Image of woman straddling man, shadowed; Katarzyna Białasiewicz ©

Erotic Fiction…With Aura

In the last three weeks, I’ve been through two doctor phone appointments, five live doctor appointments, one MRI, several blood tests, and even one full-fledged panic attack. To say it’s been a little bit of a roller coaster is an understatement—but the good news is, there’s nothing major wrong. Yay!

So what is going on? Well, according to the fabulous neurologist I saw last week, my migraines have morphed into something really goddamn special. I am fortunate in that I don’t generally get the nausea and hammer-pounding headaches of most traditional migraine sufferers; unfortunately, I get all sorts of weird sensory problems instead: depth perception issues, tingling and/or numbness in my arms, mental disconnect, vertigo, occasional vision problems, and sometimes, the headache. This time, however, I developed a bizarre numbness in my cheek—and later, the entire side of my face—paired with completely blurred vision in one eye, which led some doctors to believe I might be having a stroke. (That would be the day the panic attack struck, by the way.) I am thrilled to say that isn’t the case, but it does appear a chronic basilar/sensory migraine took residence in my head for over three weeks—complete with all these fun new symptoms!

I’m getting to a point here, I swear (migraine brain fog is real, people). When I mentioned to the neurologist that I’ve been okay writing in short spurts in the morning, but everything else is sending my head into a spin, he suggested I stop the cycle of migraine with a heavier duty NSAID and a few days off (and yes, I totally followed doctor’s orders there). However, when I asked him how migraines could literally change overnight and cling, desperately, in ways they never had before, his response was the most poetic and frustrating thing I could possibly have heard:

“The life of a migraine is a mysterious and beautiful thing.”

I totally laughed that off. But Saturday morning, as I lay tossing and turning under my covers in a groggy, migraine-clouded and dreamlike state, I was thinking about the bizarre tingles raining over my brain that didn’t hurt at all, but that were making things really fuzzy and weird.

And suddenly, I had this spark of an idea:

What if a person could embody the essence of a migraine? What would she be like, as a lover?

It took me a while to drag myself out of bed to type this one up, but the story below is what happened as I sat down to imagine the mysterious and beautiful life of a migraine.

I hope you enjoy it.



Image of woman straddling man, shadowed

Katarzyna Białasiewicz ©

She comes into his life like a comet—a fiery bolt arcing across the skies, haloed and crashing down into the open meadow of his existence. She seems a quiet blip, at first, awakening beneath the sun on a lush bed of grass. She stretches herself out against it, her long, pale body blinding in its innocent beauty. Her fingers clutch the earth as she shimmers in the light, and she sighs at the caress of this world, this new place that surrounds her in warmth.

Instantly, he is drawn to her, knows her otherness and craves it. He takes her in as she begins to bloom, as she shows him that she is, in fact, no innocent at all. She is all curves and smiles, arms that encircle and hold, words of sweetness that tend to him just as he tends to her—but behind her glistening, loving eyes, there is something else. It is furious like the comet she rode in on, unbounded and wild, and it lures him forward in the heated swarm of his mind. It shushes away his fears when she kisses his cheeks, his forehead, his mouth, and when she tugs at his clothes and limbs, she draws him further into her sphere.

In the dark of night he invites her to his bed, for though she is unsurpassed in her beauty, it’s her mystery that has him tangled in her. He finds himself beneath her in the light of the moon, his breath stolen as she rocks above. Her hips grind in swirls of chaos, her hands possessing his skin, her kisses speeding his heart. The way she moves sinks into the chasm of his soul. She seeks all of him—not just his length buried within her, but the depths of every crevice of his being, every utterance of his heart, every glimmer of his mind as she writhes against him and his sheets. Her movements become glorious and pained, ripples on the surface of a once-placid lake when the cries spill out from her lips. He sees her then as what she is—nails sharp over him, and teeth cutting his skin in jagged lines. But her whimpers are all he hears, and they seize him in their rock together, taking him beyond every sensation he knew before.

When she collapses over his chest, they lie in silence.

His days are fraught with tension in his efforts to please her. He bathes her, feeds her, loves her through the pinch of her lips and the furrow of her brow. She will not speak, and she moves like a streak of lightning—stubborn and sharp, illuminating their path and yet setting him on edge, pasting goose bumps on his skin like stars against the deep black sky. He thinks, perhaps, the end approaches, that she is sparing them both the hurt to come, soothing the quiet that will fill his life until she falls to the surface of his earth once more.

They dance, this time, before bed. She swings him out in vibrant bursts, then yanks him close. She grasps him so tight his breath slips from inside and out into the vortex of the room. Her heat builds, scorching, suffocating. Blinding. He thinks as they spin, around and around, how much he loves and hates her. How he craves her, needs her. In her laugh he finds the answer to existence, a blurry question that leads to more questions but that, somehow, lets him settle beneath her in the way she commands.

He imagines curving his fingers around her throat, squeezing her away to nothingness—but she has coiled herself around him so tightly, he no longer knows where she ends and he begins.

When she fucks him again, her moans shatter mirrors and rattle pictures off the walls. Her gasps vibrate the room, the bed, the air trapped inside him, stifling in its icy slide against the innermost parts of his lungs. But he is enraptured with the thrust of her hips, with the sweat breaking over his chest when she sucks the tips of his fingers, with the shift of her body over him in the moonlight, even as he feels himself slipping away with her. He is losing his grasp on what is real, what is good, and when she comes, her cries and shudders render him frozen. She keeps arching until he erupts in her, and every last drop of him becomes hers.

He is still when she curls behind him, tucking herself close to his back. Her hands trace over his side, fingertips painting electric currents that circulate in his limbs, up into his face. She kisses his shoulder, then his neck. And though he cannot move, he feels her words when she breathes them into his ear, a shock of sound bursting inside his soul.

“I love you,” she whispers, “and I’ll see you again soon.”

In the morning, he wakes on damp, rumpled sheets. The evidence of their love has scented his skin, and the pillowcase beneath his cheek. He breathes in clean air, his air, and slowly lifts himself from the bed.

She is gone.

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Shadowed image of man over woman licking her neck

Erotic Fiction: “Why”

I don’t know why I still want you so badly, but I do.

We are hip to hip, chest to chest, our bodies shifting like pendulums on these rumpled sheets. Your fingers clutch my hair, tugging back my head, exposing my neck to the quick nips of your teeth and the tender glides of your tongue. As you thrust inside, I know this is familiar, this is us, this is what it was—a tight embrace, a heated surrender. You’ve been inside me one hundred, one thousand, one million times. Loving, breaking, and ruining me.

Yet I’ve never stopped wanting you.

Why Image; Katarzyna Białasiewicz ©

Katarzyna Białasiewicz ©

The air burns with the scent of dwindling candles and our sweat, some of it beading down the sides of your face. You tug on my hair again, forcing me to see you as I always have—a crescent face of hunger, a demanding pine for this. You arch up your hips, searing into me, sinking so deep I cannot help the flit of a groan that spills from my lips as my mind tumbles with the questions I can’t stop asking.

Why do I want you like this? How can I still?

The thoughts are fleeting, shushed away with the sucking sound of your mouth on my neck. You take fevered laps at my skin before you catch my lips and gnaw them, your eyes wide open when you rock me in your lap.

“Baby,” you say.

I tremble atop you, my breasts lifting and falling with our motion, my nipples standing for you. Always for you. Every inch of my flesh burns with desire, and yet dances with goose bumps that remind me of what we are doing, this stolen moment we should never have shared. But to say that is to deny the truth. To pretend I can’t feel the swell of emotion I get from the look in your eyes, the rasp of your tongue, and the way your hands slide down to my waist, pulling me off you and around so abruptly I’m startled to be on my knees. My face presses into these sheets, and your cock is buried in my cunt before I can exhale the desperate puffs of air that have become the only noise I know to make with you.

“Fuck, fuck…” you say, plunging inside. Your hands grip my hips, yanking me back onto you, deeper. Harder. How can you always find me, deeper? Your thrusts grow more violent, hungry and greedy like the wet walls of my cunt that ache for you.

Forever, for you.

I curl my fingers into the sheets. My body is no longer mine. The slam of your pelvis against my ass is so strong the sound is louder than anything—my whimpers, my thoughts, my need for you.

My love.

“Come for me,” you growl, and I hate that you can command me like this. That you’ve recognized the shake of my body, the flush of my skin, the way that, even with you taking like this, I am giving to you. I’m yielding to your thrusts, to the grind of your fingers on my clit like I love, pinching it as you push, and shove, and fill me with everything you have.

When I come, it is with you.

You are so far in I know you’ve reached my soul, and your arms curl around my waist. You press your cheek to my back as we huddle there, quivering. Gasping. I release the sheets, my fingers sore, my body aching from how hard you’ve fucked me. My mind soars, but I am tangled like these sheets, lost in this mystery of us.

