barefoot

Eileen stopped at the end of the sidewalk, bent over and felt the bottom of her bare foot once more. It was liberating to run through the streets with naked feet, but she had gained a new awareness of litter and public drunkenness in the process of dodging the constant remnants of Dunkin’ Donuts packaging and broken liquor bottles.

“Damn,” Eileen said as she cringed. Blood trickled onto her hand as she pulled on the sliver of glass caught on the ball of her foot. She put her foot back onto the ground, and despite the cut, felt little pain. So she stood, rocked back and forth, then ran on in the cool morning, sun just risen in the early Sunday quiet, not a car, not a dog, not a sound but the birds and the wind, and Eileen’s own breath.

The leaves were vivid in the low light of the day, promising deep blue sky. Eileen had discovered this splendor, and the freedom of morning runs, in the summer. The first time without shoes felt strange, as though she had broken into a world no longer allowed to her as an adult. But as her feet and legs became stronger, she began to revel in the glory of air. Her running shorts became shorter; her tops revealed more and more of her skin to the sun.

Now it was fall, though, and the lack of cover was apparent in the breeze; stopping had left her shivering now in her sweat-soaked clothing. She ran on, warming slowly, the ache in her foot now returning. Eileen bent over once more. Her foot was still bleeding, now somewhat worse. She saw a spot behind her, and looked back to a trail of red dots on the sidewalk where she had just run.

“Hello, are you all right?” a fellow runner stood now at Eileen’s feet, his short black hair slick, sweat beading on his forehead, even today. She had not heard him approach, and fell back when he spoke.

“Yes, yes,” she said, standing quickly and brushing sand from the back of her shorts, then standing bashfully with her hands in front of her. In her surprise, she had not initially noticed his powerful legs, the strong shoulders beneath the white t-shirt. “It’s just a small cut,” Eileen explained. “I can walk home.”

“Are you sure?” the stranger asked. “I live very close if you need a bandage.”

Eileen was wary of men out in the early morning–most around these streets were red-eyed, reeking of cologne and smoke and late-night trouble. There were sometimes a few dog walkers and fellow joggers, an occasional professional walking with quick determination, if Eileen was late in returning from her own morning run. This stranger looked familiar, she thought, although she could not place where she had seen him.

“Really,” the man continued, “I live right there.” And he pointed to a brick walk-up a little farther down the street. “Come on, you should cover that cut.” He motioned to her, and she began to walk with him. “I’m Tom,” he said, as he held out his hand to support her for the few steps to his home.

“Why don’t you sit here?” Tom offered, and Eileen sat on a lower stair. “I’ll be right back.”

Tom returned several minutes later with a pan of water, a towel, and a small bag.

“What’s all this?” Eileen looked at Tom as he kneeled below her, and placed her injured foot into the soapy water. “I didn’t expect a full pedicure.”

“Just cleaning your wound,” Tom smiled as he sat cross-legged on the ground below. The water was warm, and smelled faintly of pine. Tom’s wet t-shirt clung to his chest, and Eileen’s heart raced as his hands slipped into the water and onto her foot.

“I don’t think you are bleeding anymore,” Tom smiled, as he pulled her foot out of the water and looked at it. He let her foot fall back into the warm water.

It was warm, so soothing to relax like this in the cool air. Eileen leaned back, and the cold cement of the stair surprised her, as goosebumps popped up along her arm. Her nipples hardened, and she tensed as she realized how strange this was, Tom taut and handsome sitting beside the pan of water on his porch. He smiled again, and Eileen thought to pull her foot out, aware of her legs spread open.

“All better?” Tom asked, dipping his hands into the water and rubbing Eileen’s foot roughly. His hand kneeded her feet, massaging her toes, her arch. Eileen felt that familiar knot  in her belly as his fingers pushed into the sensitive spots at the base of her toes. She suppressed a moan, then realized that she was red, that his shorts were bulging, too, as he looked up at her. He let go of her foot, and reached for the towel, then pulled her foot from the water and wrapped it.

“Yes, I think it’s better,” Tom answered himself, and stood, then bent to pick up the pan. He turned and emptied the water into the gutter. Eileen watched him, and pushed her legs together, now aware of her wet panties, her senses on fire now as he brushed beside her to take the pan into the house. “I have to find a band-aid now,” Tom said as he walked quickly up the stairs.

The door slammed shut behind him, and Eileen heard his footsteps on the stairs inside, a stop. Finally, he opened the door again, and came with a box.

“They are all tiny, I am afraid,” Tom apologized as he sat on the stair beside her. “Will this work?”

