j.j.kirnan
erotic tales
Sex!
Advisory and Promise: these books include expansive
and explicit description of couples making love.
email: john@jjkirnan.com
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Sex + Love? In the same bed? Really?
Is intense carnal sex beautiful? Could they also be in love?
To "be real," many literary novelists say love stories must feature cold beds, drift, cheating, passive-aggressive tricks, sophisticated boredom, and fatal cancer from nowhere.
Yet someone has to champion great erotic love, written with realism of the human condition, yet absent the clichéd despairing elements.
I dispute the voices saying "... sexual loving is not like that. It's a dark battlefield." If that were true, humans would disappear.
Do my optimistic erotic tales stand up?
   ♦ Click on the book covers above to read samples.
   ♦ "GO" to Amazon for ebook and printed editions.
   ♦ Become a patron
I have saved some of the best un-dark joy for patrons.
John Kirnan


To "attain gravitas," many literary novelists say love stories must feature cold beds, drift, cheating, passive-aggressive tricks, sophisticated boredom. Popular romance is timid about sex but likes fatal cancer from nowhere.
Yet someone has to champion great erotic love, written with realism of the human condition, yet absent the despairing elements.
I dispute the voices saying "... sexual loving is not like that. It's an cruel battlefield." If that were true, humans would disappear.
Do my optimistic erotic tales stand up?
   ♦ Click on the book covers below to read samples.
   ♦ "GO" to Amazon for ebook and printed editions.
   ♦ Become a patron
I have saved some of the best un-dark joy for patrons.
John Kirnan


Is sex beautiful? I noticed a few million books -- fiction and non -- which stick to the unbeautiful. Many seem to not mind the darkness, and a noticeble obsession with it has emerged ... as if your love story does not have cheating, bordom, cold beds, cruelty, and drift. This seemed like an invitation. Once I started writing entaglements without those horrid features, I lost my fear of anyone saying "love and sex are not like that." Now, the tales have taken on unabashed magnificence in it.

I live in the Sonoran Desert, where it is required to remain unafraid of 122° some afternoons.
To cool off ... visits to the North Atlantic seashore and the Rockies above Evergreen. Always a return to a studio in the desert ... Monet prints on the wall, books about ballet, and ridiculously expensive coffee in the kitchen. No cats so far.
Thanks for finding my books,
John Kirnan
All books, graphics, and the content and design of this website, © 2003-2023 John Kirnan.

from Jane Nineteen:           
“Ride down slow,” he said.
It was beautiful to watch. Her skin glowed. The scent of female after-sex filled the room like earth perfume. She sighed. Sometimes she giggled. Sometimes she looked in his eyes – with a smile all happy women have known. Then her arms and legs flopped on the bed, helpless with lovely sated breath and body.
He stirred and edged up next to her on one elbow. In her creamy dream, she did not notice. Then, the press of his organ on her thigh ...
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
She did not laugh, knowing the next thing would be drama. She willed it so in her heart. Slowly, with grim erotic intent, she spread herself open on the bed. Achingly slow. An act of unmitigated sex-love, woman opening to man. She held his eyes, beckoning.
He moved carefully into place. Her arms folded around his neck. He lowered himself. She caught the scent of her sex on his mouth. As the first thrust slipped into her body, she kissed his lips and wrapped her legs around her mate.
What happened later that day? Click here, then scroll down to read the episode "helpless with joy." Advisory and promise: Explicit

Jane Nineteen
episode: "helpless with joy"
[note: the episode below occurs in the afternoon of the same day as that above.]
They ran out of topics. Jane stood and swayed away about ten feet. A fine breeze came up and disturbed her hair, and the dress pressed against her hip. Her calm happiness prevailed, but threading through – a subtle restlessness, a delicious ache teasing to be noticed. She kept her body turned half-away from him.
The ache grew. She could not disguise it. She turned to face him, eye to eye, to show it. A beat of time – she turned and ran for her life. Her head-start was just enough to reach the bathtub ahead. She dove in with a squeal of shock and delight. Only two seconds to thrill to the perfect temperature – his arm shot under and around her waist to take her weight fully in control and lift her bodily out and into his grasp, limbs flailing away. She unleashed her favorite screaming.
“No no no no no no no.”