We don’t move for seconds. Minutes. It could have been hours. I think we both knew what it was, what it would do to the two of us.

And it isn’t until you steal yourself away, slipping from my bed and into your clothes, that I ask myself again.

Why do I still want you so badly?


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Color image of tide rolling in near pier with bright sun

By the Sea, Part 3: The Tide

“The Tide” is the final installment in a three-part series. Click here to read part one, “By the Sea,” or here to read part two, “Driftwood.”


Anya came to him shouting, bounding across the shore, the wind catching her hair and the sand battering the soles of feet she’d stripped from her sandals before she left them in the backseat of her car. Her belly was tight from such a well of emotion she felt she could blow like the wind, one way, then another, but she didn’t want to ignore the pain in her side anymore, the bruises on her arms that she’d stared at, long and hard, sure this was it. This was now.

They met in a collision so forceful it seemed contrary to all they’d been—their chests slamming tight, their mouths wild, their hands seeking one another, needing one another, puffs of breath spilling from their lips as they clung. Josh kissed away the drops rolling from the corners of Anya’s eyes, and she smoothed her thumbs over the line of his brow, both of them whispering their love and their tales as the wind kicked up the water once more. This time the sea didn’t sing to them, but for them, washing onto the shore and summoning them close, then retreating to leave the smooth spread of sand upon which they were meant to lay.

Color image of tide rolling in near pier with bright sun

Birute Vijeikiene ©

Once Josh drew back from her, he cupped the sides of her face. She thought maybe she was crazy, or they were completely out of their minds—but when his palms, warm and sweet, held her tight, Anya knew this was right, knew the shivering inside was part of the course, part of their fairy tale. One cannot have joy without pain, and they had surely had theirs—she saw the trouble in Josh’s eyes that melted when he looked at her, felt the certainty brimming between them as he pressed his lips to hers, kissing her like he never wanted her to leave again. Like he never would, either. She leaned hard against him and his knees gave, taking them down to the wet shore, and Josh pulled her onto him until she straddled his hips and felt the power she found with him. With him she wasn’t broken, afraid, or weak. She was everything she wanted to be, everything she could be, and as he arched up against her Anya felt the way his body told her this, and the desire in the trail of his hands over her skin. She kissed him as they both fumbled with his shirt, and once he shrugged it off his shoulders she lifted her dress up over her head. He gasped, for she’d come naked beneath, not wanting anything to stop them this time, both of their lives discarded to leave only them, this moment, this truth they’d sought. When Josh spread kisses over her breasts and eased out of his pants, she’d never felt more alive, more real, than they were now.

They had come here many times, but never had they done this, naked here, so open, so free. The waves crested and swelled, reassuring them, dancing in the sway of the wind as Josh ran his hands up her sides, lovingly touching her scars. Anya leaned back above him, letting him see all of her. For so long they’d snuck here in the dark, their short visits a rush to touch, to kiss, to move together before time slipped away and they were forced to leave each other once more—but now, she imagined that time stood still as Josh stroked her skin, then thumbed the split of her folds. They murmured there with wanting sighs, hungry and needy but slow in their caresses, until finally Anya could wait no more. She guided him into her, and Josh groaned at the touch of her hand, at the silky feel of her encircling him tight. And once Anya began to move above him, digging her knees into the sand and rolling her hips to take him deeper inside, her body quaked with the choice they’d made. They rode it gleefully, confidently, their excitement filling the moans that carried onto the wind, surrounding them in a chorus that stirred the pleasure in her, stronger this time, lifting her soul like it always had with him. Anya closed her eyes but Josh slipped his fingers into her mouth, drawing her gaze as she shuddered above him. The spasms of her cunt gripped him, urged him, made him mutter words of love before he, too, came, and she fell over him there on the sand, their bodies hot and slick, shaking with this new union, this wholly different love they’d opted to share—theirs and theirs alone. When their breaths slowed she peeled herself off him, trailing a finger down his chest and smiling at the mirrored trace he made over her belly and along her leg.

“We’re going to be happy,” he said. “I know it.”

She nodded and took his hand, pulling both of them up from the shore. They were covered in sand so Josh led her forward, into the water they’d never dared go before. The waves licked at their feet as they walked into it, and Anya squealed at how cold it was against her skin. Josh cupped it and splashed it over her before she did the same right back, and then the two of them ventured until their legs were submerged, the water cocooning their calves, knees, and thighs, the current so strong it tried to rock them from their stance but failed as they wrapped their arms around one another, kissing there, close.

“This is real,” Josh said. “We’re real. And I think we’re going to be okay.”

Okay echoed in Anya’s ears and she closed her eyes, loving that Josh’s lips came soft again, peppering her upper lip, then the bottom one, before he kissed her full and strong.

Maybe he was right and they would be. Or, maybe they wouldn’t. But Anya knew what surged between them was magnificent like the tide—here now, loud now, sweeping up against their legs as they held one another beneath the moon that had hardly waned. It was as if it had lingered well past its reign to see how the next part of their story began, smiling upon the embrace that molded them together, and sending the wind to kiss their cheeks and gust around them with a whistle of encouragement that had been there all along.

B/W image of driftwood on beach at sunset

By the Sea, Part 2: Driftwood

“Driftwood” is the second installment of a three-part series. To read the first installment of “By the Sea,” click here.


When Josh told Anya he loved her, she didn’t just hear the words but felt them, little drops of rain kissing her cheeks to ease a storm that bent trees against a backdrop of lightning and dark, tumbling clouds. The phrase was a breath that moved through her, filling her up, making her whole. When she said it back, the movements between them grew deeper, sweeter, their bodies playing to it, for it, dancing as if to a symphony.

This night, they climbed the pier, Josh whistling as the wind blew Anya’s dress up and aside, giving him a view of where he’d just been, where she’d craved him. She’d surprised him when he met her, aching more this time, grasping at his hands and running them over her as they tangled themselves on the shore and he found the liquid desire already soaking the short curls of her sex. This had made him moan and bury his face between her thighs, lapping at her as she hooked her ankles around his back. He’d whispered of her salty musk, of the sweet pool he wanted to crawl into and live in for an eternity if he could only find a way in. When he rocked forward with every thrust of his tongue, the motion sang a lullaby that built within her, making her shudder at the slide of his fingers inside. He rubbed fervently, urgently, at the bud of nerves that craved his touch, never retreating until she bucked and thrashed against the sandy floor. And when Anya had let out her cry, he’d hardly waited to slide inside her, filling her with a lusty groan that left them laying there afterward winded and surprised at how it could seem better. Familiar. Perfect.

So when they reached the top of the dock and toppled to the damp boards like two clumsy children, Josh curled himself with Anya all over again, resting his head in her lap and staring up at her while she fondled the tousled strands of his hair. Tonight the surf barely made a sound, the white crests absent from view, the water lazily slapping the piles that held this stoop up beneath them, propping them in some version of solidity they didn’t really have. A solitary seagull flew overhead, letting out its caw, and she tilted her eyes up to watch it coast through the black ocean above while her fingers stayed laced in Josh’s hair.

B/W image of driftwood on beach at sunset

Mark Shreves ©

“What if we were real?” he asked, and Anya thought she saw the stars twinkling, heard them telling her yes, heed this question. This one is very good. It loomed between them, rife with wonder, complication. She heard his breath, a low raspy sound that made her imagine what it would feel like to sleep beside him like they did only once, the night they’d somehow managed escape and tumbled through the door of a cheap seaside motel. He’d had his hands beneath her skirt before the door was shut completely, his lips sweet on hers, kissing away everything, whispering of how much he loved her, how he had counted the minutes until they would see one another. It was as he found her hips that he confessed she made him feel alive, like they were the only two people in the world who understood one another. Anya had lifted her head in eager agreement, both of them falling to the bed, clutching at one another, needing each other more than anything. They’d made love again and again, their bodies never drifting apart in the moments between until they fell asleep to the occasional whoosh of a car on the lonely, coastal road outside. She’d dreamt of taking his hand and running into the sea, splashing and laughing like she remembered doing once long before, when she was young.

Josh squeezed her tighter with the arm he’d weaved around her waist, and drew her back with the slip of his hand up her side until he could circle her neck and reach his fingers into her hair. She’d felt this same hold not a day before from someone else, those fingers rough, tugging her to see his face, and she’d barely moved her head in muted agreement, for any other answer would never do. She had lain there, silent, smothered, kissing without kissing, her mind dancing off to remember these fingers. Josh’s fingers. They were soft, gentle pads sketching love on her scalp, reminding her that both of them were happy, here by the sea.