Eileen took the small band-aid from him, “Do you have anything bigger?” she asked him. “You have already been so kind,” she said quickly, then embarrassed by her comment as she saw his shorts tighten again.

“Do you need a ride?” he asked.

“I am not too far from here,” Eileen stammered, then wishing she had said yes, wishing suddenly to be alone with him. She imagined reaching across the stick shift to his muscular legs, her hands reaching beneath the shorts. She imagined running her hand gently along the length of his thick shaft, his sigh, his rough beard against her face, because he would have to pull over, she knew, his kisses running from her face to her shoulders to

“Or a coffee?” Tom interrupted her thought.

“Okay, sure.” Eileen stood, now feeling cold, and naked. “But maybe in a while? I should get something warm to wear.”

“How about this afternoon?” Tom answered, now grinning. “Meet me here at 3:00?”

Eileen stood straight now, too. “Sure,” she said. “3:00 is perfect.”

eighty

He would have been eighty years old today, had he lived.

If he had lived… Did he ever?

Can life be measured in a heartbeat, in a breath? Life wasted, the daring maneuvers that we think distinguish us, that seem so full, so full of life themselves. We shock, we defend, we state our cause, we climb the mountain. We drink, drum, make noise, fill our time to the brim with stuff. Are our adventures and our busy lives just ways to turn away from the vulnerabilities that make us beautiful?

Once, when my dad was dying, he told me that he was afraid. He cried, maybe the first time that I had ever seen him so small, and so big.

When I was a little girl, I loved my dad, believed in him, the reality he presented to me. But in that moment, as I had grown into a woman and seen more of life, I realized that this may well have been the first time I had ever felt that he really knew love. And in that moment, he told me that he finally saw the richness that he was about to leave behind, the long moments, quiet, the laughter, the sweetness of being that he never could reveal until the end. So sad what could have been. Knowing.. but yes, too late to know so well, to find that sort of quiet joy that only comes with time, and trust. How often do we protect ourselves into a sort of silent seclusion until it is too late?

And why? What makes a person turn away from his own heart? What makes a person stop when he begins to feel vulnerable? needy?

Opening enough to absorb love takes courage, I know. Men shun weakness, taunt one another for softness. And perhaps because of this, it is easier to be hard, easier still to hide.

A hand bitten–or worse, ignored–may stay near, but stops reaching. A heart stops hoping, its hunger denied until we starve, even with relief so close. We stay broken but still hoping–and denying that hope, ashamed to hope. Is this a lesson that a child was meant to learn? How do we sit with our heart?

I hope.

Trust is sublime, connection, transport to some splendorous realm, sensation bringing me back to my own heart–but so perilous a place to awaken alone.

Life was meant for more than distraction. Love, slow days, a hand reaching for mine, a secret, a favor, a kiss, a surprise, a word, a heartbeat, a breath, a habit, a safe place to admit that I care.

e[lust] 40


Photo courtesy of @iSlut_ of A Slut’s Memoir

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~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

The Bitch is BackThe temperature at the table drops several degrees. “Like that?,” I say. ”Is that what you want?”

On Women Who Like SexI like sex as much as any man I know. I am not a weirdo, I am not a slut, and I am not in any excessive danger.

Secret SecretaryThere she was in the reception room on my couch, lying on her back, legs spread, skirt hiked up over her torso, her hands frantically feeling between her legs.

~ e[lust] Editress ~

Street Harassment: It’s everywhere, all the time

~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~

Thoughts: Regarding Limits In BDSM

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Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Begin rant
Communication Breakdown
Family Planning
Great Expectation
My Fantasy
Rituals, Symbolism, Kink, and of course ME

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

How You Know You Are On The Rag
Intersecting

Kink & Fetish

Anal Slut
Belted
Flogger Use and Safety from a Beginner
Janet’s Magical Toybag
Protest Much?
Property of Seven
Playing With Fire
Please
Tonight I am going to fuck your (slave) ass
The Long-Anticipated Gangbang Post
Welcome To The Club

Erotic Writing

Almost Broken
Alive
A Bad Habit
A Sinner Sits for Sacred Sunday Service
BBQ & Beer
Birthday Sex
Cap D’Agde -spit roast with a stranger
Dirty Talk
Lolita Twenty-Twelve, Part Five
Matched
Oral at a Sex Party
once in a while
Revelation
Random memories: First love
Saturday Morning Pussy
Stress Reliever – Lubed Fingers
The shopping assistant
The Sting of the Crop
You

happy hour

I am thinking of you.

I am thinking how fantastic you look now, your summer fit quite fitting my immediate needs to fuck, to be fucked, to feel your hands running beneath my skirt, and shirt, to feel your fabulous body next to mine.