This time her dress did not survive. He ripped the drenched thing off her body and threw it aside. He spun her and pushed her shiny-wet torso into the grass alongside the bath. One shin pinned her down at her low back. He yanked her legs one at a time into bent position, folding knees up and under, which raised her bottom high in the air.
“I am not an animal,” she sobbed.
“We both are.”
The sound of his belt coming loose caused a jolt in her gut. She flailed one arm behind to fend off – he grabbed the wrist and shoved it to the earth.
He removed his leg from her back, swiveled behind, and forced her thighs apart.
The cock drove deep.
“Na yi yi yi oh fucking no no no.”
Feet flat on the ground between her knees, crouching to stay well-aimed, he found his stroke. Nothing impeded it. He tangled his left hand in her wet hair and pulled back, slid the other hand around her neck.
With strong hands controlling her head and an erect phallus slamming home like the piston of an engine – pinned down and taken – delicious fright rose like a demon in her belly.
“Whorooh …” her terror rushed out, so not to believe it fully.
Her knees ground into the grass. His hands keep her head bent back, his strength forced her breasts against the earth. The relentless strokes accelerated.
Jane shifted hips with each thrust. Not to avoid – to make the splendid rod touch her pleasure best. She wiggled into it.
“Greedy,” he grunted.
“Fuck me fuck me fuck me. Right there. There. There.”
“Greedy.”
Within ten stokes their bodies reached unity, slicked in juices, thrusting, squeezing, grunting as breaths exploded out.
The rod thrust hard. It rippled through vagina with the sound of mud sucking wet.
“Oh hrummm...” she grunted, and then a huge breath ... “Fuck!”
He pulled out. Penetrated again.
“Fuck!” Her fingers stayed at the rim to feel the rush of flesh pounding her time after time after time. She grunted the air out of her body with each.
“Hunh. Hunh. Fuck. Hunh. Hunh.”
He stayed in a crouch, removed hands from her hair and neck, and straightened upright from the waist. Leverage came from strong legs pushing off the earth. His thrusts accelerated. He began to yell, “Yi. Yi. Yi.” Louder with each, the closer to his ride-home he rode.
With penetrations deep to touch cervix, Jane lusted to have cock break into womb. And more. All into her melted body, all past her belly, up between her breasts, yes, to have the fucking thing slam into her heart.
“Ya. Ya. Ya. Ya,” he shouted. His arms rose with each shout, reaching up, up.
Jane prayed he would thrust into the sky a million times, with a woman’s vagina to catch it. She seemed transparent, so perfectly did her body take him in. His final brutal penetrations went home. He bellowed.
“Oh. Yes. Oh. Ha. Ha ...” then screamed to bursting ... “Ha!”
She swiveled below, subtly, to get the spurting all around inside – his third spurting in four hours of this wild day. Some clenching told of her own quiet explosion. It filled her pelvis with hot radiance. She did not cry out to let him know about that.
He yanked himself out to stand proud. Wet glistened on the triumphant organ. Looking out to the horizon, he froze as if in victory over a great beast. Then he seemed to notice a woman melted around his legs. He picked her up and settled her into the bathtub. Grass and dirt flushed away from her body into the water.
He strolled away, naked, to check on his horse.
Jane clung to the side of the tub to keep from slipping under the water, helpless with joy.
© john kirnan 2003-2023

from Love in Bed:          
She reached for the cotton garment lying on the bed and pulled the tiny thing over her hips, tugging it into the delta. Then, the dress, an ephemeral aqua color with spaghetti straps. A shudder ran through him when she settled it in place with a shimmie, having donned nothing else under. A few runs of a brush through her hair, stockings that stayed up by themselves, and silver dress sandals ... she was put together, a smart package with a ripe liquid center.
“I’ll be like this all evening. Aware of ... inside.”
“Once in a while, look at me serious," he said. "Show me you’re feeling it, right then. Squeezing.”
“Like this?”
Watching her expression, his chest filled with the thrill of her unashamed daring. She lifted her face to him, glowing with color and heat, the flush of orgasm her only makeup.
This is how you want it, the echo of a female screaming with sexual joy in your ears, your own libido drained out, its juice soaking the womb of your mate.
What made her scream? Click/tap here to find out! Click, then scroll down to read the episode "aching and naked." Advisory and promise: Explicit

Love in Bed
episode: "aching and naked"
"Think you’ve got it?”
“Yes.”
