Angels

From Andrew Smith:

That Ed Sheeran song.

The one about crack.

About the angel.

I sat in the parking lot of the public library... the dark, damp garage

And I cried.

I was the strange man who'd left my scent, who'd achieved a release

I was on top of her

And then I was not

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The Dog was on the Bed

From Andrew Smith:

Her small, energetic dog -- a Corgi -- jumped on the bed.

He was always kind to the dogs, though he wasn't much of a dog fan.

This dog wasn't so bad, and usually stayed off the bed.

But, there he was.

And then he saw it. A pool of his recently released semen. Still warm. On the red comforter that covered her bed.

And the dog saw it.

And then proceeded to lick it all up.

He smiled a crooked smile, thinking about how it was pretty disgusting that the dog had done that.

She was in the bathroom, no doubt cleaning the rest of his semen from her back and ass.

He always welcomed their time together. Even with the dogs.

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Leather. Iron. Lust

This.  This image reminds me of a story....

She arrived at the airport late in the evening.  Another 45 minutes or an hour in a cab before she'd be at the hotel.  Her trip was mostly business, but included some pleasure stops.  She traveled often to promote her business and to network.  She entered the cab, gave the address, and almost instantly drifted to sleep.

He'd chosen the hotel because he'd stayed there on a previous visit.  Almost eight years before.  He'd admired the firm mattress and the iron, cage-like headboard.  The classic layout, the windows that actually opened, the cool of the morning as sunlight peered in.

The abrupt stop in front of the large, beautiful stone structure woke her.  The cab driver removed her bags from the trunk, and the bell hop carried them inside.  She checked her phone and gave him the room number. 

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Sex and Yard Work

She had dark hair with touches of grey.  Dark eyes and tan skin. She wore a black sports tank and black shorts. White Nike shoes and ankle socks. She was about average height and reasonably fit.

It was Saturday. Mowing Day. She always dressed just like this to mow. The white shoes tinged with green. The July sun beating down and warming her small frame through black cotton and spandex.

Her husband was out of town, as he was nearly every weekend.  Besides, he couldn't mow.  Allergies, he claimed.  She'd seen him all red-faced and sneezing after he'd done the yard work, so it might have been true.

READ about how yard work turns into sex...