Tag Archive | Reading

The Forbidden Romance

Artist of the week, Mort Kunstler; pinterest.com

Ours was a forbidden romance. As a spy on her people, I would have been killed if I had had been caught by the tribal leaders. But I also would not have been welcomed back to my own camp if I had been caught fraternizing with the enemy’s women.

Our first encounter was in the jungle. She was half naked, her breasts like smooth, satiny melons, and she wore a simple fabric wrapped around her waist revealing deliciously shapely thighs and hips. At first, I startled her, but gave her gifts – small trinkets from home. Each day I would meet her there, giving her a new gift, building trust. Soon her eyes sparkled when we met, and we fell in love. The first time we were naked together, we stood in the forest, curiously appraising one another, absorbing our beautiful differences and enjoying the view. Before long, arousal overtook curiosity and we savagely made love like jungle beasts, hooting and hollering in orgasmic elation. After that day, we met daily in the jungle, kissing at first and then making love again and again, in positions that made us feel one with the jungle around us.

Never for a second have I regretted getting caught. When they hauled me away to be executed, my wrists bound with rope, I caught the eye of my love bathing naked in the river with her fellow tribeswomen. We knew what we had to do. We had been planning it since we met. Soon she would find me and untie me and we would be free. Together. This time, we had to make certain that our plan worked.

For unbeknownst to the tribal leaders, she had become pregnant and would have been killed if they found out that the baby was mine.

But this was a risk we were both willing to take. We would run, and soon we would be free. All of us.


Caresses and Courage

Artist of the week: Mort Kunstler; pinterest.com

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; pinterest.com

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.

Wild Island Getaway

Artist J. Frederick Smith; pinterest.com

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.

The glade of sacred intimacy


Artist Steve Hanks; pinterest.com

Love is a current of ecstasy in a river that flows through a tranquil forest.

Deep in the forest glade under streams of sunlight bringing hope to the lovesick soul, the lovers embraced. Like ravenous wolves, they clutched with tenacious hands and teased each other with tepid tongues.

Her lover was broad and solid, a man of men, secure and staunch, breathing over her heat and swelter. “Just let my lips feast upon your honeydew, the suckling of your inner beauty,” he said as his mouth met her flesh in tangible solace.

At once, branches of the forest trees responded in sway with a scorching wind, raking over the lovers like dancing flames in a raging wildfire.

Wet and willing, warm and wanton, her body constrained her release. Her breathing escalated in shorter and quicker spurts, her breasts lifting and lowering. “Take me, my lover,” she gasped, “pour into me your ferocious bite, the sting of my lust, the venom of your love.”

The forest knew its place in this dance, swirling leaves surrounding the lovers, capturing the moment in fantasy and whim.

His touch plunged beneath the surface, as deep as her heart, like a diver reaching ocean depths. “Feel me, my love, my heart molding to yours like liquid heat, like lava that creates islands.”

With pleasure surging and boiling over, she longed to scream but found no voice. She wanted to burst but found no break. “Now, my lover,” she finally shrieked. “Now!”

Clawing, moaning, howling, writhing like wolves on the hunt, they played with ferocious ecstasy as their companion, their bliss rising to the sun beyond the forest, to the keeper of their sacred glade.

Her lover complied, injecting into her fresh euphoria, a moment that burst like microcosms crashing into milky ways.

In its wake, love washed over her, releasing millions of stars of orgasmic elation. For a moment, the forest grew silent in reverence. The birds ceased their chirps, and the river stopped its flow.

An aching moment of silence passed between man and nature, but it replayed in hearts’ song when their lips met once again, and their craving desires mutually resurfaced.

Our Night is Young

Artist Frank Frazetta; pinterest.com

It was a warm summer night, the cool evening breeze tickling your skin, wafting under your sheer purple nightgown… as you waited.

And then I appeared and with unrelenting seduction, you grasped my hand and drew me into yourself, our bodies crushing to one another, heat transferring like a sulfuric geyser springing forth from volcanic earth.

And then I kissed you and my hands caressed the place that drives you wild as utterances like the moaning and howling of a wolf escaped your lips.

Lightly biting my lower lip, you growled as I drew your leg up to my hip, my hand sliding along your velvety thigh as my mouth breathed hot into your ear, “This night, my love, has only just begun.”

Tonight You’re Mine

Artist Coby Whitmore; pinterest.com

Celosia’s deeply seductive eyes fixed on me with intensity, ferocity, and potency, potent for making love, which she was so tumultuously good at.

She slithered closer until I could feel her hot breath on my ear, the tip of her tongue trailing gently along the edge of it, teasing, goading, tormenting, forcing flames of desire to ripple to the surface of my rock hard body.

“Tonight,” she whispered close, “you’re all mine.”

For my reply, my mouth slipped delicately through loose tendrils of blonde, finding her ear, whispering with defiance, “No, Celosia, you’re mine.”