“Repeat it back to me.”
“You’ll be seated at eight. I’ll be your waiter. You’ll say to go slow. At the end she’ll want dessert, you’ll put up a fight against it, but then you’ll give in.”
“Right.”
“You’ll order two slices of the gâteau au chocolat, but I’ll bring just one to the table and say it’s the last one. Instead of serving it to her, I’m supposed to put it down for you. You’ll take a bite right away.”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m supposed to run away and keep everyone away from your table.”
“Yes.”
“There’ll be trouble over the chocolate.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’ve got it,” said the waiter.
“You have my charge card number. Put the dinner on it. I’ll slip your tip to you in cash when you serve the gâteau.”
“Okay, Mr. Pell.”
The waiter waited. He should have walked away, but instead he waited. Then he asked.
“Mr. Pell, it’s none of my business, I guess, but would you be willing to tell me what you’re going to say tonight? Your punchline? The whole thing’s leading up to some big question or announcement, right? When she gets mad you have the chocolate?”
“Sorry. Private.”
Seeing the look on the waiter’s face, he took pity.
“Are you trying to figure out how to say something to someone?”
“Yes.”
“Keep your breathing steady. Realize you’re playing for all the marbles. Reach down in for the most dangerous thing in your gut. No more than seven words. Risk everything.”
~~~~~
Mr. Pell played it well, early that evening, by taking charge. At first, she resisted, claiming it was her turn to run everything, then gave herself into his control when he uttered a certain promise in her ear. He made up the game. The rules. He began giving intimate orders, which were obeyed. He teased in the shower, touching without letting her touch, her hands raised high above her head in imaginary bonds. He kissed without letting her kiss back. In the middle of a sweet one, he made her shudder from tenderness in his hands on her undefended ribcage.
The exquisite arc to full bloom required ten minutes of play after the shower. Then, he was in. A stroke. Another. Then out, all the way out, that sweet hollow feeling of loss, yes, that ripe male sadness when withdrawing unexpended – a melancholy women do not understand.
Now he lay his organ against the orifice – not in – slipping against lips with the underside of cock.
“Rub me,” she said, voice thick.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Rub me.”
“Quiet.”
Her head fell back, arms circled his neck, legs cinched tight around his waist. Her bottom rested on the dressing table, just on its edge. He stood planted solid.
“Please please please. Oh please in.”
Ignoring.
He passed hands under her thighs, circled around to the mouth between, put fingers in place on the lips, pulled them apart and pinned them back, laying open the tender flesh. He renewed his slithering attack.
“Rub me ...”
“What did you say?”
“Rub me. Rub me rub me rub me.”
He let more weight come into play. Oh, luscious sounds. Lust-insanity to penetrate grew, yet the fine agony of withholding prevailed. The male ache increased.
His left hand came up from below and tangled in her hair. He guided her head into the position he wanted, flashing his eyes inside hers for a wounding second, and opened her mouth with his, launching a wild kiss, its eroticism uninhibited and voluptuous. Her tongue tantalized, taunting him to chase it around inside, sometimes in her mouth, sometimes in his. Never, not for an instant, did his cock cease its rub, perfectly positioned against the sensitive folds of the yoni.
When she reached the edge of screaming inside the kiss, he stood up taller, forcing her head to bend further in supplication. It brought the underside of his cock more rudely in contact with her bud, the sure path up they had followed hundreds of times. He poured his mouth into her above and let his weight tell below.
At the first clench of her pelvis, he pulled out of the kiss to watch her face, saw the sure sign of the going, the going before the coming, and soon the sailing afar of body and soul, her breath running away like a horse wild with fright, eyes widening from the shocking flood-wave fast approaching, skin flushing red, and that distinctive scent, like a mushroom steeped in musk.
Her uninhibited bellow shook the air. “Oh oh oh oh. Oh no. No. No. No fucking no.”
“All gone,” he said, whispering into her screams. “All gone.”
He continued to caress her organs with his cock all through her flight to its shuddering, gripping end, rubbing tenderly as she floated free. She drifted back to earth emitting lovely descent-vowels, looking unraveled, with no care to hasten composure – deliberately showing her carnal satisfaction. He whispered words of endearment, dirty and sweet.
“That was a good one,” she said with a laugh, eventually, with shiny eyes, still nearly breathless, clinging to his body like a primate on a tree-trunk. “My toes curled good.”
