Here is a collection of my one-off erotic flash fiction stories, including one recorded audio story/song. All text is ©2011-14 RamTheSunlover, all rights reserved; none of the images are mine and I have credited the source where known.
Invitation to WolfsLarr
Image credit: Andrew Lucas
I had heard vague rumors about the libertine weekend parties at the Wolfs’ lake house, WolfsLarr. Wolf had made a fortune trading futures at the Merc and built a magnificent hunting lodge on the shore of Lake Michigan.
We’d never met, so I was surprised when the engraved invitation to come for the July 4th weekend arrived the morning after my new bride and I returned from our honeymoon. My luscious California girl immediately hit the Miracle Mile to outfit herself for 20 summer lake weekends.
The next day, I ran into Wolf’s wife Ilona, a statuesque Hungarian beauty, coming out of the espresso café. To my surprise she used her demitasse to insinuate herself through the sidewalk crowd directly to me, silkily demanding, “You both come this weekend, yes?”
“Of course,” I replied, “what can we bring?” (for what the hell can you bring to people who could buy several blocks of Chicago if they wanted??)
“Just your wife,” she smiled, showing her teeth and touching my arm with the points of her fingernails, “she looks delicious.”
She came every week, same day, same time. He counted on it. But she brought a different man every time. That was important: just props.
He waited for the creaking of the decrepit stairs as they climbed to his floor. Where the antique elevator was frozen. Where the porphyria imprisoned him indoors.
She and prop cock stepped into the elevator car, pulling the iron grate gate shut. He padded silently to a spot where she and he could see each other, but prop could not.
Clothes shed, she eased her dripping pussy back onto prop’s fat cock, eyes locked on him. He savagely pumped his own prick as she braced herself and mouthed to him: “Solace, son.”
I’m Drivin’ In My Car
An audio recording, with my modified lyrics, from the Springsteen song by that name,
Full credit to the Boss, of course, for the song and the original lyrics, and here is a live performance of that – some say the sexiest thing Bruce has ever done,
Be The Moon Waxed Or Waned
His obsidian skin glitters, be the moon waxed or waned
Her burnished hair floats, be the breeze soft or strong
His arms, a cradle of steel, to shelter her or bind her
Her mouth, a vessel of heat, to inflame him or tame him
As light as a feather, be the moon waxed or waned, be the breeze soft or strong.
Stepping just inside the bar door, I slid my ring into my pocket and scanned the room.
Pretty low energy. Except…there… towards the back was a swirling. A small swarm of eager bees circling some flower.
I moved down the bar for a better look. Fishnets, cleavage, red hair. Yum. She was disinterestedly waving the bees off. Too many boys with beer bottles, I guessed.
Carrying two bourbons, I moved in: “How about some Kentucky honey?” She grinned and patted the stool next to her. The bees buzzed, disbursed.
She sipped the bourbon, looked at me steadily, and touched my leg, unmistakably close to my straining cock. Still hadn’t said a word.
I admired the creamy swell of that great rack she displayed. When I moved my eyes back up to hers, she moved her hand directly to my hard-on. Petted it. Still not a word.
I figured – why not? – and unzipped the zipper. She regarded me without blinking and pulled my cock free. Traced the veins with her finger tips. Raked a little with the nails.
She pumped slowly while we both sipped and stared at each other. She finally spoke, licking her lips: “How bout some man honey?” I gestured toward the door and she nodded. Every eye in place tracked us out.
In the parking lot she said: “Next weekend it’s Strangers Meet in a Movie Theater.” “Sure,” I responded, “and you have to wear a really short skirt.”
We slipped our rings back on and walked to the car, holding hands.
The Bacchanalia, The Butler and The Blindfold
“I’m bored,” she’d said, “we never do anything different.”
Well, she wasn’t going to say that after tonight. It had taken him literally weeks to find the Bacchanalia Group, and get vetted and approved. But here they were, finally.
He had told her little, but the few parts she knew clearly excited her. Especially the cardinal rule that they both had to keep their blindfolds on the entire first night or they could never return.