“What if we were?” she asked. Anya tore her eyes away from that wafting bird to the look shining in Josh’s eyes that she’d seen before. The moon was out again tonight, not as bright, but lighting his face enough to show the deep lines in his forehead from trying in his other life, and his pupils spreading like oil in the middle of two vast blue lakes. The question was as difficult for him as it was for her, because—despite his love for her and the way he came to Anya desperate for something warm, something real—to leave his life would rain a storm of agony on someone else, a fragile, loveless truth they’d avoided speaking of for some time.

Josh rolled into her lap, his body warm, so warm, knees curling up into his chest so that they grazed her hip as his arms encircled her waist. His breath fell hot through the fabric of her dress, stirring her in spite of the gravity of their words, the tenuous sanctity they shared between them. Would it be the same if they were real? Would she feel the same for him, and him for her?

Would they be better?

“I think we’d be happy,” he said.

“Do you?” Anya didn’t want to break it, this raft carrying them along.

Josh lifted his head. He grabbed her skirt and pressed it up, exposing her to the humid air as he rested his head back on her thigh and peered with a wisp of a smile at the wetness between her folded legs.

“Don’t you?”

She wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe the disruption they’d cause would be worth it, that the love between them would build and overcome, powerful like the sea. Josh dipped further into her lap, his mouth grazing the tender swell of her clit. Then he puckered his lips and blew a stream of air over her, until Anya tilted back her head with a quiet moan.

Maybe it would. Maybe they could.

“I want this. You, Anya,” he said. “Don’t you see how much I love you?”

Josh pressed his mouth flush against her, his tongue swirling as he took her hips in his hands, and she trembled while the sea churned rhythmically beneath them.


To read the final installment of “By the Sea,” click here.

B/W sunset image of sea shore

By the Sea, Part 1

She swears she knew him then, back when life was full of dreams and promises, and cotton candy blossoms so big they smeared on her nose when she bit into them. Back when unicorns were real, and pain was not a word that exhausted her vocabulary in its bitter streak across her world, molding a quiet wake in the thin, wired lines that sprouted from the corners of her eyes.

But she didn’t.

B/W sunset image of sea shore

Vickie Hudson ©

It’s just that, in the touch of his hand now, in the way he closed it around hers and pulled her into the swell of his chest as he slid his fingers into her hair, it was too easy to forget she hadn’t. That Josh hadn’t always been there, watching, encouraging, and loving her. He’d heard it all, seen the scars that ran along her side, knew in the occasional manner she jumped when he walked too swiftly and surprised her how fiercely that life had embedded itself inside her. It had branded her even through the rosy smile on her lips, and the chime of laughter she regularly exhaled with him. It was for this she loved him, treasured how he drew her nearer, somehow pulling her close enough it felt like they could become one by the sea that swept onto the sandy shore, swirling around and between their bare toes as if promising to take them away with the current, into the wide open space of their love.

“Can I kiss you, Anya?” he asked.

Always, this question. Despite her gaze into his eyes, surrendering everything to him because it was so easy, so right. Josh took her chin in his fingers as she nodded fast, leaning up on her toes to try and fall further into him when their mouths met. His tongue and hers weaved like coils of algae drifting to and fro, in, between, around, lazily surrounded by the kiss of the tide. As the wind gusted around them, rustling the fabric of her dress, seizing her hair and whipping it around their faces, it was hard not to feel herself disappearing with him, fading into the night, into the sea.

“We’ve only an hour,” she whispered. But his lips covered her sigh, smothered the truth that kept breaking them apart. She was hers, he was his, and yet they weren’t. Still, this, too, was easy to forget as he kissed her with so much love. As the two of them dropped to their knees, oblivious to the grit of the sand digging into their skin, to the wind warning them beneath the moon that lit them up on the shore.

Josh did not stop kissing her as he pushed her back, his hands slipping up her skirt, trailing along the smooth lines of her legs and caressing the fleshy rounds of her thighs. His tongue stayed heated against hers as he tucked fingertips under the sides of the flimsy underwear she wouldn’t wear at home but had donned just for him. His breath came sweet on her cheek as he pulled the fabric down, pausing as she swayed her hips for him to work it over her bottom, then down past her knees. He discarded it beside their bodies on the shore, a crumpled ball of lace that might, in this wind, be blown away, carrying the secret that bound them as it tumbled to the water and drifted out to sea.

“I’ve missed you,” Josh said, and he kissed her once, hands slipping back up her thighs, pushing up her skirt, revealing Anya to the night sky. She loved his stare, torn between two views—that of her face, and the wetness waiting for him between her thighs. It was when he looked there that he slid two fingers against her, tracing the silky cleft only partially shown in the moonlight, but so clear to him as he eased them inside. This is when she moaned, craning her neck, her lips falling apart in more whimpers as his fingers sank so far within her. Josh cupped her knee with his other hand, pushing it aside, bidding the split of her thighs be visible to him, the truth of how they loved divulged once more. Behind him, the water swelled and rolled, but she was lost in the sounds that fell from her throat, in the surge of love for him. For this man who understood and knew her, who made her feel like the rest was nothing but a faded memory she didn’t need to revisit, despite the relentless hold it still had on her.

Josh slipped another finger inside, gliding all of them in, out, kissing her knee, staring into her face. When she reached for his shoulders, begging him to sweep into her, he wrestled down his pants to settle between her thighs. Anya weaved her fingertips around the side of his neck, urging him, and Josh rested against the heat he’d stirred up in her, asking again in his whisper if he could take her in the way they both loved.

“Yes,” she gasped, the sound so crisp in that night with the sudden thrust of him into her, in the movements of him inside her, and her movements with him. Anya dug her feet into the sand and lifted her hips to meet him, arching against his deep thrusts as she caressed his shoulders and he sighed her name. He heaved above her and she swayed with him, needing him in her, with her, part of her, for as long as she would be allowed. As his motions grew faster he brought his lips back to hers, kissing her as though she was his princess and he was her prince, as though they truly were familiar then, when those dreams existed. Josh curled one hand around her arm, and the other slid beneath her dress, clutching at the skin of her side and mindlessly tracing the scars that weaved down to her hip, where he gripped her tight to drive faster, deeper inside. And in all this Anya never hesitated, never stopped arching up to meet him, gasping for the seal of her cunt around him, for the pulse of her lust shaking her, filling her, making her desperate for him like she was and believed she forever would be.

“Anya…” he said, the name a bite on her cheek before his breath caught, a moan that echoed hers beneath him. Together they thrust, caving, coming, his love meeting hers as she shuddered around him, tucking her nails into the sides of his body as the feeling washed through her and lapped at her skin like the moist, salty air. The waves rolled on behind them, a whisper to the whish of their breaths, to the soft kisses they played on one another’s mouths.

In time, their hearts settled. Their breaths fell still. Josh swept his fingers back and forth over the skin of her thigh as he kept his forehead against hers and gazed into her eyes. They would lie like this as long as they could, treasuring each quiet minute until it was time for her to stand and leave him there. The perfect fairy tale of their love would be held once more, a story in their hearts as strong as the tide, as bright as their very own moon, and deep as the ocean they would drown in, together, if they could.


“By the Sea” is the first installment of a three-part series. Click here to read part two, “Driftwood.”

Man kissing woman against a wall.Artem Merzlenko ©

Erotic Fiction: “Passerby”

At the start of the month, the incredible Molly Moore chose a Kink of the Week theme of anonymous sex, a topic she’d been thinking on for a while but that she sweetly said was re-inspired by reading my story, “A Taste.”

I’ve been delighted to see all the stories, essays, and musings roused by this theme—and since Molly paid me such a lovely compliment, I knew it was time to pull the following story out from my desktop files to finally meet the world. It’s got a very different tone than “A Taste,” but since it fit the theme so perfectly, I couldn’t resist.

I hope you enjoy…




Jade A. Waters


Celine had walked down Fremont Street at least four thousand times in her life.

It was always consistent—storefront after storefront, the occasional woman with a stroller, a pissing dog by one of ten fire hydrants. She’d never left this town and still didn’t know if she ever would, because everything was familiar and quaint here. She could rattle off the business hours of any shop simply from her constant walks back and forth, home to work, work to home. She didn’t like to drive, preferring the fresh air against her face while she processed everything she’d seen that day, or what she might do that evening. She didn’t even take her car to the grocery store, instead favoring the slap of her shoes on the pavement and the opportunity to observe all the sparks of life around her.

Because that’s what she did: observe. It was part of her job as a research tech, and part of her role back in her student days, too. Watching. Recording. Thinking. Processing. Wondering. All the magic she saw happened in test tubes, petri dishes, and experiments. It amazed her that despite the bevy of surprises in the lab, her life repeatedly followed an invariable routine.