He rocked his pelvis, to keep heat simmering as yin pressed yang. She cooed with each motion, especially each time an after-tremor seized the deep organs.
Then she looked him straight in the eye. “My turn now. Do what I say.”
He nodded.
“Put it in,” she said, voice aching and naked.
The tip lowered. The shaft changed angle. He let his weight fall. The puffed lips parted, and like a forlorn sojourner finding the way, he slid in. Wet insides encased him.
The sweet sadness vanished.
The tableau held for a breath of time. Then he felt her arms cinch tight around his neck. It set him off.
Immediately she could not speak, only issue gurgling grunts on each stroke. It was fast and powerful.
He stopped to regather. She whispered in his ear. “Push my legs apart.”
He did it with urgent roughness, which made her cry out. He resumed thrusting, now finding the deeper yoni open to him.
“Yes, yes, there, fuck me. Fuck. Me. Like. That. Like. That. Like. That.”
“Yes.
“Open me, fuck me.”
“Yes.”
“Hard, fuck me, fuck me.”
He stood stronger than ever, planted on the floor, surrounded by the sounds and scent of sex, right at the edge of his own going. At the first sign she laughed.
“There. There you go now.”
He passed all striving, set free his strategies, let them be taken up, swept away. Nothing could stop them from winning.
“Give me,” she said. “Splash me.”
Her hands gripped the vanity tabletop to brace for it. She removed her legs from his waist, held them away from his body with strong thigh muscles, more split-apart than ever. Her eyes invited him into the heart of sex – penetration a man cannot believe she would allow, yet a woman will, will, she will. If.
It sent his stomach falling in wonder.
A final, massive stroke. His voice roared out. In her vagina the spray deluged the flesh, soaking her, thick and warm. All in, splash after splash.
They stayed joined and finished long, with laughter and looks, deep looks of pleasure and the most intimate truths that can be. They did not avoid these reflecting in each other’s eyes. She squeezed. He contracted his shooting muscles to feel his organ pulse inside the slippery warmth.
“This is what you do to a girl,” she said.
“Yes.”
“You love her, she wants sex.”
“Yes.”
“She’ll do anything.”
Finally, she eased off the vanity to stand in his embrace, still filled with cock. She didn’t want to let it go, she said, don’t take it out, she said, don’t ever take it out, she said.
He did, though.
Then, he watched to see if she would carry out the plan. Smiling up at him, she reached for the clean black cotton under-thing lying on the bed. With deliberate grace, she pulled the tiny garment on over hips.
“All nice and cozy,” she said, tugging it into place, fitted into the delta. “All nice in me.”
She reached for her dress lying across a chair, an ephemeral blue, with spaghetti straps. A tremor ran through when she settled the dress in place having donned nothing else under – very few women could bring this off with taste and modesty yet still allow a simmering tease for the eyes. After a few runs of a brush through her hair, stockings that had their own way of staying up, and simple pumps – she was pulled together, a lovely package with a ripe liquid center.
He savored every detail of this femme dance while slipping into his dinner clothes.
This is how you want it, the echo of a female screaming with sexual joy in your ears, your own libido drained out, its juice soaking the womb of your mate.
She lifted her face to him, glowing with color and heat, the flush of orgasm her only makeup. He knew the primal scent was strong on her skin. So too, for him.
“As we said, this is how I’ll be. All evening. Aware of … inside,” she said.
“Every once in a while, look at me a certain way. Show me you’re feeling it, right then. Specifically. Squeezing.”
“Like this?”
Watching her expression, his chest filled with the thrill of her unashamed daring.
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s go. I hope you’re hungry, this dinner’s going to be really special.”
“As long as there’s chocolate at the end,” she said.
© john kirnan 2003-2023

from Touch Me Again:          
They lasted long, enduring the excruciatingly slow ascent. They laughed, seeing how high up they were. No mercy from the ache that burns. She whispered her astonished truth –
“I love my body.”
She went silent to deliberately let three smooth thrusts penetrate fully. Her back arched off the bed to meet them, organs raw, exposed.
She recognized the point of no return, but it passed so slowly, not like the usual bullet followed by the crash. Instead – a calm, wide lake, warm and welcoming, exquisite. With each stoke of her lover, she surged through the water with music of liquids streaming past, and a warm rain. The ache spread through her pelvis, up into her chest, into her very breath. It ceased to torment, instead filling her heart with searing goodness.