She was dressed, or rather hardly dressed, exactly as instructed and now, with her coat removed and the silent Bacchanalia Butler tying the blindfold strap behind her head, her nostrils flared with every breath.
The faint sounds of people and pleasure greeted them as the Butler ushered the way down the long hall.
Do You Dream
“Do you dream of me?” I see you wonder when I glance at other girls.
“Do you dream of me?” I feel you ponder when my work consumes me.
“Do you dream of me?” I think you think when my travels spirit me away.
A true man will often glance, yes, but not stare. Men are sexual animals.
A real man will tirelessly work, yes, but to provide for you. Men are protector animals.
A conscious man will range, yes, but always to return. Men are free animals.
So, do I dream of you? Here’s my answer, straight and true.
Only while I breath…do I dream of you.
The Murmur And The Staff
Finally. Checking in after the unbelievably long flight from L.A., I mentally unbuckled my “get it done” armor. Took my shoes off while the adorable desk clerk rummaged around. Wiggled my toes into the sand floor. Sighed.
“Your wife checked in three days ago,” she regarded me with an arch smile, “but she never locks the door.”
“Oh really?”, I thought, “And how do you know that?”
Ambling down the planked walkway toward the thatched bungalows, I shed the sludge of autocratic federal judges. Deadlines. Whiney clients. Litigation budgets.
The late afternoon light, the colors of the water, the texture of the worn timbers…….and the prospect of burying myself in my wife’s velvety flesh. I smiled, getting harder by the step.
Pausing at the door, I listened to the soft rustle of the breeze on the roof fronds, and heard a murmur of voices from inside.
Easing the, yes…unlocked, door open, I found naked Velvety Wife on her back, legs spread, with an equally lithe big-breasted beauty writhing on top of her. Glowing skin. Tousled hair. Hard nipples rubbing hard nipples.
“Hey,” she glanced at me upside down, “get over here.”
“The staff’ll be here any minute.”
Every Man’s Fantasy
So far, it had worked perfectly every time. They’d pick a guy, play kissyface with each other and him, and lead him back to the apartment. Apparently, all men have a twins sex fantasy.
Today, she didn’t even really need her ear to the wall. She could feel, through that inexplicable twins’ connection, a slight zephyr of the sexual energy flaring in the next room.
Stripping and lubing the strap-on, she grinned salaciously. The lust crazed guys always looked so surprised when she crept onto the bed and pushed the fat purple dildo into them from behind. Then it was like fucking sis with a four foot cock. They’d cum so hard together, minds entwined.
Cowboy and The Harlot
She could hear him from the other room. He always masturbated late at night. Always wearing his cowboy boots. After listening to him several nights in a row, she could no longer contain herself.
Tonight, she had a little surprise for him.
She donned a black camisole, a matching garter belt, and stockings. Once he had commenced his regular nighttime routine she slipped on a pair of high heels and stepped outside.
She sauntered to his bedroom door and turned the knob. As expected, it was unlocked.
“What took you so long?” he asked, tipping his hat down, hiding his eyes. He held out his shaft expecting service without another word. She dropped her head and began moving forward, feeling her body ripen and spread. The sheriff had given her this task, and now it was time to prove her worth.
“When you’re done with me, you can do my deputies,” he said.
Startled, she looked left and saw two other deputies. They were sitting there wearing nothing but cowboy boots and hats. Low laughter filled the room. She felt the first trickle of juice leak from her pussy.
While she hadn’t expected the extra company, she didn’t mind. The more the merrier. With the sheriff’s delicious-looking dick within her sight, she got on her knees and crawled towards him. Meanwhile, the deputies got an unobstructed view of her upturned ass, wet pussy, and glistening thighs.
“This is handy,” she said, slithering up his legs like a sidewinder on a sand dune. Easing her dripping pussy onto the waiting cock, she pulled the five-pointed star out of her camisole.
“U.S. Marshall Matta Harree,” she announced. “You have the right to remain silent.”
“But betcha can’t.”
That is the six-part story resulting from the September Serial Sex Story challenge: the pic and each writer had to produce a chunk of 49 words or less, picking up on the evolving chain in the designated order from the challenge.