The Heat Wave of ‘76
And other award-winning stories from the Stringybark Erotic Fiction Award
Edited by David Vernon
Selected by
Dr
Kathryn Dwan, Dexter Dutton, Fanny Lawrence and David Vernon
Published by Stringybark Publishing,
PO Box 851, Jamison Centre, ACT 2614, Australia
http://www.stringybarkstories.net
Smashwords Edition
Copyright:
This
collection, David Vernon, 2011
Copyright: Individual stories, the
authors, various.
These are works of fiction and unless otherwise made clear, those mentioned in these stories are fictional characters and do not relate to anyone living or dead.
Discover other titles from David Vernon at Smashwords.com:
The Umbrella’s Shade and other award-winning stories from the Stringybark Short Story Award
Our Name Wasn’t Written — A Malta Memoir 1936 - 1943
Between Heaven and Hell and other award-winning stories from the Stringybark Flash Fiction Award
The Bridge: 21 stories from the Stringybark Short Story Awards
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Contents
Walking the Rail — Frances Warren
Culinary Foreplay — Sylvia Petter
Fairies at the Bottom of the Garden — Marguerite Johnson
The Kids Call it ‘Friends with Benefits’ — Pauline Sorensen
The War of the Roses — Mardi O’Connor
A Mermaid’s Song — Samantha Stiles
The Heat Wave of ’76 — Chris Westlake
La Belle Dame Sans Merci (Keats reveals what really happened that day) — Julie Davies
Memo from the Great Teaser — Graeme Scott
Yes, Please — Elizabeth g Arthur
Tarts Galore — Artemisia Melidulci
Moving Day — Peter Jason Smith
An Artistic Eye — Allan Mackay
Winners of the Stringybark Erotic Fiction Award
Introduction
— David Vernon
This book is the fourth anthology of short stories from Stringybark Publishing’s short story awards. It consists of twenty-three erotic fiction stories that received highly commended awards (or won prizes) from the judges.
Judging erotic fiction is quite different from judging other short stories, simply because our emotional responses to the stories are all so varied. One person’s erotica is another person’s pornography. Some of the stories presented here are highly explicit and for some people may be quite shocking, whilst other stories are subtle and sensitive. However, all of them are different and play to different emotions. So how do we decide what merits publication? How do we pick the best stories out of over one hundred entries?
A story must have most of the elements of a good short story — a clear and strong plot, good characterisation, a defined setting, correct grammar and spelling and a pleasing writing style. Nothing peculiar here. But then we want one more element for an erotic tale. We want something that gives the story some pizzazz. Something different, something exciting, something a little out of the ordinary that gives the reader an emotional reaction — and preferably entices the reader to have a sexy thought or two!
We deliberately chose two male and two female judges in the hope that we would provide an anthology with balance and one that pleases nearly all tastes. On behalf of the judging panel, we hope you find some pizzazz amongst these twenty-three entertaining and stylish stories.
David Vernon
Editor and Judge
“Stringybark”
October 2011
Brushstrokes
— Simone Sinna
She sat with some care, knowing that she needed to get the position just right, not only for the seven people drawing her, but for her own comfort. The nudity was what stopped many people considering life modelling, but Abbie had been doing it long enough to know that the pain of sitting still was a far greater issue.
At $25 an hour it was better than waitressing and had helped finance her law degree. Though she no longer needed the money, she was reluctant to give up this part of her life. She had, briefly, when her boyfriend had protested, but in the end holding onto this aspect of herself — a more radical, edgy, less predictable self — had been a better deal than giving herself entirely to the corporate life — and to him.
The room was warm and quiet, broken only by an occasional murmur when Ricky offered a few words of feedback. Abbie watched the students; it was the first of four classes she would do with them. Five women, all over forty, matter-of-fact and keenly concentrating on technique. One man of about thirty whose awkward glances threatened to set her giggling. An older man of at least sixty, the most at ease, making strong strokes with his charcoal. The eighth was running late.
Abbie enjoyed being watched. She knew she looked good; perhaps a little too chunky for those who liked the Paris Hilton figure, but there was sensuality in her curves. Her full round breasts pushed forward a little from her position, propped by her arms, areolas dark pink and enticing. She had resisted the Brazilian trend and her pubic hair, soft and dark, offered some cover.