Celine adjusted her bag on her shoulder. Sometimes, she wondered if she should have left after high school. It wasn’t that she ran into her alumni all the time, or saw too many of the same people, time and again—but other than the flickers of life she discovered in the lab, all of it was repetitive. Storefront. Stroller. Dog. Today she saw the postwoman, her arm stretched in a wave as she walked along the other side of the street.

How many times had the postwoman been up and down Fremont Street?

A gust of wind picked up as Celine approached the library. It was pleasant, different. It blew her skirt to the side, gathering the fabric against her legs and sending it in a flutter toward the road as if trying to steer her in a new direction. She’d probably been inside the city library two hundred times as a teen, and on occasion when the research shelves at work didn’t have what she sought. It was the last business before a long stretch of recreational parks and trees; beyond that, the road broke into the residential section of town.

Celine closed her eyes as she walked, picturing the cells in her petri dishes growing larger, into full shapes. Life. Their latest experiment was really something, and she could already form the lines of the report she’d send off to the American Journal of Science in the next year. She inhaled excitedly, enjoying the whiff of honeysuckle from the park behind the library, the pungent, sweet scent carrying on the breeze. It was myrrh with a hint of citrus, an unusual combination, she thought. Celine opened her eyes.

Two fire hydrants down on the road, a man walked toward her. She tilted her head—somehow, she hadn’t noticed him before.

But now Celine, ever the observer, watched as he neared her. He started as a small speck in the distance—a dark-haired, tall stranger. Closer and closer he came as Celine walked down Fremont Street. She could see him clearer now, wearing jeans, tee shirt, and flip flops. He appeared casual yet clean, his hair thick and black, and falling just below his ears. He was handsome, almost like a better version of her high school sweetheart, if he had been darker and older.

She was at the library now and the man was close, his torso broad beneath his shirt as his muscular arms swung at his sides. He had the kind of body she fantasized about when she was alone in her house night after night. Maybe it was the wind, or more likely it was the view, but goose bumps sprinkled over her skin. He was still a bit down the road and yet Celine could make out his face. He had green eyes, a stern nose, and a smiling mouth. There was much more life in him than that of a petri dish.

And he was such a different view than she’d ever seen on Fremont Street.

They passed each other as two passersby on a stretch of quiet road do—she didn’t say anything and neither did he. But when she met his eyes, she nodded a hello. Her body surprised her as she did. There was a vibration deep in her core, a pang of longing that she hadn’t felt in a while. He smelled like aftershave, the good kind that didn’t overpower or suffocate like that of her supervisor or her ex-boyfriend. And up close and brushing by her shoulder, the man’s arm sent a quiver through her limbs. His torso was almost twice as broad as she’d thought from a distance, and she had a spontaneous wonder over what it would feel like to touch his skin and to kiss him, or to feel him pressing inside.

Then he was past her, a single variable on the same old street.

Celine kept walking but slowed her pace. She was a scientist through and through—researching, observing, processing. It occurred to her that walking past the man had been like breaking through an invisible shield, both of them trapped for a minute in a magnetic vortex before sliding past one other and back into their own worlds.

Then again, it could have been her imagination, her constant wonder over how everything outside of work was so routine.

Celine cast a second glance over her shoulder, regardless.

The man did the same.

She faced home and took another step. She’d passed hundreds of faces—smiling here, waving there. Always constant.

But what if, this time, it was different?

What if he’d felt it, too?

Celine turned around. Her throat was parched but she shouted anyway.

“Hey,” she said.

Immediately, the man pivoted on his feet. His lips stretched in a bigger grin.


Celine’s experiments for the last three years introduced foreign cells to those already growing in her petri dishes. Cell Type X, adhering with A, B, or C. Watching them fuse together in the dish had made her nipples harden beneath her coat—it was something unusual and new.

Like this man.

He came back, hovering a good foot taller than her. His face was clearer now that she could see him up close. He smelled of aftershave because his face was smoothly shaven, and on his neck he had the tiniest nick from a razor blade. His shirt was blue and faded, grazing the waist of his jeans. He removed his hands from his pockets. He had a large watch on his left wrist and a jagged scar on his arm, just below the hem of his right sleeve.

This is the arm he curled around her waist.

Celine’s breath caught, her skin teased with another gust of wind and the nearness of this man, smiling down at her.

What if Cell X and Cell A mixed?

What if they collided in a furious storm, creating new cells and surprising everyone with the aftermath? The discovery?

Celine raised her chin, offering her lips. She had a flash of how crazy it was, and yet there was something about this man, this random passerby she’d never seen on her walk before. When she didn’t pull away, he coiled his other arm around her waist and tugged her into him, his chest firm against hers. His cock swelled beneath his jeans.

Celine found this most fascinating, since she, too, was aroused in the strangest way. She shifted her feet, squaring herself in his arms. Her pussy was wet, wetter than it had ever been in four thousand walks down this sidewalk.

And when the man lowered his lips to hers, she imagined cells bursting.

His mouth was a little rough, his tongue exploring the crease of her lips. She opened them for him. Their tongues merged in a fit of kissing, both of them magnetized by this sudden change on a gusty afternoon. Celine leaned into him, feeling the thump of his heart within his chest that matched the one within hers.

She wanted him inside of her then, this stranger she didn’t know.

She slipped her hand into his and he broke their kiss, staring down over her face. Maybe she should have said something, but it didn’t feel necessary.

Cell X and Cell A didn’t speak.

Why should they?

Man kissing woman against a wall.

Artem Merzlenko ©

Celine and the man walked through the library parking lot. They eyed one another, unspeaking. Behind the building, there was a row of trees lining a fence that separated the property from yet another recreational park. It was absurd how many parks filled this endless, quaint town.

There was no one in the park when the man backed Celine against the library wall. She didn’t know if she would have minded if there was, either, because as he kissed her again, heat surged in her center. It was an unexpected sensation, for the first time in a long time. She laced her fingers in his hair, enjoying the soft thickness on her skin. His hands caressed her shoulders while they kissed and she curled her arms around his waist, inviting him closer. When he pitched himself against her she moaned, shivering as his hands ran down her sides, then under her shirt. He palmed her belly in gentle strokes and glided his fingers up to her bra. When he thumbed her nipples she tilted back her head, letting him shower her neck in kisses.

Celine knew some experiments moved in rapid time. She arched up her hips, wanting the rub of him lower and deeper. The man gazed into her eyes, questioning. Wondering. Like she’d done so many times as she walked down Fremont Street or marveled at the growth in a petri dish. His fingers plucked at her skirt, dragging the fabric up, revealing her calves to the baffling wind. When he crept his hands higher, his fingertips trailed over her hips and she nestled her face into his chest, smelling him against the backdrop of honeysuckle and the growl of the air around them.

She curved her hands over his ass, gripping his muscular cheeks. Nudging him against her. He slipped his fingers beneath the edge of her panties, playing across her short curls, then over her clit. Celine moaned and lifted her face up to his.

“Yes,” she said. She brushed her lips across his t-shirt and repeated the single word, loud over the wind. “Yes.”

The man’s fingers sank into her while he kissed her again. His tongue slid deep, and his fingers plunged far. The rhythm of his thrusts stirred Celine. She whimpered against his lips as he glided his fingers faster, as if seeking inside her with probing fingers while he pressed his cock hard against her side. She shoved her hand in his pants and grabbed onto him, stroking his length as he fucked her hip. The man groaned into her mouth. Celine imagined cells growing and multiplying, splitting and stunning—complex yet simple things. Her body trembled as the man pushed his fingers in and out, teasing her depths. His kisses broke into gasps over her mouth and cheeks, hot puffs of air that mimicked hers. She began to shudder. Her walls trembled around his fingers, flooding with life, contracting with bliss until a cry fell from her lips. The man smothered her in a kiss then, coming in her hand. The hot liquid coated her wrist and warmed her hip through all of the fabric between them.

For several minutes, they didn’t move. They were frozen against the building, statues in the wind—proof of an experiment gone well. His shaft pulsed in her palm and the aftershocks in her sex squeezed his fingers. Eventually, she raised her eyes. The man kissed Celine’s forehead, then her lips, and they slowly untangled themselves and broke apart.

Without a word, he took her hand. They walked back to the front of the library. Celine’s heart had resumed a moderate pace again, the same tempo she was used to, day in and day out. But now, she had a smile on her face.

When they reached the sidewalk, the man wrapped her in his arms for a long, tight embrace.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“You, too,” she said.

And then they walked in their separate directions again.

While Celine headed toward home, she enjoyed the breeze against her arms and the familiar stretch of the road.

She’d walked down Fremont Street over four thousand times, but her life had never looked so new.

Man and woman in the dark sharing sexual moment.

Flash Fiction: “Kiss of Fate”

It was a simple move, really—the sweep of his hand over my hair. Down, then repeat, fingers crawling over wild, tousled strands while he gave me that wistful smile of his. The move shouldn’t have meant anything, but in his eyes, I saw that it did. That all those years of silent communication were leveling out in the beautiful brown irises I’d told myself not to love so long ago.Man and woman in the dark sharing sexual moment.

