Condensed

She took the golden box in her hands and knelt. There was no reason to kneel except that she was thinking of him, which was enough. Sometimes, when she saw him in public, her knees just started to bend, and she had to catch herself.

She opened the lid. She drew breath, concentrated, meditated, centered her thoughts.

“My lover,” she said, breathing into the box, starting with the simpler words. “My mate. My partner.” Each word drifted into the box; of course, it was not the breath, or the articulation, but the idea that settled down. The concepts began to blend as she added them.

“My best friend,” she added with heartfelt simplicity. “My sex.” Moisture grew in her pussy, and her nipples began to stiffen. “My belovèd. My soulmate. My equal. My perfect match. My mirror. My one.” Her words fell into the swirling mix of thoughts in the golden box, causing the blended ideas to spin and intertwine, each one coloring the others.

Her thighs glistened, and her voice, though soft, was deliberate and emphatic. “My lord,” she spoke. “Law. King. Liege. Center. Rule.” The turbulence of mingled ideas in the box was beautiful and entrancing. “Universe. Purpose. Reason. Everything.” Her quim flooded, nipples strained, body trembled. The pace of her words grew slower. “Teacher. Daddy. Authority. Guide. Fixer. Mentor. Trainer. Commander. My path. My life.“

The box was full to the edge, wisps of ideas starting to curl over the edges; she gently herded them back inside. She leaned closer, her lips almost touching the glowing storm of thoughts.

“Master,” she whispered. As the word flew into the box the mixture roiled and it was all she could do to keep it confined. “Owner,” she added, and quickly, with all her might, closed the lid on the burgeoning brilliance inside.

The pressure of meaning strove to burst the confines of the box. She held it closed with her hands and then, fearing her strength was not enough, sat on the box. Against her bare bottom it was fiercely hot, welcome, remindful.

After a time, the box cooled and the pressure against the lid faded. She rose, knelt again, and took up the box in her hands. Carefully, she opened it. She bent her head to the box, and inhaled the single thing it now contained.

She stood, and went to find him, so that she might speak his name.

“Sir.”

— Frenulum

From and for my belovèd.

Prevalence

Suppose we could somehow filter out most explicit images on the net (and boy-oh-boy there are sure some people who want to).

Eliminate all professional photography. Yikes! All hard-core. All couples.

Banish any photo in lingerie or costumes or swimsuits.

Rule out bedroom and kitchen and living-room scenes; forbid outdoor photography.

Suppose there were no postings left except: naked teens-and-twenties girls alone in cluttered, messy bathrooms, snapping their own mirror reflections with digital cameras and cell phones.

I believe there would still be more images posted every day than any one person could ever get through.

— Frenulum

Magic

The student wizard surveyed with great satisfaction the three naked girls kneeling before him. Their sexual hunger was evident in their faces, eyes following his every move. Any fourth-year could make a powerful love potion; he had trebled the lust-producing ingredients, and the effect on the girls was clear in their quivering bodies and honey-wet thighs.

The girl to his left was his daily companion, almost annoyingly self-confident, saved by her true genius. In the middle, a slim Chinese import with an incongruous but fetching north-country accent. To his right, his best mate’s sister, naïve but excited. Two of them were virgins, and seemed the most eager of the three.

He had used the Alopeciatus spell to remove the pussy hair from two of the girls, and their bare lips pouted and glistened. He had left a ginger exclamation mark on the third girl’s mons as a pretty, distinctive ornament.

One last spell. It was forbidden to practice self-altering magic, because of the inherent risk, but rules had never stopped him. He pointed the wand down at his own body. Erecto equinus! he cried. The girls’ widening eyes reflected the impressive result.

Power corrupts. Time to feed the witches.

— Frenulum

Note: I’ve never been interested in fanfic. I respect other authors’ ideas, and have enough voices in my own head not to care about borrowing someone else’s. However, this scene popped whole into my head last Saturday, and I thought I might as well write it down. My apologies to the creator.

Quite a bargain

She went shopping with a friend on her lunch hour. She found the skirt on clearance, a pleated plaid mini unlike anything in her wardrobe. She held it up for appraisal.

“Where would you wear that?” the friend asked, instead of coming right out and saying it was far too short.

“I don’t know. Nowhere, really. I just think it’s cute.” And it was $9.96, practically free. She bought it.

At home that night, she slipped out of her suit coat, skirt, and heels. It was a stay-home night: jeans and a tee would be about right. She dug out denims and tossed them on the bed, then sat there and pulled on some plain white ankle socks.

She was starting to unbutton her white dress blouse when she heard the front door. “Oh, I’ll show him my new skirt,” she thought, and reached for the bag.

---

His first glimpse of her was in the bedroom, where in a white blouse, a kilt of barely more than bun length, and anklets, she was bent over a dresser drawer.

Twenty years fell away in a heartbeat. Junior year of high school, first day. The new transfer student. Her uniform kilt far too short for the rules (the staff would promptly see to that).

Bending at the waist to put something on the floor of her locker.

White panties taut across what had theretofore been only a rumor of a dream of a mystery.

The image branded on his mind, fuel for every session alone in the bathroom all that year.

Senior year. Spring. Asking her to the Prom while his three closest friends peeked around the corner at them, making side bets on whether or not he could speak to her at all.

---

She lay on her back, sweat-soaked, breathing hard. Hair was stuck to her face and neck and shoulders. The bed was a soggy wreck.

She was dazed, and in-a-good-way sore in certain places, and happy.

“What got into you?” she asked.

“I know what got into you,” he replied with an exagerated wiggle of the eyebrows.

“No, really.”

“Oh…” he said. “I was just thinking about… love at first sight.”

— Frenulum