Baby, you can buy my car - erotic fiction for the temporally challenged

Hi

Can one be erotic in fewer than a thousand words? Not being one to use a single word where a thousand will do, I wasn't entirely sure. So I sat down and tried it, tried to be erotic and in a way that complied with Lush Stories' definition of 'Flash Fiction': a story of between one hundred and one thousand words.

I love The Beatles. I love cars. I love to daydream. And I love sex. So what better combination? Did I succeed? It is surely not for me to judge, though - and this is surely the major criteria in all one's exploits - I had fun trying. I sincerely hope you have fun (and anything else you feel appropriate to have) while reading it. 

Take care till next time,

Love,

Alexandra xxx

Baby, you can buy my car

As his front wheel grazed the kerb and came to a halt, I was kissing him. Upon opening the door and sliding from his seat, I was stripping him. By the time he had pulled himself fully upright, I was fucking him, riding him, bouncing up and down on his writhing body, his phallus embedded deep in my clenching innards, the thick, stiff shaft splitting my dripping lips.

'Hi,' the voice so deep my slender chest resonated with it, my tiny tits vibrated with it. Tingling nipples grated gently against my crisp white cotton blouse. Could he tell I was braless? Could he see the shadowy areolae and their ripe rising teats? I sincerely hoped so.

'Hi. You've come about the car?'

I batted heavy lashes towards the little red Fiat, a hint of an incredulous smile on my similarly tinted lips: his impressive frame could surely destroy my tiny machine. A sudden smile dazzled me, momentarily eclipsed the personalised porn movie spooling behind my eyes, in which I was sitting on his face, his tongue lapping at my clitoris, while I shaved his well-gelled groin with a gleaming cut-throat razor.

'It's not for me. It's for my...'

Frames flickered and froze the blade's glinting edge to his dangling scrotum. His next word was fatal to my fantasy, poison to the probable possibilities. I simply could not allow it. Whetted words cut him off in his prime.

'Hope you're not another time-waster! Look, she's perfect for you. For anyone...'

He was already beside her, testing her cute waxed curves with a huge hand. I was jealous as fuck. Again the voice; again my quivering tits.

'A few scratches... Nothing major though.'

On buttocks and between shoulder-blades, the scabbed-over evidence of my most recent sexual seeing-to were a single body scrub away from total erasure. I objected.

'Nah. Bodywork's virtually perfect.'

He kicked a tyre.

'Plenty of tread.'

A hand on my hip eased a pound of flesh back under my denim skirt's waistband.

'Exactly as advertised.'

'Serviced regularly?'

The film rolled on. I towelled off his gleaming privates then took his full length down my throat. Writhing beneath my sleek, throbbing, well-tuned bodywork, a skilled mechanic groaned his intense approval. In total contrast, my response was calm and detached.

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus - extremely generously, I feel - nine further stories in 'Measuring up', my latest collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.

Searing heat and dexterous feet

Hi

I went on holiday. I came back. Whilst there, in my mini self-contained resort, I took an early-morning dip in the pool and followed it up with a soothing session in the sauna. A man joined me there. He was silver-haired, bearded and very refined. We began talking, he at ground level and I one step higher where the heat can tend to go to one's head. The story I wrote later, while sunning myself on the sparse though splendid beach, contains both truth and fiction in around equal measures. I leave it to you, dear reader who knows me so well, to decide where one ends and the next begins.

One factor is definitely not fiction: I really do have the most beautiful sexually-expressive feet.

Searing heat and dexterous feet

The wooden ladle felt rough between my swim-softened fingers, its grain swollen by the constant claustrophobic heat. I scooped water then drizzled it in sparkling dancing droplets that momentarily blackened the sizzling coals. A hot wave, a sensual sirocco, descended on me, taking my breath, melting my tingling skin into salty rivulets. I climbed. Hot wooden boards pressed into my buttocks. Feet eschewed the seat below to dangle in the hellish air, while trembling palms rested on smooth naked thighs. I hung my head and dared myself to breathe. Deep. Deeper.

I watched my breasts stretch the skimpy bikini top till the twin areolic rings were clearly delineated, though my nipples had somehow softened and sunk without trace into their tight, tanned orbs, leaving not a hint of their normally pert presence on the glistening crimson cloth. I rocked on my sitting bones, allowed my spine to relax, align and straighten, till my head floated atop the resulting delicately-swaying jenga of cartilage and bone. Closing my eyes, I breathed out, encouraged my tired, knotted muscles to lengthen and release, my grating, aching joints to open and separate. While my young though exhausted body bathed in the bliss of the blistering heat, my typically lively mind gently approached an unlikely euphoric quietude.