Skin, I love your skin, hands on skin, so familiar, love your heat growing, grinding, love your hand roughly slapping me as I lie across your lap, naughty you, you so desired, so fucking hot, you so elusively not here right now, not groaning as I push your lovely dildo up your ass, as I take your balls gently into my mouth, oysters, so smooth, take your cock, so hard, how I could screw you silly right now.

Wet, you know I am, know I want you, know that happy hours are for weekdays and not weekends, though I wish, want, take a sip from life, from you, your come still filling my mouth, even now, or the thought of it, of you, thrashing, crashing into my warm cunt, satisfied, very, then, now wanting, wanting you back, here, sip, gulp, let me straddle you, toss my hair back, your kiss, my neck, share, again, now.

farm stand

The signs were written in chalk: tomatoes, swiss chard, basil, fresh corn. You drove past, and then stopped, pulled over, and pulled my sweater roughly toward you, your beard rubbing my face raw as you kissed my ear, then bit it, not quite gently, just the way I like it.

“You are such a slut.”

My panties were wet already, even before you started this, but in reality it was the fresh produce that had caught your attention. You let go of my top, and shifted the car into reverse, screeching the tires as you u-turned quickly from the side of the road, and worked up the dust and gravel turning into the neighborhood stand.

The peaches, watermelons, corn were stacked in baskets. You loaded them into yours, and walked on to the grain-fed beef–packaged and waiting for you in the freezer.

“We’ll have a feast, hon’,” you said, pulling my hand close as you headed to the cash register.

I looked at you, that leather hat pulled low on your head, the shadow of your beard on your dark, tanned skin, summer, you pulled your wallet from the back pocket of your jeans and handed two twenties to the teenage girl at the counter. School starts next week, she told you, blushing at the white of your teeth, the dimple in your cheeks when you smiled at her, then once more at me.

You kicked a pebble from the doorway, then lost it with the others in the path, dust around your feet as we walked through the dry parking lot, your car dusty, too, seats warm now in the sun, your hand behind my headrest as you back up , leaning toward the center, toward me, as I grab your hand then, and kiss it, lick it, your smile, your laugh as you pull your arm back to shift into first, second, third, then grab my knee, squeeze quickly before grabbing the steering wheel once more, bounty in the back, the wine, bread, cheese, apples, your beach towel, speedo, taut ass beneath it. Soon your legs are stretched long on the sand, a weekday, hooky.

I should never be here with you, like this, like this afternoon when you have pulled me from those unimportant things, those never mind things, those Friday tired things that I would not have done anyhow, anyway. You pull me close once more, run your hands down my back, down my backside, and reach beneath my skirt to pull my panties off, toss my bikini bottom to me.

“Make yourself decent!” you growl, then laugh as you roll back and I pull the swimsuit up beneath my skirt, then remove the skirt, and look around as I figure out the top. The beach is deserted now, after Labor Day, the lifeguard stand empty, canoes turned upside-down farther down. No one is here, water warm, your soft lips next to mine, hard cock pressing against my hip.

You loosen your grip, and I break free. “Catch me,” I shout. You might.

I look back, and you have turned onto your belly, laid your head down, a moment, two, then you jump up, run to the water, and I run farther, then dive beneath the surface, your hand grabbing my ankle in no time. You are faster, pull my foot, skin on your skin, your kisses hard, then soft, then biting.

Your teeth sink into my neck, belly tight as my heart quickens, relax, my limbs limp, cunt wet as you slowly let me go, rush of pain, want, your cock even harder now when I dig my nails into your back. Your fingers pull the side of my swimsuit, then reach beneath. Yes, I am wet. Yes, I want you, want you here.

The car is hot, now, surely, vegetables baking in the back seat, sand in the seats now as you drive quickly back to a quiet place, a new place, a shady place, a roadside, a back seat, my mouth, my hair, my swimsuit tossed to the ground, yours, no room, no matter. You pierce my cunt, so long, so needed, corn ripe, peaches oozing as you step on the one that fell from the bag. Your sweat is pungent now, arouses me as I push you up, back, sit on you, bounce harder as you cry out, pull me closer, shout once more, twice, rush of warmth, dripping, I cry, I want, have, stop, cannot bear your fingers now squeezing my nipples, not more, not now, not yet.

So calm now, so sweet to lie back, tan lines, no lines, no cares, to bite into a peach and see you lean into your hands, rub your eyes. Once more, I say, I would, want, will wait.

Chard,beside the grill, steak, rioja, garden hose, grow up, on second thought, don’t.