The door creaked open; Mr Running Late, a man in his late thirties, clearly straight from the office with only time to pull off the tie and open his top button. Apologetic but not flustered; a man used to carrying off a busy schedule without fuss.
Abbie recognised him immediately, and her surprise was quickly replaced with a sense of disappointment. She had always hoped her worlds would never collide, knowing that were they to do so, this one would have to be forfeited. She hoped for a moment that with her long auburn wig rather than the usual dirty blonde hair, he would not see the other her, but it was a futile hope. Liam was known for meticulous research and attention to detail; they had come up against each other several times in court and he was a formidable opponent.
Abbie resolved to at least enjoy her last modelling job. She turned her attention to Liam; medium height, brown hair. She’d never thought of him as particularly good looking but the mix of office attire and artistic paraphernalia lent him a certain charm. Settling into his seat, he had paid her scant attention. She waited for the dawn of recognition but it did not come. He regarded her as if she was a statue and turned his attention to his paper.
To her surprise, Abbie found she was... well, offended. She was certain he wasn’t gay — he’d dated her friend and had been married, and he’d even sent a vibe across the courtroom, though she’d ignored it. Surely he would have found the situation, with her naked, at the very least interesting? Surely a little attractive or sexy?
The next time Liam looked up Abbie willed him to look at her; his eyes seemed to take her in but without connection. She watched him, imagining the picture — of her — forming on the page. He seemed totally preoccupied; were his sexual thoughts and fantasies towards the image rather than the model who he considered remote and impersonal? Or was he too focused on his drawing to have any thoughts about her at all? She watched the veins on the back of his hands track upwards along the lightly haired forearm; she imagined those hands gliding over her own arms and legs, shivering as they reached the very top.
Did anyone notice the shiver? Abbie opened her eyes; the class was busy at work, but Liam had paused, and for the first time his eyes met hers.
The look left her breathless. He knew she thought. Before he arrived. The calm acceptance and acknowledgement could have no other explanation. But what did it mean? That he didn’t care, that he planned to use it to his advantage in their other world, or that he was interested in joining her in this one? Whichever it was, Abbie found her response immediate; for the first time doing these classes, she was turned on. The more matter-of-fact his glances were, the more she wanted to shake his controlled exterior and find what was below. Each casual look taunted her, as if he was playing a deliberate waiting game. Would he go home and say nothing at the end of the class?
She didn’t have long to wait; when Ricky informed the class it was time to pack up, she sat carefully, slower than usual to find her gown. Liam, unhurried, spoke quietly to him as the others filed out. Ricky shook his head but Liam appeared seemed to be insisting. Finally Ricky walked over to her.
“He says he was sorry he was late and wondered if you could stay longer. He says he wants to paint you.” Ricky was clearly not keen on the idea – or didn’t believe him. “He says he’ll pay you double.”
Abbie’s heart was pounding. “I can lock up after we finish.”
“I’m not sure...”
“I know him,’ she interrupted. “I’ll be fine.”
The building empty, the lights of the adjacent offices lighting up the warehouse, Abbie sat, naked and watched as Liam walked over to her.
“ I think you should stay resting back on your arms, but…” As Abbie eased herself back on her arms, Liam’s hand gently brought the long red locks back behind her shoulders, so that her breasts were fully exposed. The touch sent electric tingles so violent that she was almost shaking. “…and perhaps.... lotus position?”
Abbie took a breath. He must know how aroused she was, but exposing her sex as he was asking would leave no doubt. She moved her legs slowly, debating whether to put her feet on her thighs, but then elected for a more comfortable — albeit more daring — version of the position with her heels together, knees apart, never taking her eyes off him. She wondered why she was so certain she would be safe with him when she certainly didn’t feel she could trust herself.
“I did promise just to paint you,” Liam said softly into her ear, stooping to pull out a paint box from his bag. He moved around her slowly, making it obvious that he was looking at her open sex. “Though, I have a distinct impression you’ve been thinking about something more than that?”
Rules – but of which world? Abbie bit her lip. “Not while I’m being paid as a model,” she said carefully.
