Viewing the local antiquities

Duty calls: I'm not a combatant in the war on pornography, because whatever I'm writing isn't pornography. But if you want to combat some thinking that isn't exactly evidence-based, click here.


Money changes hands, 
and hands change money: We fold, crumple, smooth our bills; touch them, count them, stack them; use special pens to see if they're counterfeit; feel them; smell them when they're fresh.

We flip, jingle, shake our coins; put them on railroad tracks.

We collect them.

I imagine Annie as a child: Brilliant, uncirculated; her devices unworn, obverse; reverse.


Contractual relations. 
"Angel, please."

"She out shopping."
"When will she be back?"

"I'll be back then."

"I promise."

Angel purchased:

1. Sandals
2. Socks
3. A small incense warmer. Better than air freshener.

I fiddle for a bit with the plug, switch, and cord of the incense warmer, without result, and then Angel leads me off to the table shower.

Doggy styling: The equal and opposite response to my thwack is her grunt, from in front and beneath me, though with a slight lag: effortful, taking it: she contracted and kegeled me right from insertion. Once, I pulled out too far, missed, and slammed against her left cheek, like a pendulum crashing out of its case—for a split second, I thought that I'd bruised or shattered myself, but re-inserted with pleasure.

Withdrawal, conversation:

"How was your steak?"

"My friend, she had two $50 glasses of red wine."

"And then she don't want to pay!"

"I can't drink wine."

"Next I want to go to the Japanese restaurant round the corner."

Annie did moan, but only during conversation, when we compared notes on food.

Cowgirl: Angel hardens me—with the condom still on—kneels over me, reaches a hand underneath herself, puts me to her, and squats; contracts.

"I don't want to do anything."

But I don't have to: she's grinding herself at my pelvis. I tense my belly, and arch myself up, so she can get proprioception, and she angles to meet me, but this doesn't help me—I need to feel myself going up her, then pulling out; I need reciprocation.

"I'm so close."

Withdrawal, conversation:

"It felt wonderful anyhow."

"You can do this."—taking her thumb between my two fingers and squeezing.

"I practice."
"It's friendly."

We lie side by side; then she's rubbing one out: Why not like last time, I think: Sweep her left tit like sonar then ping the erect nub I'd nibbled and sucked: She works her arm faster as I start work on the right, sucking it fully into my mouth: unseal the suction, blow cooling breath on the slick spit—

"Honey!"—as I strum with my tongue—

Then she's squeaking and jerking.

Then we start fresh and do it again.

I rock back on my heels and survey her, flat on her back, her legs spread, her eyes closed.

"What do you want do do?" faintly, below me. I leap down, What the heck?, she guides me in with her hand: her cunt feels unearthly: I'm fucking not flesh but sea-foam, warmed to blood heat: Anadyomene

Strange I should feel her secretions through latex, but I do. There it is. I put both hands round her head, bracing myself, and sink deep. Flesh smacks, bed jounces, bedframe bangs wall.


Withdrawal, conversation:

"You want to sleep."

I lie between her open legs, my head on her breast, looking up: her chin, her mouth, her nostrils, her brown eyes, her brow: An unflattering angle. A complexion slightly coarse, a commodious rump, a broad tongue, a tight cunt that kegels, a creased belly: not trim, but not sloppy: aging, but still competitive: no more a liar than anyone.

She wouldn't let me give up.



The thunk and whirr of a cash machine in the act of dispensing.


All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."
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