Then it was in her throat. She screamed. The water itself melted, and she with it. All burning, all aching, drowned.
Why did they make love so slow? Click/tap here and then scroll down to read the episode "see in." Advisory and promise: Explicit

Touch Me Again
episode: "see in"
A burn.
Revved up by three days of ocean plunges in high surf windward on Maui, voracious food runs, and many rides on top – yet she was unable to exhaust lust. Even waking him in the night to try provided no relief. Now, a profound morning orgasm that settled nothing. She had reached a height of vivid libido – a burn.
“Let’s do it again.”
“Oh my God,” he said. He squinted in disbelief.
She squinted back, to bring her unchaste urges into focus and inflict them on him.
“Again? Right now?” he asked.
“Guess that last one was pretty good,” she admitted.
“Your legs were shaking.”
“They were?”
“Quaking.”
The burn roared up. She could not tell if the fire in her pelvis was from the last, or the ignition of the next. She dropped a question on the bed like a red coal.
“What if that was just a good scream on the way up? What if I don’t want to cool off? What if I want to come again? And again?”
He took the edge of the sheet and in one motion stripped it off, spilling it onto the floor. They lay naked on the bed, except for a ring each on the best fingers.
She thrilled that her carnal greed had turned him on. Oh, her man was young that way, expending just now, yet swelling hard again, ready to pounce all over her sexy invitations. The sight of his hard thing made her mind go white. Greed … but slow, simmering greed.
“I’m in charge,” she whispered.
He met her eyes, then nodded.
“I want to show you where.”
Both prone on the bed, she shifted, turning so he would not have to move. In graceful slow motion she opened her legs, putting one over his hip, pulling at the knee of the other to urge it well out of the way.
“Right here,” she said, lifting her bottom from the bed, rotating her pelvis in a small circle. “Here,” she said, fingers on the lips. “Don’t you like to see it after you just fucked me?”
It made a shock – he froze – she said it again, “… after you just fucked me.”
She caressed the lips and folds, deliberately causing sounds by rubbing wet parts together.
“See in.”
Her fingers parted the lips, slid deep and pulled open, revealing the interior.
She was sure he could see all the way to her cervix.
“Your cock, all the way in. You pounded me into this bed. Deep. I love love love that. Hard honeymoon sex in the morning.”
“You’re turning yourself on, the way you’re talking.”
“That’s right,” she answered. His eyes came up to find hers. With a tug of triumph, she saw he had fallen into a sexual spell. When a woman makes a man fall, it turns her shameless – she will say things.
“I’m in love with my cunt.”
“Whoa.”
“I’m looking right in your eyes, talking, but really nothing matters except how much I love it, so sweet, so sweet, my fingers holding open the lips, and one of them rubbing just right …” she could not speak for a moment “… my fingers inside. And oh, the ache.”
“What?”
“My hand is making it ache. It hurts so good, scary good. Like a burning ache somewhere in there. It aches so good. I’m afraid nothing can put out the fire. How did you get a girl to burn like this?”
“Show me again.”
They shifted on the bed. Her leg slipped off his hip and she opened to the fullest, flat-out spread wide as a woman can get. Her left hand joined the other in between. Its fingers went in the opening as well. She moved slowly. He followed this dance with fascination. It made a catch in her heart to see him watching, to see him adoring her sex. She delicately pulled the lips apart again.
“Are you in love with it too?”
He could not speak immediately, stunned dumb by the delicate movements and flow of flesh.
Then, “Yes, I love it,” he said.
“In love with it all slippery and spread open, where you just fucked me?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me how my clit looks.”
“It looks very happy.”
She contracted her pelvis around the ache a few times. “It’s lying in its little nest, like a pink pearl,” he said.
She moved the forefinger of each hand to fit at the sides of the nest, used them to urge the pearl up and away, a girl-way of getting more erect. She did this for seconds, hissing and cooing while he watched. Occasionally she pulled the surrounding flesh away and down, while two other fingers kept the opening parted.
“That makes it really stand out,” he reported. “It’s beautiful.”
“So beautiful you fall in love.”
He nodded.
“Every time you thrust in, it pulls on my clit. I love that. And sometimes when the angle is right, you rub it and bang it a certain way, it drives me right up the fucking wall.”
