Caresses and Courage

Artist of the week: Mort Kunstler;

Holding Alyssa in the witness relocation program until the trial kept her out of harm’s way, but for my benefit, kept her alone with me for weeks. Day after day, I became her amanuensis, dictating the exact details from the crime that she had witnessed. Night after night, I became obsessed with her golden hair, her supple breasts, the loose bathrobe, and legs that I desperately desired to wrap around my waist and swallow my big ego. I was sure she felt the same way toward me as I often found her watching me out of the corner of her eye.

On the last night, I gathered all my courage to kiss her. Her soft, full lips melted into mine as her fingers caressed my neck and ran through my hair. Opening her robe, she invited me in, wrapping it around both of us. Finding her waist, I lifted her to my chest as we violently crushed our mouths to each other’s and stumbled to the bedroom.

The next morning I awoke naked to find her gone. She would not testify against those who meant to do her harm. And I understood, letting her go, still dreaming of our one passionate night spent together. But then I smiled, remembering her words. She had given me clues in her dictation as to where she would go – and where she wanted me to find her.


Finding Crisantha

Artist Edwin Georgi;

A Friday-Night Date-Night Short Story:

So I wasn’t invited to the dance. I didn’t care. Except that I did. Her name was Crisantha. Gorgeous eyes as bright as bluebells, long curly hair like a flowing river valley, and a smile that melted my heart the moment I laid eyes on her. I had wanted to take her to the dance on the day I had heard about it, but someone who was more important than someone else heard that I heard about it and make a ruckus. He found a way of keeping out all the lesser important types and making the dance invitation-only – to which I received none, naturally.

But Crisantha was there. And I was here – moping, waiting for the next move. Outside my window, rain fell down in sheets and relentlessly pounded the gravel driveway, making ankle-deep puddles. I had no car, no motorcycle, no bike, and no invitation. I just stared out into the rain and wondered what Crisantha was looking like in a formal dress. Something like a princess, a bride, an angel. By the top of the hour when my clock chimed, I had made up my mind. What was the point of staying dry when getting wet was going to get me to Crisantha? So I charged out the door and splashed through muddy puddles, letting the squall douse every inch of me. I ran and ran until I was out of breath and had to stop, bending over, placing my hands on my knees, and panting like a rabid beast. But when I looked up, I was there – standing outside the dance hall with rain showering over me.

How I got past the door guard, I’ll never know. I must have come later than they assumed anyone would, so he was off doing who-knows-what with who-knows-whom. At once, I barged through the double-doors like I owned the place. It was packed, as expected. Lively music echoed off the four walls in the warehouse-size hall and people in formal dress were dancing swing, whipping each other around like ragdolls. I knew the dance. Seen it once before. That was the extent of my skill at it, too. But I still had to find Crisantha no matter what it took.

As I meandered across the crowded dance floor, people stopped and gasped, staring and murmuring at the guy who came in from the rain soaking wet without formal clothes. I grinned and nodded at some, winked at others. Then I saw her. She was a vision across the dance floor and immediately I shuffled around a group of dancers so that she wouldn’t see me and I would spin right into… her arms. As she fell into me, she gasped with a squeal.

Instinctively, she pulled away, but I held her to me tightly and wouldn’t let go. To keep the rhythm going, I swayed and felt the warmth of her body against mine. She was lovelier than I imagined she would look, her dress maroon and fuchsia with a long, flowing, ruffled skirt. And those bluebells captured me once again.

“Davey!” she cried in recognition with that wide smile I loved. “How did you…? And why are you all wet?”

“I had to get here before it ended,” I replied, staring deeply into her eyes.

“Why?” she asked, seeming to know the answer already.

This was it. I stopped swaying, placed my hand gently on her cheek, and crushed my lips to hers. Elation tore through us like fire over water and with that one kiss, she finally knew my intentions. I was delighted to discover that she felt the same about me. It was in her kiss, her tongue on mine, her hold around my waist and not letting go, regardless of the fact that I was soaking wet and she looked like Cinderella. Our kiss that night had one of those time-stands-still moments with the forever-in-love kind of heart connection.

When I withdrew and gazed once again into her eyes, I said her name, slowly over my mouth so that I could feel each syllable on the nerve ends of my tongue touching my lips. “Crisantha…”

“Hmm?” she groaned with her arms wrapped all the way around my waist. Her face was soft and glowing.

“Let’s get out of here,” I grinned.

A smile crept onto her face slowly, her eyes shining. “Let’s go!”

As I held her hand, we rushed past the stiffs – the invitation-only’s, the important people who hung with other important people – and crashed through the double-doors out into the pouring rain, laughing together without a care in the world.

Painting Dreams

Artist Edwin Georgi;

Under twinkling stars, the waves rolled up to the rocky beach. Like a spotlight over lovebirds, moonlight shone down on their beach towel.

“Okay, I have a surprise for you,” he said.

“I love surprises,” she grinned, her eyes beading wide. She shifted around to face him.

“Kiss me first,” he teased. “Then I’ll tell you.”

“Tell me first. Then I’ll kiss you. If it’s a good surprise. It is a good surprise, right?”

“Oh, the best.”

“Gosh,” she shrieked, “then let’s have it already!”

“And I should make it that easy for you?” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“Surprises are not surprises if you have to work for them. Those are called wages.”

“Fair enough,” he nodded. “I’ll just come right out and say it.”

Her heart skipped a beat as she watched him motionless, breathless. The pause was just way too long. “Well, say it!”