A flicker of a smile passed over Liam. He was no longer able to hide any better than she, how turned on he was. It seemed only with effort could he slow his breathing; and he was barely able to tear his gaze away from her hips, now grinding slowly into the table on which she was seated.
He opened a large water colour paint set, with as many brushes as paint colours, and deliberated for what seemed eternity as she waited and watched, anticipation building. Finally he selected a thick brush, and finding a large glass of water dipped it in before selecting a deep pink.
“A perfect nipple colour don’t you think?” he said. Without waiting for a response, he turned to her rather than his paper, and eyes never leaving hers, gently dabbed the paint on her nipples. The unexpected touch made Abbie gasp. Her mind raced. He’d promised to paint her, and was doing exactly that.
Liam was already onto her second breast, now working with more care, tracing carefully around the outer areola, then dragging the brush more firmly so it acted to elongate her nipple. The bristles of the brush had a roughness to them, and her skin reacted by tingling, a feeling that extended across her breast, then through her whole body as the brushstrokes became firmer, her body the artist’s canvas.
Liam selected another brush, smaller with fine long firm hairs that traced red paint now around her ears, teasing inside, then down the line of her neck. Determined not to move, Abbie closed her eyes and savoured the feeling — of both the brushstroke and the uncertainty of what would happen next.
Purple paint splashed into her belly button, the brush circling around her diamond stud, tickling and caressing. Slowly the brush descended to the edge of her pubic hair, along the lines and creases of her groin. Another colour splashed onto her inner thighs as the brush moved more quickly, stroking her thighs in a firm and deliberate manner. She was sure Liam was watching her lips swell in response and her juices moisten her exposed sex.
Liam now selected the finest of brushes and outlined her inner lips, touching her clitoris with the lightest of strokes. Abbie could no longer remain still; she dropped back on her arms, head back and hips rhythmically moving with the strokes as she moaned in appreciation.
The paintbrush now was more adventurous. Soaking in her juices, the brush traced slowly along the edges of her slit, continuing further to her anus, probing inside gently at first, then more insistently. Abbie felt the brush inside her, angled so that the pressure accelerated her excitement. Slowly Liam withdrew it, then changing to a larger brush, moved to the edges of inner lips, slipping the brush inside her. Already on the verge of climaxing, Abbie moaned, her muscles sucking in the brush as she fantasised about Liam taking her. The one remove made the experience strangely exhilarating, the sex without touching intimate yet remote. As she pictured him across the courtroom her excitement crescendoed, releasing a wave of exquisite pleasure she held onto as long as she could.
It wasn’t until she heard the click of the door that she opened her eyes. Alone she regarded Liam’s work. In the mirror the colours transformed her into something she didn’t recognise; an exotic extinct bird from another time and place. Unsettled by the spectacle, she was rising to hide behind her gown, when she caught sight of Liam’s class picture. Drawing closer, she saw that it was indeed her, an exquisitely detailed sketch that concentrated on her face. It captured a sensuous part of her that she had not until now been able to reconcile, yet here in this picture, it existed in the woman that was fully clothed and briefing a judge. Perhaps, she thought, I can bring these parts of myself together.
She began to look forward to her next encounter with Liam — in court or in class.
Simone Sinna is the pseudonym of an established writer of nonfiction. Her fiction is inspired by what she does — and would like to do — in her spare time. Her first erotic novel, Embedded, will be published by Siren in 2011. She currently lives in Australia, but takes every opportunity to travel and experience new places and people.
Walking the Rail
— Frances Warren
The ache in my bones is deep and I force this body to rise in one fluid motion, rather than the weary creaking it so often insists upon. When did this happen? When did I go and get so goddamned old? Hair bleached, hands liver spotted, skin so paper-thin. I feel protective, maternal almost, toward my own body. It seems so easily broken now and so beautiful in all of its human frailty.
I dress slowly, letting my joints limber up in the cool summer morning. My blouse is pale blue. My first lover, Matthew, always told me I looked beautiful in pale blue. A vanity I suppose, but I remember how he shook the first time I let him kiss me, and how his nervousness made me bold. Our hands and mouths so full of youth and of each other. He was 19 and I was a year older, he gasped when he touched my breast and held me like I was something both precious and dangerous, like if he was not careful, I might burn us both right up.