“Let me in now.”
“By morning the groom was thoroughly shocked how rude the bride liked it. But she was still sweet, too.”
“Let me in now.”
Her fingers were still inside. She slipped them out, but folded the lips back against the mound with their fingertips, exposing the pink underside, making a display.
“Put your cock right here,” she said, “but not in.”
He came above and pressed the shaft against the open lips.
“Now your cock can fall in love with it,” she said, engaging his eyes with her unbashful ones. “Slide it up and down. I’ll make it all wet.” Her fingers held open the sensitive folds perfectly for the rubbing to provoke the arousal, make it bloom. Thrilling how deep the ache reached, which told how strong the next orgasm would be – deep in her ass, her back, her pelvis. Even in her belly. All alive with sweet warm pleasure-pain, waiting to come.
“Put it in,” she said, releasing her hands, bringing her arms up to circle his neck.
And then the penetration. It filled so full, pushed her insides around. She whispered in his ear, “Right in my fucking cunt.”
She brought her legs nearly together, instructing him to put his knees outside hers.
“Come up high,” she said. He inched up on the bed, forcing his cock deep, sliding his hips up on hers. She adjusted beneath him.
“Don’t pound me, this time. Use your weight, don’t be afraid, don’t pound, just rub me good.”
He began a rhythm, slowly.
Oh, his willingness to try this different way. He has to feel that … the hard pubic bone pushing against the splayed lips, against the little nest, against the button that feeds the ache. Squash me. Rub me and squash me. Hurt it.
“Can you feel the lips?” she whispered.
He nodded.
“This way is for them, rub them, rub my clit. Do me good.”
He took it up instantly. She helped direct through moans and urgings. His cock would slip out halfway, then slide in strong. His weight and this position high astride her hips forced the penetration deep. He didn’t pull out at the end of each sinking, but rather rotated his hips, making the base of the shaft and his hard mound inflame her sex.
The ache grew enormous. She felt it ignite her core even more. Fire inched up her spine. They lasted long, enduring the excruciatingly slow ascent. They laughed together, seeing how high up they were. She had to say her self-love again – no mercy from lust that burns.
“I love my cunt,” she whispered.
“I feel like I’m in up to my waist,” he said, then resumed grunting with each entry.
“I take you in. I love it so, like no woman ...” She went silent to let several sinkings penetrate fully to her cervix and rage on the swollen lips. With each, her back arched off the bed to meet him, her organs raw.
Then, three more slow massive strokes, and she cried out …
“OhFuck – OhFuck – OhFuck.”
She recognized the point of no return, but it passed so slowly, not like the usual bullet followed by the crash. Instead – a calm, wide lake, warm and welcoming, exquisite. With each stoke of her lover she surged through the water, sailing away, with music of liquids streaming past her body, and a warm rain.
The nexus of the ache spread through her pelvis, up into her chest, into her very breath. It ceased to torment, instead filling her heart with searing goodness.
Then it was in her throat. She screamed.
The water itself melted, and she with it.
All burning, all aching, drowned.
© john kirnan 2003-2023

from Andrés + Mila:          
“Andrés, you can be more ... aggressive.” Right out of the blue.
“Mila ...”
"You are generous, Andrés. The fingertip touching ... these open kisses, I’ve never been kissed so deeply ... but can you be more rough, too?”
A potent pause. Then, “Be careful what you wish for.”
“I don’t want to be careful.”
He held her eyes, seeking surety she was in full possession of herself. Of her very dangerous self.
“What can I do?” she whispered.
“Give me your safe word.”
The room jolted with a shock. Mila’s expression flashed raw, tinged with inevitability and a hint of fear. He didn’t care. He moved his tea mug to the side and placed his hands flat on the table.
“My safe word is ‘time out’.”
Andrés vaulted onto the table and over it. He smashed into her. Things went flying and crashing. He pulled her to the floor. She shrieked with laughter and shock, her scream igniting his animal brain, which knew no restraint.
Mila got her wish! Click/tap here and then scroll down. Advisory and promise: Explicit

Andrés + Mila
Chapter 3
"scream your screams"
Note: This episode, and all of Andrés + Mila, is
included in The White Sky, a novel by John Caedan
http://johncaedan.com
While they are rough and fast in this story, A-and-M also play gentle! Scroll down for a bonus second story.