“The company’s sending me away,” he said.

“Away? From me?”

“No. Away from here. They’re giving me my annual bonus and since I was top salesman last quarter, they’ve offered me a vacation, any place, anywhere, for a week.”

Her eyes lit up. “And the surprise is you’re taking me with you?”

“Maybe, but that’s not the surprise.”

“Then what…?”

“I want you to dream a little. If you had unlimited money and a chance to do the most romantic thing on earth, what would you do?”

“Hmm,” she groaned. “Let me think… the most romantic thing on earth… I know!”

“Tell me,” he said. “But don’t tell me from there. Come here and whisper it to me.”

Grinning mischievously, she slid around the towel so that she was behind his back and leaning over his shoulder. “Let me tell you what I have in mind, my sweet lover,” she whispered sliding her fingers lightly over his strong round shoulders.

“I’m liking the tone of this already.”

“Oh, you’ll approve,” she assured him. “But don’t interrupt. I’m just getting started.”

Her breath was hot on his ear and her words slipped over his earlobe like a sensual tongue. With brilliant description, she painted the most perfect dream he had ever heard in his life. But she was a little overambitious. “Oh my,” he groaned. “I don’t know if we could do that.”

“Says who? You said dream.”

He was silent for a whole minute, scrutinizing her beautiful face. “Okay. Deal. Let’s do that.”

“Really?” she shrieked.

“Yeah, but it’s on my terms. I’ll bring everything you need. And we’ll enjoy our week together. Doing exactly that. Every single day.”

“I love you.”

“Now how about that kiss?”

“Hmm,” she flirted. “I think I’ll make you work for it.”

Wild Island Getaway

Artist J. Frederick Smith;

Justifying her penchant for romance and lust for the chase, Delores set off on a wild adventure to find true love. Never the one to turn down an opportunity, she hopped aboard the vessel that would take her across the ocean to an island getaway.

But rather than the rich and cavalier captain of the ship, it was the strikingly handsome, humble deckhand who stole her heart. There was nothing in his life worth anything that he could claim as his own, he told her. Not a car, a house, or even a lover with whom he could cuddle with on the deck and gaze at the night sky, counting every single star that outshined the other. He was free and content to sail the seven seas, and his kindhearted temperament, his honest and down-to-earth personality put Delores at ease and captured her open heart.

By the third day on the ship, she had fallen in love with him, and he with her. And that island getaway? It turned out to be theirs alone. The captain’s streak of jealousy had flared up when he saw them together, stealing a voluptuous kiss below deck, so he left them there on that island alone and sailed off into the sunset without them. But it was hardly anything for Delores or the deckhand to worry about. There would be another boat arriving, in two more days, giving them plenty of time to get to know each other more intimately, and learn what it meant to survive in the wild.

Alone at Last

ed tadiello

Artist Ed Tadiello;

It had all started with a kiss. His lips on hers. In public. In the restaurant. Hundreds of witnesses. Henna’s ambiguous response to his advances did not deter his unwavering determination to capture her heart. He persisted. She pulled away. Yet all the while, day after day, he wore her down, made her promises that only he could keep and gave her gifts that only he could give. After a chance encounter at her friend’s wedding, she found him and danced with him and fell in love with him. In their dance, they touched, electric cords of passion coursing through their veins, uniting their hearts to one another until there was nothing else they could do but find their place of longing and rest, of solace and tranquility. So they found this place, off the beaten path, in secluded woods. It was here where they would consummate their deepest affections.

Longing and Waiting


Morning on the lake was placid solitude. Birds chirped in harmony, whose tweeting echoed across the surface of the water to find a home in Oleander’s heart. She had been lying in her rowboat overcome by hardships, torn from the inside, crushed by every single blow of life. But here, in this place where green mountains and rocky cliffs rose at the water’s edge, she sensed the contentment that grows deep within and comes from a source unknown to most but known to some.

And she breathed.

An inhale long and slow and lovely, an exhale to push away the longing in the deepest recesses of her soul. How could she not think of him? Her darling love that had been away too long, soon to return, he had promised. But recent misfortunes had come into her life without him one after another, and she desperately missed his arms, his touch, his kiss.

This was their lake. Hours of passionate lovemaking in the lakeside inn would always lead back here, a row in the boat over calm waters that spoke peace to their hearts and nourished their love. He would hold her, and they would kiss and melt together into lovers’ bliss.

As she dipped her foot over the edge of the boat into the cool water, she closed her eyes and dreamed of him. She could see his eyes now and almost feel them watching her, always with love, and sometimes with lust. It felt good to be wanted, desired, loved.

And then a sound cut the water, the birds, the morning, and the dream. No, it couldn’t be! She sat up quickly and her heart skipped a beat. Another boat in the distance was rowing its way in her direction. Was it? Could it be?

Tears trickled to the surface and filled her eyes as she cupped her hands over her mouth. As the boat drew nearer, she saw him, his face radiant with a smile, her lasting hope and joy.

He was here.

As the Story Becomes Yours

Artist Knute Munson;

My words, ravishing and intoxicating, wash over your body like the passionate massage of vivacious fingers, as your heart swells and your mind ingests the delectation.

The lovers in the story you read find one another searching, longing, lustful, and aroused.

When they find each other, they embrace in sweltering desire, their bodies writhing in rhythm with each other, manliness and femininity enfolding in blissful lovemaking.

Goosebumps and tingles of craving tip tap like raindrops over your skin, your tongue saturating your lips, your mind poised to take the story from there.