And so it felt only natural to lean toward him, the whisper of the air around us urging us on, pressing us together like we were in a time-capsule vacuum of space. It didn’t matter that there were people shouting around us, cars whizzing by, stars glistening in the heavens above as though they were trying to tell us that they’d been watching all along, waiting for this very moment. Waiting for both of us to get it, to feel that strange floating sensation between us as his hand met my shoulder and he pitched toward me, too.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, and so did I—but nothing needed to be said. There was no verbal expression to communicate the way we slipped closer, now not two bodies standing there conversing through our buzz over the eternal mysteries of men versus women or how we always poked fun at one another, but two flames coming together, bursting into a giant, scorching fire. Lip to lip, tongue to tongue, we lost ourselves in a kiss that should have taken place so many years ago but never did.

I drifted into him, and he swept into me. We were one, arms wrapping around each other, tongues dancing, fire brimming through our bodies in ways I’m sure we would have known once, had we actually tried. As his hands played up my sides and back into my hair, pulling me closer, he kissed me harder—like he meant it. Like he needed it. Like the press of my body to his wasn’t enough, was never enough, and instead he ached to be with me, part of me, loving me just as I loved him and always had. His fingertips along my scalp sent electric pulses all through me, making me fall into him even more, sending that spark so deep I felt my need, my lust, heavy like the night around us. I was ready for him. For this.

For everything.

When we pulled apart, the air hummed dense with our fervid breaths. Then we smiled, the universe winking its starry eyes, for it knew what happened next.

So did we.

“Come home with me,” he said.

There was no other answer but yes.

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Sepia lowlight image of woman faced away, wearing garter belt.

Flash Fiction: “A Taste”

She’s been waiting her whole life for him, she thinks, and she raises the coffee to her lips.

They’ve been eyeing one another across this diner for the better part of an hour, all while he’s pretended to read his paper and eat his late night bacon and eggs, and she’s forgotten to finish the soup that grew cold not long after she ordered it. She’s been distracted by the rules skipping through her head—don’t stare too much, cross your legs like a lady, don’t forget to eat with your mouth closed—but with the gazes they keep casting back and forth, she doesn’t think these things are really all that important anymore.

Anna pays her check and rises from her booth. She imagines she’ll be the first to leave. That he’ll follow her outside, giving her a moment to reflect on whether he’s stalking her, and if she’s supposed to run. Or if instead she should give away everything she’s actually feeling—the unsteady ticking of her heart inside the safe housing of her chest, the unusual race of her once regulated breathing, or, more than that, the heat that’s slickened at the peak of her thighs, making all this thought a perilous landscape of impossible, inexplicable desire.

But the man is the first to leave. He walks right by her, deliberately meeting her gaze. The brush of his hand on hers cannot be a coincidence, nor the look in his heavy-lidded eyes. And so it’s Anna who follows him outside, Anna who walks in measured steps behind him, Anna who glances up at the stars, just once, reminding herself how small she is in this world as he turns the corner and she’s left to decide one way or another.

Don’t talk to strangers, her mama said.Sepia lowlight image of woman faced away, wearing garter belt.

But mama’s been dead a long time now.

Anna finds him leaning against the backside of the building, staring beyond the edge of the bluff at the water below, where the waves ebb and flow like the surge in her veins. In her head, as she comes to face him, she anticipates the things he might ask of her. What’s your name? Why have you followed me? What are you looking for tonight?

He asks none of this. What he does is take her wrist and pull her to him, so that her breasts are flush with his chest and he’s breathing down over her face. She believes he’s asking for her approval, which she gives in the one kiss they will share—their lips merging, opening, exchanging the bitter trace of coffee, the hint of greasy bacon, and the sweet, sweet taste of spit. His hands are on her ass, molding her flesh, squeezing her closer. She welcomes this, then the way he swings her round to face the building, sliding behind her so his entire body lines her back. Anna gasps when his fingers slip under her skirt, because now he knows just how anxious she’s been for this. For him. Never show a man how much you care she remembers, but his fingers are in her, riding up and hot in the wet desire she doesn’t know how to hide. His teeth find her neck as he wedges her tight to the wall, and Anna’s open mouth grazes the fading building finish. She tongues the wood as he unfastens his pants, then the salty air that kisses her lips and makes her feel alive when he presses his cock to her ass.


This is the murmur she’ll remember him by, a quiet, desperate groan that elicits the wild bob of her head. We don’t take risks. Good girls don’t take risks she’d been told, but as he drives inside she wants nothing more than to risk it all, again and again. Every thrust of his cock brings another moan, another moment, another physical expression she held buried so far inside. She spreads her fingers on the building and arches her back, letting him sink deeper, closing her eyes while the waves sing behind them and he moves faster inside her. He bites her neck again, surely tasting the glisten of sweat that’s broken out along her chin. Her body shakes when he slides a finger in her mouth and she closes her lips around it, the taste of her cunt on his skin. She’s only partially surprised she comes before he does, her whimpers preceding the muffled grunts he makes into her hair. He fills her with the honest, heated greeting of a perfect stranger.

For a minute, they stand like this, Anna smashed between his body and the building. His come is seeping out around his slowly softening shaft, dripping onto the panties barely pushed aside before he marked her as who she really is. Who she’s wanted to be.

The man places a kiss on the edge of Anna’s mouth. It’s tender and indifferent all at once, but she understands the intention behind it, what he’s learned, too. Thank you.

She is still standing against the wall after he tucks himself away, pausing like he’s supposed to, waiting to see if she wants to say something, or if there’s anything else she needs. But there isn’t.

When he’s gone, Anna spins around, her back to the building as the chaos of her belly becomes a soothing warmth that brings a smile to her face.

She’s never taken a risk before.

And she’s been waiting her whole life for this one.

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#EuphOff: For the Love of a Stable Boy

A few weeks ago, the charming Jane Gilbert shared a hilarious post on erotic euphemisms. We’ve all read them—and I’m sure we can all agree they’re positively terrible. They tend to do a fine job of turning the reader off while simultaneously detracting from the story, because things such as coffee beans, spongy stems, and turgid manhoods are probably best left for comedy.

Which is why, I suspect, dear Jane came up with a fabulous new meme—it’s called the #EuphOff, and it’s been circulating for a little bit now. I’ve been slow to join in due to all the stuff, but with the challenge of writing a 500-word story using as many euphemisms for sex and body parts as possible, how could I pass this up?

(You’ve been warned.)

Purple prose is definitely not my thing, so a giant thank you to Jane for the challenge as I actually found this really fucking hard (and not in a good way). 😉

But, after you’ve read through to the end—if you can make it to the end—please be sure to jam your clicker on the coffee bean to enjoy more trembling oysters and vibrating sabers from other writers! Believe me, there were some fantastic entries.

Now, without further ado:

For the Love of a Stable Boy

Princess Abigail jumped when Donnie emerged from the shadows, her lush orbs rising and falling as his bare feet crunched across the woodsy floor. Under the cascade of light blessing them from the moon above, she made out the hunger in his eyes. His was unrestrained lust, the natural state of a man come to implant her with his seed.

“Abigail,” he said, his voice a throttled cry slicing through the chilly night, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Abigail’s cherry-tips hardened, and a thick syrup brimmed in the marshmallow cavern between her thighs. They’d spent years playing at the river’s edge when they were young, despite her father’s repeated warnings that he was just a lowly stable boy—but having spied him bathing at the edge of the pond, caressing the dagger between his legs so that it grew into a swollen beast desperate to plunge into her darkest cave, she knew he was nothing the term boy could properly fit. Now, the steel-cut landscape of his chest glittered in the moonlight with a fine layer of velvet moss, and beneath his abs there jutted the one-eyed snake that dwells between a man’s hips, a fleshy sword ready to spear her inner path to take from her the maidenhead she could only give but once.

Before Abigail moved, Donnie pressed his tumescent rod against her. She gasped, but he swept her in his arms as her head fell back in a whinny.

Princess Abigail in the Woods

Anton Maltsev ©

Could he read her impure thoughts? Did he know her marital hopes?

Could he smell in the air the ripe scent of nectar that circled in her lady passage like the love that swarmed her heaving bosom?

“Donnie,” she whispered, “do you mean it?” She gnashed her teeth despite her hands swift to roam the ridges of his chest, then grazing the hollow of a belly meant to flatten against hers when he would impale her with his love stick.

“Oh Abigail,” he said. “You are the maiden pure as the driven snow, sweet as the taste of honey, and curved like a cello I’ve longed to play.”