He was my first lover and we lay together flesh on flesh, more each other than ourselves, in his narrow single bed and believed we would last forever. He was my first lover, and for a time he was my sun, but I had courted another. My dark one. A different kind of being altogether. If Matthew was the sun, the dark boy was a moonless night, silken, endless and terrifying. I think I saw my dark one yesterday, but surely not. Not after all these years.
The sun blazes in the blue morning and I put on my straw hat. I know it makes me look the part of the crazy old broad, but the fact amuses more than worries me. Lately it seems I fit that stereotype more and more. Dementia? I wonder sometimes, though I worry about it less than I should. The garden waits, the pungent smell of tomatoes on the vine and cucumber and capsicum. My bones will ache and I will dry out in the sun and the green will be lovely. The light and the shade and the feel of the earth beneath my bare feet. I will feel young, giddy with velvet caresses, for I feel sure I’m being courted again. Courted by an old and dark friend, one I first glimpsed when I was 18 years old.
I wore a ribbon of white, it was before I was beautiful in pale blue, and I was crossing Wainwright Bridge. My skirt brushed my knee and my shoes and socks were shoved in the satchel that bumped lazily against my back. I felt pretty in the spring afternoon, blossoms falling to the dirt lane from the wattle overhead, work done for another day. And then there was the dark man, I couldn’t tell you what he looked like, but he made my heart skip faster in my chest and I felt my cheeks flush and my mouth dry. I had been asleep my whole life and now I was awake. My stomach fluttered and below that, there arose an ache that I had never imagined. Unbidden lust filled me with daring and laughter. I flung down my satchel and climbed up on to the rails of Wainwright Bridge. I was crazed at that moment, filled with longing and chagrin and determination, filled with a need to make this dark man before me notice and want me, with all the violent intensity that I wanted him.
It was something I had seen the footballers dare each other to do, on the way home after the game. They called it ‘walking the rail’ and the girls squealed and screamed in fear as they watched. The Wainwright Bridge rail was maybe 6 inches wide and the drop was long. Long enough to kill. The Jacobsen’s eldest boy had fallen ‘walking the rail’ fifteen years earlier and the tragedy was still talked about. He had died twisted and broken amongst the cruel rocks in the dry stream-bed forty feet below. Now me, filled with a desire so intense as to be unbearable, 18 and all aglow I ‘walked the rail’. Danced it really, bare feet flying, as I laughed and twirled intoxicated on lust and life and all the ignorant joy of being young and alive and watched by a dark and pretty man.
My dark one smiled at me and it filled my ribs and my head and it was all I could see or think or know. But he turned away in the end, though I am sure there was regret in his parting wink and that night I wept that I did not know his name. Who would have thought that enamoured girl would have come back to haunt me in my eightieth year? And who would have thought that I would court that dark boy on and off for the rest of my life? He always turned away, but they say the last time pays for all.
I saw him once, just after I married Joe, I think I was 24 or maybe 25. No matter, it was the night Joe drove home drunk from the Chandler’s wedding party. His best mate, William passed out beside him in the front passenger seat, me half cut in the back, or I never would have let him drive, even though it was before breathalysers and horrific ad campaigns and it was all on the back roads. And my beautiful, too dark, young man, now beside me, his hand on my shoulder, burning through my thin dress, moving around to graze my breast. Too warm, too sweet, too everything as the world spun from too much wine and my heart set to pounding wildly despite my husband of only six months driving the car, an arms span away. And, in the end, the accident went largely unnoticed by me, who was leaning forward for a kiss from a dark stranger, when my drunk husband hit the tree. My mouth was full of him for a moment that was forever. I walked away, not a bruise. Joe needed stitches in his left cheek and carried the scar ‘til the day he died and William broke his wrist. My dark young man just disappeared, though my lips burned for days where we had kissed. I taste him on my tongue every time I drink wine, from that day to this.
I loved Joe until the day he left me, still and blue after the massive heart attack that stole his breath. Truth be told I love him still, but his kisses never burnt my lips like my dark one’s did that night in the car and in the scared and hung-over day that followed.