"scream your screams"
Andrés’ mouth is slick from taking the juices between her thighs. This fount is effusive, with a pool of girl liquids on the floor under her body.
A: “Enough of this floor.”
He draws himself up, bends at the knees and lifts her frame with a hold under her hips. She wraps around him horizontally, like a belt circling his waist, cinched by her hands grasping behind her knees. She makes no sound while he stomps across the studio into the bed alcove. He tosses her on the bed face down, pushes her legs apart and with no hesitation mounts from behind and thrusts inside.
No moan no screech no swear.
A: “Scream it out.”
M: “No.”
Four, five, ten power strokes from behind. Not a sound.
A: “Scream your screams.”
M: “No.”
He stops. He is in … but blocked – a clench of muscles denies him full vulnerability. She twists her hips to deny the cock. The refusal to groan adds to his rage.
A: “Let go.”
M: “No.”
He pulls out, spins around and straddles her at the waist. Using his elbows, he forces her thighs apart, grabs her bottom with both hands. Takes possession. Squeezes and pushes the flesh until he controls. This kneading does not overcome resistance deep in her pelvis. She tries twice to roll over – he forces her to stay face down.
A: “Put your hands between your legs.”
Her fingers appear from under, along the inside of her thighs.
A: “Touch the lips.”
Each index finger eases into place.
A: “Cross your hands.”
She complies, which makes the angle of touching better. He watches as her fingers tease and caress.
A: “Pull the lips open. Push some fingers in.”
Her hands uncross, and fingers disappear, one from each hand. Mila eases herself open, gradually reaching deeper, gathering the silken flesh.
A: “I’m going to pull your hips apart. Really wide.”
M: “No. No more.”
A: “When I do, push your fingers in. Put them in as deep as you can.”
M: “No.”
A: “I know your legs can open more. I can feel it.”
M: “I don’t want to.”
A: “Now.”
He pulls the round mounds apart. Her legs spread another two inches. He watches her hands pull out, reform with two fingers each gathered at the opening, then slide and slither into her vagina.
She cannot stop a plaintive moan escaping her throat. She pulls fingers out, penetrating again, hands glistening when they emerge each time. The sight of her wide open, stroking herself, makes him burn.
A: “Give me the hot spot in there.”
M: “It’s not for you.”
A: “Then touch it with your fingers. I’m holding your hips spread and watching you frig yourself.”
M: “Oh, oh, oh.”
She coos under this instruction. He feels the tension in her pelvis release. She reaches the core with her fingers.
M: “Oh oh oh oh.”
Because she has already been ravaged by his mouth, she is not far from coming.
A: “Go all the way.”
M: “Oh, oh … Oh.”
Mila’s fingers inside the stretched-open sex, and the ones underneath on her outside spot, bring swelling, throbbing, and after more, more, more stroking, set her off into a muscle-clenching explosion. She has blasted herself into orbit. Face-down into the bed she screams with no inhibition, screams of joy that sound like pain.
He does not let her coast. Spinning off, around, and behind, not letting her close her legs, he wedges into position, pulls her hands out, splits the lips apart with the head of his organ and thrusts hard, true and fully in.
She tries to resist, to deny the inside spot. He pulls out, leverages his hips and pistons back in, even as she vibrates with orgasm.
M: “No, oh no. No. No.”
A: “Fucking yes.”
He wins. His assault goes home, reaps an exquisite surrender, the girl-melting.
Her screams catch in her throat – frozen silence when she should have bellowed. But she is still coming. Still coming into the silent void, body arched in rigid suspension. His next three thrusts slam right into the releasing organs she had denied him. She cannot protect. On the fourth, the most powerful, her pent-up pressure spills out in a deafening scream, a new orgasm folding into the unfinished previous one, with another gathering even deeper.
Andrés gives no heed. A girl is split wide open under him. He has possession, as demanded. Into that spot he penetrates hard, masterfully, with total abandon, as long as he wishes. Not a thing in the world can ever, will ever, not ever, prevent his thousands and thousands of strokes, each as rich as the next.
When he reaches his last thrust, bellowing from the gut and splashing her insides, Mila is still grunting, quivering, and flooding beneath.