A rush of cool air accompanied the clicking of the door catch. The catch clicked again; feet padded softly. One, two, three. Directly opposite me and beneath me, boards creaked to accommodate the newcomer's rear. The laboured breath hinted at both the sex and age of the intruder. The voice's timbre confirmed my twin conjectures, the refined accent adding colourful overtones all of its own.

'Young lady, may I add a ladle?'

With lips alone, I smiled; the accompanying affirmative nod caused sweat to drip from my shuttered lashes. I heard him fumble wood against wood, heard the water's sizzling transformation into steam, and felt the resultant cloak of almost unbearable heat descend upon me, scorching my nostrils and burning my throat. Sweat prickled, trickled, rose from the roots of my short spiky hair and meandered across my tingling scalp. With the back of a slick hand, I swept a sticky fringe from my forehead. Sparks danced behind my eyelids; the world rocked then righted. I breathed again, gingerly drawing fiery air into my depths. A sudden wave of nausea swept through me. Inexplicably, I shivered and almost painfully, my nipples puckered up. With claw-like fingers, I quickly reached across my body and absently massaged my left shoulder, thus hiding my embarrassingly poking teats from the stranger's gaze. However, with my every minute movement, they chafed uncomfortably, the tight Lycra stimulating the habitually-sensitive tips and thus prolonging my unfortunate predicament.

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus - extremely generously, I feel - nine further stories in 'Measuring up', my latest collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.

Two-player foreplay

Hi.

Yes, I know. It's been months this time! What can I say? Nothing. There are no excuses. I just haven't felt like it. So there.

Today, I read through some old stuff, changed a few words, tidied up the punctuation (how I used to love the ellipsis. I mean really love it...) and thought I'd share one of the shorter ones with you. There's no story as such, simply a graphic (sometimes painfully so) description of an extremely intimate act.

But then, on the other hand, it's all story in a way: everything we do in the present has a history, a springboard for its leap into existence. Today, this is where you do the work, where you become the writer. Project this sweet present back far enough and you may find a bitter past. Or maybe not. The prologue and preceding twenty-seven chapters are all yours. I merely provide chapter twenty-eight. Now write the rest and give me - or, if you prefer, merely act out - the epilogue. Have lots of fun getting there. And tell me how it went. I mean it. Tell me. Be as graphic as you like. As you can probably tell, I looooove graphic.

Love till next time,
Alexandra xxx

Two-player foreplay

I close my eyes and I'm there, standing naked before you. I was hard in the car as I drove here alone, hard before we got to the room, and it's painful now - I'm dying for you to touch me, dying to be inside you. Yet we stand still, looking at each other's ready vulnerability, taking in the reality and savouring the thought that we will soon be making love.

My eyes fall closed again and I smile at the knowledge of what is surely to follow. You, meanwhile, sink to your knees, and I instantly feel your hot mouth around my cock, your hands on my balls.

'Oh, God... oh God...'

You squeeze my buttocks and pull me into your throat, looking up into my eyes as you do so. The sheer unexpected bliss of the moment causes cum to well up and I feel the orgasm immediately begin to blossom. I let it move upward with each pulsing cycle, from stage to stage, closer and closer to the point of no return with every tight-lipped, teeth-grazing thrust into you. One more and I'll be there. One more... Impossibly, I pull away at the last moment and tighten my muscles - hold on, hold on - stopping the flow of semen while not stopping the wash of orgasmic sensations that reverberate through me. That was good, but I know the next will be more intense; then the next and the next. Patience my love.

I bend and kiss you now, take you in my arms and we lay back on the soft rug that hugs this part of the wooden floor. My fingers move from your hair to your neck and shoulders, then circle your nipples in turn, making them erect. Curious, playful digits then leave the soft orbs and explore your belly; circling, dancing. I have tasted you before (the memory of our one previous time together, of tearing off your jeans and panties, seeing your beautifully shaved cunt, then opening your legs and kissing you there, always makes me hard in seconds) and I need to do it again. My middle finger traces a line down the centre of your body with one inevitable destination; the journey is slow, delicate, unbearable. We continue to kiss. I feel you gasp as I move lower. Your breathing tells me I am near. The heat speaks too. You are totally shaven; I draw patterns on the soft flesh of your lower belly and I know I will soon find the cleft slippery wetness I seek. Moving in millimetres, I probe, then make light circular movements on the tip of your clitoris.

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus - extremely generously, I feel - nine further stories in 'Measuring up', my latest collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.