Barn Conversion

T.H. Sandal's first person narrator recounts a weekend of sexual adventure at a secluded barn conversion. Easily distracted, prone to sermonising, is this really the kind of man suitable for group therapy? The story includes a closing textual twist.

    Sample ....

   
    Have you seen Underworld? No it doesn't matter which one providing we're talking about Kate Beckinsale – you'll remember she doesn't really feature in the flashback to the medieval period. And it doesn't matter which of the films she's in because what I'm thinking of is how she looks, not just in her wardrobe – tight black leather does it for most people – but facially. The pinched cheeks, the expressive mouth, especially that subtle outward turn of her lips made more so by the inclusion of her false fangs that serve to push her top lip outwards.

   Well the woman I saw stepping out of her BMW convertible had that same look. The same expressive lips, dark eyes, black hair – longer though – and the same sleek, modelesque body. Kate Beckinsale, so my source tells me, stands at around five seven in her bare feet – probably around five nine in her vampire stacks – but this woman was clearly taller. When I met her at the door, I judged she was easily five ten maybe even six foot given that she just topped me in what I saw were raised heels.

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Indoor Pool

T.H. Sandal's first person narrator recounts a week long encounter whilst at a holiday retreat. Easily distracted, prone to sermonising, you'll want to find out what he gets up to when he meets an upmarket blonde. Ends with a closing textual twist.

   Sample .... 

   Neither of us said anything. We stared at each other for a few seconds then, keeping my actions slow and deliberate, I raised my hands to her shoulders, hooked my fingers under the straps of her costume and pulled them down her arms.

    She was already breathing hard from her excursions in the pool, but as the costume descended her mouth opened and she started panting. Not wanting to miss the event, I dropped my gaze and watched closely as both breasts were squeezed under the tight lycra of her costume, revealing themselves in tantalizing inches. I heard her gasp as they emerged with an utterly delightful jolt. They reverberated for less than a second before assuming their natural shape.

    I let go of her costume, leaving it bunched around her upper waist, resumed my gaze into her face, before, again with slow hands, taking hold of both breasts to examine them with a casual disregard of the social niceties. She did nothing to hinder my gentle massage, just stared up at me breathing hard. When I pinioned both nipples with thumbs and forefingers she winced slightly and her hands came up out of the water to rest against my stomach. Slowly they slid up to my pectoral muscles and she gasped as I drew out both her nipples.

    Then she reached up and ripped my goggles off.

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Eye Contact

T. H. Sandal's first person narrator recounts an affair conducted over ten weekends. Easily distracted, prone to sermonising, he's also something else in the bedroom. But does he realise? The story includes a closing textual twist.

   Sample ...

   What struck me first was the glorious lines of her body. All the way from her shoulders down her back, the rise of her buttocks, the taper of her thighs and the gentle upswing of her calves. The soles of her feet as well and her toes.

   There was a sense of perfection about her, the kind of wonder you get with new-borns, but here applied to a grown woman in her prime. The skin of her back was impinged only by a couple of moles, delicately placed, one near her right shoulder and the other in a delicious spot down near the small of her back. Besides those, her back was flawless as were her buttocks and I longed to kiss and lick that expanse of skin, taking the time to explore it all.

   But I didn't want to wake her and I had a sense that there would be time enough for all that and more, so instead I lay back down next to her and watched her face until she woke.

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Packed Carriage

T.H. Sandal's first person narrator recounts an episode aboard a packed train running out of London. Easily distracted, prone to sermonising, how will he cope with a woman who knows what she wants. The story includes a closing textual twist.

   "Short but nice, this is exactly what usually happens ..." Red Hot 

     "Ah, those Brits. Staid? Well, perhaps a little, until…" Ernest Winchester

   Sample ...

   The train had barely attained its top speed when it was no longer a case of intermittent contact but rather one of varying degrees. And to go with this constant pressure of bust against my upper stomach, now she was looking up at me with undisguised lust. Ordinarily this would be great. In a club perhaps, you'd work out quickly enough what was about and you'd migrate to a quiet corner or perhaps the dance floor ... but on a packed train?

   What came next was as unexpected as it was welcome. I hadn't noticed that the train lights weren't working – possibly it was just our carriage, but it might have gone further – in the late Summer afternoon, there was enough light coming through the windows for it not to matter. But then the train entered a tunnel and it went completely dark.

   I heard a couple of stifled groans – some people have a problem with the dark – but to be honest those noises were peripheral when set against the sudden, fevered contact of this woman. She didn't just lay her bust against me, it was a fully body press. I felt her right leg against my left. I felt one hand against my pectoral muscle. I felt the other hand holding hard against my waist. And I felt her breath against my lips.

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