© john kirnan 2003-2023
Andrés + Mila
Chapter 18
"the gauge of touch"
Note: This episode, and all of Andrés + Mila, is
included in The White Sky, a novel by John Caedan
http://johncaedan.com
the gauge of touch
For long minutes, with no haste, Andrés caresses the sweet body prone on the bed next to him. It is not a massage, rather an awakening of eros. Mila accepts the touch. Only occasionally a sigh escapes, perhaps as their eyes meet with affection and longing.
He makes her turn onto her belly. He adjusts the gauge of touch one step lighter, his right hand easing off until only fingertips remain on her skin. The feather-weight caressing with them, delicate and slow, raises gooseflesh.
M: “Oooh. No. No.”
A: “Breathe into it.”
Andrés does not relent. Mila gradually surrenders, hissing until she grows accustomed. Her breathing quiets. His fingertips roam. After many minutes, he has visited every inch of her back and the exposed sides of her torso. At the very base of her spine, he slows even more. All fingers but one lift off her skin. The index lightens its contact until barely perceptible. It moves with sublime slowness onto the mound of her bottom.
M: “Oh oh oh.”
A: “Lovely and round.”
M: “You are evil.”
A: “Don’t talk.”
Incredibly, he finds one more shift of sensibility. Now only the very tip of the pad of his index finger touches. He imagines he only contacts the fine hairs, nearly invisible, or perhaps non-existent, that cover her flesh. A breath would be heavier than this. That thought incites – he begins to direct his exhale.
Mila cannot remain quiet. A rhythmic sweet cooing begins, as if singing to waves of pleasure as they arrive from her libido’s soft center. Andrés touches the round bottom everywhere. He does not part any folds of flesh. Eventually he arrives at the back of her thighs. She has begun to quiver.
A: “Turn over.”
She keeps her legs closed while following this order. They do not miss the ability to hold each other’s eyes, finally.
A: “Have you been practicing opening yourself and finding the sweet spot?”
Mila nods.
A: “I want to see. Show me.”
Mila bends at the waist, knees straight, and gracefully lifts her legs far up, reaching toward her left shoulder. No hands – they stay flat on the mattress. Her bottom lifts and tilts up from the bed. As expected, Andrés sees the inviting bulge, puffed up between thighs.
Mila pauses.
Their eyes lock.
She bends at the knees. The legs part. He sees in her eyes the delicious, deliberate quest to move just so, just so to find deep exposure. After a second or two of swaying, Mila’s eyes close slowly, heavy with arousal. The swaying stops. Then the heavy eyes open.
M: “Right there.”
One part of his drive wants her to say the exquisite carnal word, the word belonging to that which has been exposed. He holds it on his lips, as well, in case she doesn’t. Then, is if in magical trance, they do not say it.
A: “Are you thinking the word?”
M: “Yes.”
A: “Don’t say it. But let it be on the tip of your tongue the entire time until you come. Say it in your mind when you come.”
M: “Yes.”
Andrés shifts his body. His hand moves to the offered yoni. He thrills with the sensation of penetrating the aura of it, the penumbra of her entire sexual being. He touches the corporal flesh. The wise index finger resumes its discovery. Mila accommodates the touch on the inside of her thighs, then along the crease between thigh and torso. Despite the torture, she bravely maintains exposure, swaying her legs and hips as the locus shifts. Mila is offered with no protection.
The padding finger slips along the outer lips. It does not penetrate. The transit up and down, twice, three times, once more, brings moaning from her throat and glinting moisture from inside-out of her sex.
The delicious touching of all her skin has sensitized her triggers. She is already high up. She requires no violent stroking to ascend. The pad of Andrés finger arrives at the pulsing pink button above the opening. He knows exactly where to put it. Where to slip it against. Where to urge it up. There is a hunger to take it in his mouth, yet he does not.
There is no clenching. No penetration. No thrusting or rubbing, only the light contact upon the ripening glans, yet the entire pelvis shivers, then wracks with contractions, accelerating, growing in power. Mila releases her voice with a deep bellow. She screams to the skylights. Andrés’ hand fills with her flooding juices. He lovingly bathes her vee with them even with her orgasm still raging, beautiful in its exposure, knowing full well the female waters cannot extinguish any fire found there, for long.
© john kirnan 2003-2023
Sex + Love? In the same bed? Really?
To "attain gravitas," many literary novelists say love stories must feature cold beds, drift, cheating, passive-aggressive tricks, sophisticated boredom. Popular romance likes fatal cancer from nowhere.
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