He smothered her in a tender kiss, then, his hands gripping the sweet round of her bottom and raising up the folds of her skirt. What could she possibly do? A tide of desire surged her love haven, and as his heat-seeking protuberance snuck against the bare, ivory skin of her quivering thigh, she muttered, “But I’m a princess. My sacred pearl can only be given once—”

“Then let your maidenhead be mine, my darling,” he said. “I am the one for you. I promise.”

Abigail did not protest as Donnie laid her down and lifted her skirt above her head, burying his puckered lips between the rippling wings of her butterfly. She bleated in longing as his tongue drilled into her seeping cavern, and when she began to seize, Donnie rose up on his knees, grasping his baton. “Let me pollinate you with love fluid to show my honor for you, Princess.”

At this, Abigail surrendered. Donnie pierced her with his stem, stinging her with the repeated seesaw of his hips. Pleasure permeated her once-sealed tunnel, and as Donnie bucked like a wild stallion and exploded with cannon fire deep within her silk canal, she knew.

He was the one.


Special bonus narration by Exhibit A!

Wow. My eyes and ears are bleeding. Yours?

Flick the bean for more!


Sexy topless man in a Santa hat

“Office Santa” — A Free Story for the Holidays!

Happy December!

The holiday season is upon us, and there’s nothing I love more than all the cheer and festivity that comes with it. On top of that, I’m a big giver—which is why I’m delighted to share a free story with you for the Christmas season!

Last year, I wrote “Office Santa” about Kristi, a particularly sassy executive administrative assistant who happens to love nothing more than a sexy man in a Santa suit. The story was published in an anthology that sadly had a very short shelf life, but I’ve decided that—since it’s the holidays and all—I would love to share it with you right now.

For free!

This story is by no means short, and it’s damn sassy and filthy. Perfect for the holidays, if you ask me!

So, please get your Christmas spirits ready and sneak under the mistletoe with me. I hope you enjoy “Office Santa.”

Happy Holidays!


Picture of silver ballsOFFICE SANTA


Jade A. Waters

Me and Office Santa—we go way back.

See, after seven years of organizing our annual holiday party, I’ve learned I have a real affinity for a gentleman in a Santa costume—which is saying a lot, since I love a man in a suit and tie, and the male partners around here look so delicious in their business wear it’s a miracle we don’t have a major sexual harassment problem. But Christ, put one of them in a fuzzy red suit with a squishy belly, a big black belt, matching boots, and that goddamn aphrodisiac of a hat, and I lose all semblance of self-control.

Part of the appeal is the man who dons the suit, of course. Last year, for example, it was David. He’s one of the busiest partners, so watching him slow down to have a glass of wine with the rest of us—appreciating the season and wearing that fantastic red costume—actually made him approachable. I mean, he was always that way with me, but no one ever saw that. Ours was an affair composed of exactly three entanglements: the first on the break room table after the rest of the company had gone home, the second when I picked him up from the airport after a conference since the driver I’d arranged had neglected to show, and the third the time I took him home from the holiday party. He’d spent the night tumbling around my apartment—he was a little awkward with the suit dangling around his thighs because I wouldn’t let him take it off. In return, I kept the sexy Mrs. Claus dress on and let him rip a hole in the crotch of my fishnets so he could get his hands on me. There’s something to be said for a man wearing a Santa hat while under your skirt, shoving his tongue way up inside until you come to visions of sugarplums and all that, so it was a win-win for us both.

For the five years before David, Nelson and Associates had encouraged Michael to wear the suit. Everybody loved Michael—he was charismatic and handsome, and took interest in the lives of our office staff and clients. He also bought presents for all of us executive admins because he understood how hard we worked. He made a point of bringing me an extra special set of gifts when he arrived on my doorstep after the holiday party every year—a bottle of champagne, a box of chocolates, a pair of earrings, and then him in that delicious Santa suit. I told him he could skip the earrings, but he had a thing for putting them in my earlobes for me. He’d trail his fingers along every curve in my ear, then ask me to strip down to my boots and nothing else. I won’t lie—that part always made me hot. Then he’d ask me to suck on pieces of chocolate when he bent me over a chair and fucked me while singing Christmas carols.

The guy was a real freak behind closed doors, and that’s why we had so much fun together during our annual rendezvous. We probably would have done it more often, but a girl can only eat so much chocolate—plus he ended up taking a job at our satellite firm in India.

This year, we at Nelson had some trouble convincing anyone to wear the suit. The role had traditionally gone to one of the partners, and thanks to my hard work arranging schedules, conferences, and international travel, I’d left us with exactly two to choose from come holiday time: Gregory and Nick. Neither of them knew about my Santa habit—in fact, no one in the office did except the lucky few to have donned the suit—but it’s not like I could use that as a bargaining chip anyway. That would be inappropriate.

Gregory was married, so he would have made a terrible candidate. Nick, then, became my sole desire. He had the right name, he was in town for the party, and on top of that, he had an ass I’d been ogling since he joined the firm six months earlier. I could picture it beneath the red seat of the infamous Santa costume, rounding as he’d drive his way inside of me, and I knew I had to get him on my Christmas list.

My job as the lead executive administrative assistant meant I was a busy girl, and organizing the holiday party made everything more complicated this time of year. So while I’d wanted to put on the charm and be the reason Nick chose the suit, I knew better. I’d stuck Shirley on it, with her big blue eyes and amazing tits, because Nick would never say no to a girl like that sweet-talking him into the role.

Please do not misunderstand—Nick was no misogynist. He was, by far, the most respectable, refined, and appreciated partner who had ever worked in our firm. He exceeded Michael’s reputation for charm but struck most of us as a bit more introverted, and his was not the nature to grotesquely harass a pretty subordinate. It’s just that Shirley had a rack even I fantasized about sometimes, and with those doe eyes and melodic voice working for her, it was difficult to resist anything she asked. Plus she was new to the job and ever so polite, and most of us wanted to see her do well.

Besides—sure enough, my plan worked. He’d said yes, she’d felt accomplished, and now I was all set to reap the rewards: Nick and his hot ass in the Santa suit.

I swear to god thinking about it made it impossible to work the week leading up the party. I’d stashed an extra pair of panties in my desk drawer because sometimes I worried I’d soak right through my dress clothes—especially yesterday, when I literally ran into Nick in the break room, both of us careening around the entryway from opposite sides and colliding with one another. I had only a second to appreciate his broad chest smacking against mine, and next there came the realization that my papers were scattered across the floor.

“Oh crap, Kristi—I’m so sorry!” he’d said. We’d looked at one another startled for a minute, me getting somewhat lost in his green eyes as I imagined how they’d pair with his Santa costume in pure Christmas color perfection, and once he flushed in embarrassment at running into me he’d bent over to start picking up my papers.

I’d crouched down beside him, my skirt creeping up on my thighs and catching his gaze. He idled on them long enough that my breath caught in my throat, but then we both set back to work gathering the papers I’d spent the last fifteen minutes organizing.

“Let me know what I can do to help with these. Are they alphabetized? Numerical? God, I’m so sorry!” he repeated. He awkwardly handed the papers over as we both stood back up, but I patted his arm.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Accidents happen. Plus, I can forgive you because you’re playing Santa tomorrow night.” I winked, but it was true. Handsome, polite future-Santas went a long way with me.

Nick snickered. “That I am.”

“Are you ready for your role?”

“Sure. Aren’t I just wearing a suit?”

“Well, you’re Santa. That’s a big deal.”

“Is it? I guess the pressure’s on, huh?” He appeared somewhat ruffled, his ordinarily cool demeanor disturbed by our run-in. I, meanwhile, felt the familiar tingle in my limbs every time I talked to him. Besides being the most attractive man to have worked for the company, he was the nicest. His clients continually raved about him, and I never minded writing his expense reports because he submitted the most detailed, organized receipts and took the time to talk to me instead of dumping them on my desk.

I drew my hands to my hips and nodded very seriously. “You’re the Santa at a holiday party—yes, the pressure’s on! I’m sure I’m not alone in saying that I appreciate a good Santa.”

“Do you?”

Nick peered down at me, and I wondered if he could hear the thumping of my heart. His lips turned up at the corners and I could picture them surrounded by a white beard that I’d tug down before kissing him. In truth, I would have kissed him with or without the costume, which made him playing Santa the best Christmas gift I could ever ask for.

I grinned. “I really do.”

“In that case…I’m looking forward to the party.” He ran his fingers through his dark hair and I shifted my thighs to ease the moisture slicking up between them. It didn’t help that he followed with, “I hear you do an amazing job organizing this thing.”

“Aww. Thanks.”

We stood there for a minute more, silent. Then I remembered I’d scheduled his conference call in five minutes.

“Oh, you better run for your call with TechVibe. Can’t wait to see you as Santa!” I said.

Nick smiled, and I could tell he was curious with the way I’d said the words—a little bit breathy, and a lot flirtatious.