In the afternoon I go inside and sit in the dim, cool kitchen. I drink tea, one cup after another until I need to pee. The old pelvic floor ain’t what it used to be. I suppose that’s the price of babies and not a particularly high price at that. Four of them and the miscarriage in between, they dragged the youth right out of me and replaced it with an ocean of love and a constant low-grade worry, that occasionally rose to outright panic at missed steps and broken curfews.
Only birthing Brian, my youngest, really hurt, though at the time the births of the older three had seemed like an exhausting and unbearable agony. It was only Brian that tore and ripped at me as he fought his way out. Only with Brian did the red film close over my vision, as the doctors and nurses bustled around, arrogant and busy and panicked, trying to stop my lifeblood that was soaking into their sheets, turning the crisp white to an angry and rather beautiful scarlet.
Then he was there, standing beside me, his darkness enveloping the red tint that had clouded my vision. He held my hand, and in all honesty I mistook him for a doctor but only for a moment, then those eyes caught mine and I believe my heart paused in wonder that he could stand before me and I could feel such naked lust as my life poured out from between my legs. That time I turned away, though it tore my lungs out to do it. But the midwife was holding my naked, bawling, red-faced infant and I needed to hold him with all the ferocious love of a new mother, that lust (even such as this) can never quite match. At that moment I could not imagine him forgiving this rejection, for as I turned from him he whispered out his dark name and I knew he wanted me as I wanted him. But now after all these years, it seems he has finally forgiven me.
You see I catch him out of the corner of my eye, mostly when my mind hums with too much heat and digging on the slow summer days in my garden. He waits behind me, still and young and vital with joints untouched by arthritis. And the smell of him is darksome and all man, it wakes in me a heat I had thought long extinguished. My palms tingle and there is a dampness in my staid and sensible old lady panties. And though part of me believes I am an old fool, another part feels lovely and desirable. I know this feeling. Though it’s been a long time since this old heart beat in anything but fear. I remember this from my girlhood when fear was all but unknown. A rumour, a thing that happened to other people. People afraid to live and those scared to die. Back then, I was not afraid of either and I suppose death knew it. Fear came later with children and taxes, but by then it was too late, it appears death already fancied me.
He rarely leaves me now, my dark one, even when Clare brings my grandchildren to climb and chatter on me I feel his presence. Brian swears I look younger every time he sees me, but I know it’s the flush of an old lust soon to be satisfied. It will not be long before I finally take my dark lover and I am impatient and glowing with anticipation like a new bride. At night it’s stronger and feel myself pressing my flesh to his, until we are more each other than ourselves. And at the last he will whisper his name again and this time I will not turn from him, but follow him into the darkness and we will finally slake this lust. His kisses will burn like flames on my lips and my throat, his hands will show me myself, and my passion will rise to match his as these worldy things slip away. It is only now I can see, after all these years I am still ‘walking the rail.’
Frances Warren lives in country Victoria with her wonderful partner and just as wonderful daughter and also two mildly annoying, but lovable cats. She loves writing stories and sending them off into the world.
Linkage
— Maggie Veness
I arrive fifteen minutes after kick-off, bundled up in a long, brown coat, black boots, and cream, mohair scarf. An icy wind bites my face on the short walk to the grandstand and I curse Laura under my breath. As usual, the stand is packed, but Laura always saves me a seat. I scan every row, marching on the spot with my chin buried in my scarf, but I can’t see her.
Laura and I go way back to early Madonna, with those oversized, yellow, plastic ear rings, wide, polka-dot head-bands and coral-pink lipstick. Still looking great at thirty-four, Laura has fallen hard for Brenno, the hunky, local football hero otherwise known as Bam-Bam. The fact that Bam-Bam is ten years her junior doesn’t bother me in the least, but I gotta admit I have fun teasing Laura by saying I reckon it’s Bam-Bam’s sweaty six-pack, clinging shorts, and square jaw that she’s hot for. She insists there’s more to Bam-Bam than his crutch-wetting body — for instance, the loving gestures he makes in his mother’s direction when she comes along to watch him play. And Laura swears that each time she’s gotten close enough to see the team run by as they head onto the field, Bam-Bam’s pale-blue eyes look exactly like portals to this deep reservoir of tenderness and vulnerability. Laura’s angling toward inviting Bam-Bam to do some ‘time’ in her private sin-bin. Very soon. Before she explodes.
