listen to this on repeat while I write you a little something semi-fictional about a first love. Go on now. Miss V will be back with a bedtime story for you real soon…….

Welcome to the reception area of Miss Virginia Prude’s private steam room, offering erotic stories for the evangelically inclined.

Miss Virginia would like to remind you, that although you may be married, no longer twenty, and perhaps even the bearer of Fine Offspring, this is no reason why you shouldn’t avail yourself of some of the classier erotica available on Mr. Gore’s most excellent of creations, the world wide web.

You see, Miss Virginia is a Good Southern Girl and does not feel especially comfortable reading stories involving leather whips being applied to anyone’s privates, or to any other location for that manner. Nor does she need to know what you and your husband did with your old college roommate when you jetted off to Cancun last summer. But she does love a little bit of lasciviousness when she can find it—and much to the delight of Mr. Prude, Miss Virginia has decided to share her frisky little favorites with y’all.

To avoid completely embarrassing her three Beloved Offspring, MissPrude is blogging anonymously and offers you only these facts for your orientation purposes:

Miss Virginia Prude is a lady in her thirties, living in the southern part of these United States of America. Being a Good Christian Girl, Miss V spent the majority or her life assuming her body was the tool of the devil and feeling naughty (in a bad way, you see) every time the slightest amorous thought drifted through her feminine mind. This being the case, Miss Prude did not manage to find her full sexual awakening until later than the average teen. 

Married young, her innerho’ did not fully emerge until a bit late in life. And while Miss Virginia adores the clever and well written show, Big Love, she did not find polyamourous relationships to be an adequate outlet for her lately awakened sexual appetites. But she did wish to reclaim a bit of her sexual prowess before things began to sag too too terribly, and to live at least part of her life as a cheeky little monkey. So Miss V decided to write some bedtime stories that would leave her readers nicely aroused, without offending one’s moral aptitude. Thus Miss V’s blogspot, Steamy, was born.

Now, you should be warned, Miss Virginia does love to pontificate, so you’ll also find her standing on the proverbial soapbox and proffering unsolicited ideas about post-twenties sexuality, body image, and other things that we of the feminine sex must so often consider. In other words, all the things you ladies talk about after you’ve had two or three Vodka Tonics will be fodder for a little hot blooded discussion here in Miss Virginia’s steam room.

Now, I must insist that you all be on your very best behavior while you are here. No nasty suggestions in the comments please, and if you must tell us how these stories have improved your private life in the boudoir (or up against a tree, or on the beach blanket in Natucket, or what-have-you), do Do DO exercise good judgement. Miss Virginia knows you can find a way to express your fine sexual self without being overly anatomical, no? We don’t need to re-write Gray’s Anatomy do we, dears? And won’t it be ever so lovely to amass a collection of women-friendly erotic for ladies like us? Oh, do say yes!

Well now, let us get around to clicking about the site, shall we? Have a good…steam.