But he was going to play Santa, after all.

That’s about the only thing I could think about for the next day, which was a real pain with the list of tasks I had to accomplish before we closed down early that Friday for the party. Somehow, I made do, getting a two hour head start on everyone else to finish decorating the local community center. I’d rented it out the last few years to much fanfare, since we all seemed to prefer to celebrate the holiday away from the office. The space afforded a kitchen for the caterers plus a couple expansive rooms, and I typically designated one for the bar and the majority of the food, one for the hired piano player and the late-night raffle, and the other one for general socialization. That’s where I planted Santa—away from the big time revelers so I could keep my eye on him, but near enough to still be part of the fun.

The staff at the community center had kindly allowed me to swap out their Christmas tree star with one we’d designed for Nelson the year before—it was a blue neon monstrosity with the letter ‘N’ on it, for spirit—and I propped it up there with my annual sigh of appreciation that the Nelson staff didn’t mind a more Christmas-oriented party. We’d done a Hanukkah thing four years prior and then took a survey to be P.C. about it, and it turned out most everyone preferred the Christmas theme. Everyone except Margaret, that is, but she’d admitted to me she hated holidays in general, so when I started offering her a box of shortbread cookies as the season kicked off every year, she’d told me she was satisfied with a great big hug.

I finished teetering on the ladder in my heeled boots as my colleagues began to arrive. I was fully costumed already, wearing my flouncy plush red Mrs. Claus dress that I’d cinched in at the waist with a belt identical to that of the Santa suit. I’d also replaced the black fishnets David ripped last year with a pair of bright red ones. The whole get-up was a tad risqué for a work event, but no one ever complained—especially not the Santas.

“Oh Kristi, this place looks fantastic!” Shirley squealed. She and a handful of others had joined the company since last Christmas, and the group of them peered around in wonderment at all the classy decorations sparkling in greens, reds, silvers, and golds that complemented the pianist’s sophisticated renditions of Christmas carols.

She gave me a hug, then looked me over. “You look amazing. You’re the sassiest Mrs. Claus I’ve ever seen!”

“Thanks, Shirley.” I couldn’t stop myself from admiring her chest—she’d arrived wearing the red angora sweater that made her breasts stand out more than normal, and once the drinks started flowing, the men were going to have a field day watching her. There were usually a few hookups at these events beyond my secret Santa one, but I figured Shirley was clever enough to avoid raising suspicion this early on in her tenure.

I pointed out the various rooms to her and the others who started pouring through the door, greeting each colleague with a hug and a raffle ticket before they dispersed. Everyone was here to have a good time, and since I worked with a group of people who actually enjoyed one another’s company, this was bound to happen. I was eager to roam around and socialize myself, but a Mrs. Claus certainly can’t function without her mister.

It was that Mr. Claus that arrived about twenty minutes later, his tall, fit body hidden in the Santa costume and sending a chill down my spine.

“Nick Claus!” I said, reaching out to shake his hand. His entire palm engulfed my fingers and I grinned. “You look fantastic.”

And did he ever. The rugged lines of his face peeked out from behind the white beard, and when he raised his eyebrows they grazed the matching wig he’d braved beneath the Santa hat. His stuffed belly jutted out around his belt and he’d laced the boots up over the bottom of his pants like they were supposed to be worn, so they tapered neatly at his calves. I couldn’t wait to check him out from the rear, where I knew the white hem of his jacket would draw attention to the red fabric covering the exquisite shape of his ass.

“Good enough?” he asked. He pushed the curls of the wig away from his forehead and fondled the hat atop his head. That hat brought back so many memories, except tonight I wanted nothing more than to make new ones with him—Nick Claus, the real Claus. The best damn looking Santa Claus this office had ever seen.

“Oh yeah,” I muttered. He still hadn’t released my hand, and I’m not sure if it was the way I said the words—which is to say, completely breathless as I stared over him in that costume—or if he just happened to fully peer over me then, but Nick squeezed my fingers rather abruptly before kissing the back of my hand.

“You look delightful yourself, Mrs. Claus.” He kept my hand in his and twirled me around, then rested his free hand on his giant belly. “I hope saying so doesn’t overstep a bound…”

Nick had about a million bounds to overstep with me that evening, and I was ready. I scooted close to him, tilting my lips up toward his ear and lowering my voice so he’d have to lean to hear me over the pianist’s melody.

“I love a good Claus, Nick, so you can tell me whatever you wish tonight.”

His cheeks flushed the perfect red to match his costume, and I backed away lest anyone see us. Excitedly, I guided him to the main room and pointed out the lavish rocking chair designated for him.

“This is your room, and you’re obviously welcome to roam around,” I said, gesturing toward the other rooms. “But when it comes time for people to sit on Santa’s lap, you know where you need to be.”

Nick wrinkled his nose. “Shirley didn’t tell me about that. Neither did you.”

“I didn’t want to spoil the surprise, but don’t worry—it will work in your favor. Promise.”

I didn’t give him time to ask what I meant, instead running off to check on the caterers. It was awfully challenging to focus with him filling out that suit so damn well, and the wet spot in my thong wasn’t helping much, either.

After checking in on the food and the rest of the guests, I ordered a vodka cranberry from the bartender and began to circulate. The Nelson crew enjoyed themselves—everyone drinking and chatting, eating and laughing, and most everyone taking pictures with Nick in his delectable costume. I’d delegated raffle duties to Caroline this time, and she started it up fairly quickly while I doubled back to stand with Nick.

“How are you doing in that suit?”

“It’s pretty warm in here with all the stuffing.” He patted his belly. “But everyone seems happy so I’ll make do. You threw one hell of a party, Kristi. Nicely done.”

I held up my glass and he clanked his drink against mine. Then we stood together to watch the raffle, like Mr. and Mrs. Claus surveying the cheerful people around us. My knees grew weaker by the second, and I let my fantasy reel of Nick Claus play out while Caroline spoke into a microphone and handed presents out for the next twenty minutes. Once she’d distributed the last prize, some of the staff opted to go home. Most of them had spouses and family waiting there, which was fine since it left the rest of us to enjoy more of the bar services.

And of course, Santa’s lap time.

Nick could hardly stop laughing when I ushered him into his rocking chair and announced that the next thirty minutes were open for some “Santa Seat Time” in order for everyone to tell him what they wanted for Christmas. It was a novelty we’d started back when Michael held the role, and Nick played along like a good volunteer while I hung back with the other assistants.

“He looks absolutely ridiculous in that costume,” Betsy said. “He’s such a hunk normally, but throw him in a Santa suit and it ruins everything for me.”

A few of them bobbed their heads in agreement, and I pursed my lips to keep from protesting. They could think whatever they wanted—that man, in that costume, was sending trembles through my body that made me want to climb into his lap right then.

Elliott tapped my shoulder. “Hey Mrs. Claus, don’t you get to tell him what you want for Christmas, too? You arranged this party, after all.” He gave my fishnets a glance and snorted. “And for God’s sake you fit the part.”

I shrugged, though I longed to do exactly that. Instead, I watched Gregory finagle his way into Santa’s lap, making poor Nick mighty uncomfortable.

“Now that is funny,” Betsy said.

Sexy topless man in a Santa hat

“Every lady should get to tell Santa what she wants.”

The pianist began pounding out “Jingle Bells” and I squeezed my knees together, both because watching Nick costumed in the rocking chair was making it hard to stand, and because I remembered it being Michael’s favorite carol to sing when he fucked me.

Regardless, I knew the tune was toward the end of the pianist’s lineup since I’d checked his set list in advance, and I appreciated the nearing finale. There was no telling how late everyone would mingle once the music died down, but hopefully it wouldn’t be for too long.

I had a Santa to seduce.

Nick patted Gregory on the ass with a boisterous laugh when he left the rocking chair, a chummy gesture indicative of the right amount of alcohol loosening him up in his costume, and my urge to fuck him amplified so extensively that my nipples peaked beneath my dress. I wanted that Santa like I’d never wanted the two before him, and I knew the only way to get through the rest of the party was to channel all my focus into gabbing, frolicking, and flirting like my other tipsy colleagues until everyone went home for the weekend. At 10:30, the last few stragglers were gathering their prizes and hugging one another good night while I stood eyeing the Christmas tree, and Nick came up behind me.

“Ready for it to be over?” he asked.

He’d pulled the beard down around his chin, but I didn’t mind. He had the most beautiful face framed by all that fake white hair, and he still had the hat on properly. He took a step forward, the stuffing of his belly so protrusive he almost grazed it against me, and a shiver rippled through my body.

“Kind of, but I do enjoy seeing everyone have a good time.”

“Of course.” He smiled down at me, his eyes a little glossy from the booze and no doubt the warmth inside his costume, and I ached to scale every inch of his red-wrapped body there by the tree.