Shivering, I promise myself this will be the last time I get out of bed early on a wintry Sunday, even for my closest girlfriend. Figuring she’ll come looking for me at half time, I retreat to the open area by the grandstand where another fifty or sixty well-chilled spectators are hanging around.
Although I’m surrounded mostly by doting parents, I notice one interesting looking guy with wavy, fair hair leaning against a post. He’s wearing slim-fit, faded jeans, a caramel suede coat with thick lambs-wool lining, and has a blue scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. I watch as he absentmindedly lifts his right leg, rhythmically scuffing the heel of his shoe into the bare earth, and quickly decide that watching him will be ten times more interesting than watching the game. Within minutes I’ve maneuvered myself to an improved vantage point only two or three meters away.
I guess him to be around my age and height. His stance suggests a relaxed sophistication. He’s wearing a pair of those small, frameless glasses. A reddish-blonde beard shaved into a neat thin line borders his jaw. Fact is he doesn’t look like your typical football fan, which is enormously encouraging. I push my icy hands deep into my pockets and settle in to enjoy the scenery.
After a minute my mystery guy stops digging his heel around, lowers his head, and clasps his hands behind his neck, and I find myself wondering why he’s even here, because, like me, he’s showing zero interest in the game. I watch him slowly rocking from side to side, rubbing his cheeks against his coat collar. He appears deep in thought, and I decide he’s come here today seeking distraction from a difficult domestic situation. Yes. I can even see his girlfriend. I imagine she was a pretty little thing five years ago but she’s completely let herself go. Probably wears tent dresses and rubber flip-flops and wonders why he’d rather go to a game on a cold Sunday morning than stay home in bed with her! I’m actually having fun with this.
God, he’s attractive. Without warning, he turns my way and springs me checking him out. I react with a self-conscious half-smile, expecting him to throw one right back, but instead I just get this lingering, hypnotic stare that makes me suspect he’s somehow dragging every intimate secret from my soul.
I can’t pull my eyes away. Is it a game? Is he trying to outstare me? I’m vaguely aware of his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows and of the deliberately sensual way he’s circling his lips with his tongue. When he moves toward me with an outstretched hand I reach out and take it without hesitation.
I feel stunned. Weightless. Did anyone notice? We haven’t even exchanged a word and here he is leading me away. I’m thinking, shouldn’t I be saying something? Like, umm, excuse me for asking, but, who the hell are you and where the hell are you taking me?
Hand in hand we walk ‘til we approach a dark-blue Range Rover, which he unlocks using the remote key in his pocket. Releasing my hand, he turns to face me square on, his back to the car. We both look down and watch as he uses the heel of his shoe to scrape a line into the dirt between us.
“This line is yours. Do you want to cross it?”
I try to think rationally, tell myself to stay calm. Now I’ve at least heard this guy’s voice and it sounded gentle, even kind of melodic. But still he hasn’t smiled. I briefly ponder what the average axe murderer might look like, and think, not this handsome, surely. The way my adrenalin-spiked heart’s thumping I know if he tried to grab me I could turn and run, and run fast. But the thing is, what I’m sensing isn’t danger. What I’m sensing is dangerously spontaneous excitement.
“Yes,” I whisper, and take one long step toward him… across my line.
I’m close enough now to smell the warm, fleece lining of his coat. He’s slightly taller than I thought. I’m trembling, thinking, Imustbecrazy, Imustbecrazy — crazy from an intoxicating mix of danger and lust.
“Fantastic. Don’t tell me your name,” he whispers, and places one hand on each side of my head, fingers spread, palms firmly covering my ears.
I expect … no, I want him to kiss me. I wait. He doesn’t.
Unsure of what to do, I stand there with my arms dangling by my sides. He tilts back my head and brings his mouth close to the base of my neck. Only his warm breath touches my skin. Once again, he’s making me wait for his lips. God, I’ve lost the strength in my legs. Probably couldn’t run now if I wanted to. I close my eyes, sense his mouth opening, finally feel his lips, then his warm tongue. He’s licking and tasting me, leaving a wide, wet trail along the length of my neck. My body responds with a heavy ache that drags down through my belly and gently pulses between my legs. And I moan with the pleasure of anticipation.
“I love how you taste. I’d like more. Now.”
“Me too,” I hear myself whisper.
He releases me and opens the back door of the Range Rover. I climb in. He follows, slams, and locks the doors. I think, tinted windows, good.
I half lay back along the seat, watch him unbutton his coat, my heart beating fast in my throat. I push my hands up under his shirt, run them over his chest, take in the creamy texture of his skin, tug his nipples ‘til they harden, feel the painful prickle of my own nipples in response. Without taking his eyes off mine, he slides one hand beneath my coat and skirt and gently cups my pubic bone — as if holding a delicate bird’s nest.
“Let’s not speak. That okay, beautiful lady?” he says, and I nod.
Finally, that first kiss. I disappear inside the passionate, uncomplicated, pure pleasure of two tongues searching, hoping for more. He’s breathing fast when he straightens up to unzip. My knees know to fall apart and he moves his head down over my body like a starving man scenting bread.
I thread my fingers through his thick hair grasping two handfuls of loose curls, and rock against his warm tongue. The force of my own lust shocks me. I begin to moan. Finally, he ranges above me, his hands seizing my hips. As he starts to pull me in and push me away, the pure ebb and flow of the natural world falls in with the rhythm of our sex. And all of history comes back to this, here and now — hurtling planets, amoeba, boiling lava, and the innate language of animals.
When our bodies fall and relax against each other he tucks an arm beneath my waist and nestles his face into the crook of my neck. We stay like that until the sound of cheering from the grandstand nearby demands we return to reality.
After smoothing my clothes and hair, my mystery lover places a weightless kiss on the bridge of my nose and I wander back alone toward the grounds feeling especially cozy. And when Laura greets me, bubbling over with news that Bam-Bam has accepted her invitation for a drink later tonight, I decide to postpone sharing the details of my dangerous liaison. But just until tomorrow.
Hailing from beautiful Coffs Harbour, NSW, Maggie Veness works two volunteer jobs, cycles at least 100ks per week, and presents occasional fiction writing workshops. Intrigued by human flaws, foibles, and idiosyncrasies, she began writing in 2008, and prefers her fiction short and bitey, like a good espresso. Maggie’s stories have been published in Australia, NZ, the US, the UK, and Canada
Grease
— Peter Jason Smith
I never much cared for my Saturday night shifts.
That is, until this one.
It was a warm summer’s night, the heat of the day lingering until well after sunset. I had to stop sweeping every few minutes to wipe at the sweat stinging my eyes. I ran the night shift in a lowly service station in a small town, which meant I was there by myself until closing time at ten. It was rarely busy enough to run late, and tonight was no exception.
The store was quiet but for the hum of the air-conditioning and the soft tunes drifting out of the radio in the corner. My last real customer had come through at eight thirty, more than an hour ago, and I’d spent the evening cleaning. Working the weekends didn’t worry me too much. Excitement in this town was always on a Saturday morning, when all the local footy teams clashed in the park down the street. The guys would come in afterwards to buy drinks, celebrating a win or commiserating a loss. They’d be shirtless more often than not, sweat glistening off their hard bodies, and if it had rained the night before, streaks of mud would be caked onto their legs and matted into their hair. I’d long since learned to enjoy the show.
I finished sweeping and had just started restocking the chewing gum when I heard the doors glide open. I glanced up, and the young man walking into the store took my breath away.
He was handsome, maybe four years younger than me. Twenty-three, I’d say at a guess. He had dark eyes and a head of scruffy blond curls. He was wearing a pair of ancient yellow footy shorts, and nothing else. His shoulders were broad, and his powerful chest was smooth but for a trail of wispy blond hair leading invitingly into his shorts. It was a flawless body, untouched by the evils of food, drink and bad habits. His skin was tanned from long hours under the sun. As he approached, I couldn’t help but notice a thin smear of grease on his stomach, just to the left of his navel, trailing down onto the elastic waistband of his underwear then onto his shorts.