“It’s late though, and there’s some clean up…”

“Do you want some help?” He blurted it out so fast it was like he’d been waiting to say it. The last three guests at the door interrupted by shouting out my name. One of them was Shirley, who held the final food tray of many she’d generously toted to her car over the last thirty minutes. She glanced between Nick and me with a curious gaze, so I held up a finger to pause him and shimmied over to plant a kiss on her cheek.

“Thanks for your help, darling,” I said. “You’re a great addition to our company and I’m so glad we have you.”

She beamed, distracted enough by the compliment that her wonder was tempered. She waved goodbye and slipped out the door with the other two assistants, none of them taking any notice of Santa Claus staying behind with his missus.

Once I shut the door I turned around, rolling Nick’s offer around in my head. I’d paid extra to keep the key so that I could get a cleaning crew in here the next day, and though there were a few things to handle that Shirley hadn’t already done, I’d planned on leaving most of it till morning so I could figure out how to get Nick to myself.

“Sorry about that,” I said.

“No problem. You’re so good with everyone, and I admire all your work.”

I rested my hands on my hips, not sure what to say. My thoughts were wrapped up in how to get into his suit, so I bit my lip in contemplation.

“But about the help—do you need any? I feel like I owe you for scattering your papers everywhere yesterday.”

“Oh, shh,” I said. I waved him off and cocked my hip out to the side, and he eyed my legs while smoothing his hands over his stuffing-filled belly. “Besides, there’s not much to do tonight.”


There was a hint of disappointment in his voice, which made it much easier to share my next thought.

“However, I didn’t get any Santa Seat Time.”

Nick chuckled, the motion jostling the padding of his belly. “Every lady should get to tell Santa what she wants,” he said.

He stuck out his hand and I took it, blissfully aware of the heat that rushed into my pussy at the prospect of telling him precisely what I wanted for Christmas. He led me to his rocking chair, and though no one was there to see us, I’m sure we looked a pair—Mr. and Mrs. Claus, walking hand in hand across the hardwood floor of the local community center.

Nick scooted back into the seat and patted his thigh, and it was a Christmas miracle I didn’t come right then.

I stood beside him while he steered his gaze from my face down to my boots.

“Well, well, well, young lady,” he said, in classic Santa fashion. I gave a brief curtsy, and Nick guided me onto his thigh. The soft felt of his costume was delightful on my ass through the holes of my fishnets, and I squirmed on purpose. Nick coughed, then said, “Kristi…er, Mrs. Claus…fancy seeing you here in my lap.”

I stared into his eyes. Against the red of the costume they shined the brightest green, and I was ready for him to show me naughty and nice. “Can I tell you what I want for Christmas, Santa?” I said, pursing my lips.

He shifted.

“Why yes, yes you can.” He curved his hand around my side, drawing me closer, and I took this as an excuse to sidle directly against his belly.

Nick gasped, since my thigh now rested against the hard-on he had hidden beneath those fuzzy red pants.

“Oh my Santa,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “It appears you might be after the same Christmas wish that I am.”


I placed a finger over his lips, then grabbed his hand. He’d skipped the costume gloves, but that was okay because they’d be in the way for what I did next—which was shove his hand up my skirt. “Are you okay with this?”

Nick grinned. He snuck his fingers against the crevice between my thighs. He stroked them down and back up, his fingers still hot through my fishnets and panties. I scooted as close as possible and moved my mouth near his.

“Are you?” he asked.

“I have a thing for the costume and I just put your hand under my skirt. Do you really need to ask?”

“You’re turned on by this suit?” He pressed his fingers harder against me, finding the swollen nub of my clit through the fabric and swiping at it a few times.

“Oh yes,” I panted.

We sat there for a moment, his fingers chafing me though the layers of fabric and my breath pouring raggedly against his face.

“Tell me more,” he said.

“Well,” I said, “I’ve been a very good girl, so I think I should get everything I want for Christmas.”

The words made his cock lurch against my thigh, so I slipped my hand under his jacket. Buried beneath that stuffing was the fly of his red pants, and I hooked my fingers on the button and tugged until it snapped open. Nick caressed me faster and I snuck my hand inside his briefs, taking him into my palm with a groan.

“You’re rock hard, Santa.”

Nick nodded. “And you’re damn wet, Kristi. What do you want for Christmas?”

I glided my hand along his length a few times, loving the way he squinted his eyes. It was like Santa having a jolly good laugh, even though his beard was out of place. Nick weaved his fingers through the holes of my tights and under the sides of my thong, and when he managed to get two of them inside me, I whimpered.

“You, Santa,” I growled. I stroked him more furiously and he did his best to shove his fingers deep despite the fabric in the way. I wrapped my free hand around his neck and pulled him close, and right before I kissed him, I said, “I want to fuck you, Claus.”

Nick’s cock throbbed against my hand and I slammed my lips against his. We were kissing—me and Nick, Office Santa and me—and our tongues tangled together as we clawed at one another’s sex. This Santa could kiss, and when he thrust against my hand I climbed up to straddle him. The motion sent the rocking chair swinging and both of us gave a startled shriek. We took a minute to balance ourselves before I rolled my hips against his crotch, feeling the thickness of his rod though the fabric that separated us.

“Here?” he asked between kisses. He didn’t wait for an answer, tugging down the neckline of my dress to expose my bra. He bit at my chest, pulling my breast free of the cup so he could take my nipple in his lips, and when he sucked on the tip I grinded against him until he moaned.

I took that as my cue, reaching down and ripping a hole in my fishnets—I’d already replaced them once, so what was one more time, anyway? Next I yanked my panties aside and Nick gasped.

I guided him against my cunt, skimming my wetness with his dick, and while I teased myself in this way I stretched my other hand to my boot to retrieve the condom I’d shoved inside earlier. Nick chuckled before I ripped it open and worked it down over his length, but his laughter became a heavy groan when I slid over him and took him deep.

“Oh Kristi!”

Nick Claus was inside me, and already I could feel my body shaking. I rocked against him, sending the chair swinging again, and both of us moaned. He crept his hands beneath my skirt and cupped my ass, his fingers digging the fishnets into my skin as he lifted me up and down. The motion of the rocking chair became a consistent swing that matched our stride. He felt so good I grabbed the bars of the chair so I could slam down over him, and when my free hand sank into the padding of his belly I moaned again.

“Nick, oh Claus…”

He kissed me, but it was messy and broken, both of us writhing against one another in a careful balance of fucking and rocking in that chair. Our breathing became frenzied, and he made grunts that no decent Santa would make as I rode him like the naughty Mrs. Claus I was. The fabric of his costume had slipped between us and grated against my clit in the most pleasant of ways, and as Nick yanked me against him, I felt the pleasure coming over me faster than a midnight sleigh ride around the world.

“Santa!” I cried, jerking against him. The orgasm rolled over me hard and I buried my head against the shoulder of his costume, biting at the fabric as I came. I kept thrusting over him, my mind numb as I trembled around him, his fingers clawing at my ass when he arched and slammed me back down.

“Fuck!” Nick drove into me with one final thrust, and then the two of us huddled around his belly in a panting stupor. Neither of us spoke as the swing of the chair settled to a halt.

It took a good minute for us to come to our senses. I leaned back and stared over him, then wiped the sweat off his hairline. Nick’s face was bright red, but that was to be expected having fucked in a Santa costume. His hat and wig dangled precariously and exposed his dark brown hair beneath, and I couldn’t help but grin.

“Wow,” was all I mustered.

“Wow is accurate,” Nick said.

Slowly, I climbed out of his lap. My limbs were sore from the awkward position on the chair, but every other part of me felt phenomenal. I admired him as I stood before him—his hat cockeyed, his red jacket wet with our sweat, and his withered shaft poking out from the crotch of his Santa pants—and then I adjusted my hat.

“So what’s it like playing Santa?”

Nick grinned.

“Far better than I expected. Especially with such a hot Mrs. Claus.”

“Well, Merry Christmas!” I said.

He grabbed my hand and drew me closer, his arms as tight as they could be around my waist with the girth of his belly between us. He covered my chest in kisses, then slid his hands over my ass.

“As far as I can tell, Christmas isn’t over.”

“No?” I asked. I gave him a quick kiss, and when I stood again, he crept his hands under my skirt and grasped the waistband of my fishnets and panties. I straightened his hat on his head while he eased the fabric down over my hips, my breath catching in my throat.

“Nope. I haven’t unwrapped all the presents yet.”

I giggled as he dipped beneath my skirt, the tip of his Santa hat all I could see peeking out from beneath the hem. His tongue slid over my swollen folds when he slipped a finger inside me, and I gripped the back of his head with a giddy smile.

I don’t know if Nick will play Santa at our next holiday party, but for this year, I’d certainly gotten everything I asked for.