To All the Penises I've Ever Known Read online

  TO ALL THE PENISES I’VE EVER KNOWN

  Erotic Shorts by Lori Schafer

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2015 Lori Schafer

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-942170-05-1

  Discover other titles by Lori Schafer at https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/LoriSchafer

  Author’s Note: This work of fiction contains explicit sexual scenarios and is therefore inappropriate for readers under the age of eighteen. All characters depicted are eighteen years of age or older.

  CONTENTS

  Morning After

  Ballroom Dance

  To All the Penises I’ve Ever Known

  Me and Fat Marge

  Missed Connection

  Complete Your Assignments!

  Weekend Away

  Lori Schafer: I Write Erotica

  Other Books by the Author

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  MORNING AFTER

  I yawned and pried open my eyes. Early morning sunlight was streaming in through the blinds. A cool breeze ruffled pleasantly through my exposed pubic hair. It tickled. I felt myself becoming aroused.

  Wait a minute, I thought sleepily. A what was ruffling through my what now?

  I glanced down at my body, dappled with the warming rays of the sun. My breasts were bare. My belly was bare. My thighs were bare. In fact, the only part of me that wasn’t bare was my right foot, which still clung to the more stubborn half of a cotton ankle sock.

  I closed my eyes and went back to sleep.

  I was woken again by a soft cough somewhere off to my right. I kept my eyes shut and tried to ignore it. It sounded again, louder. I sighed and turned my head to look.

  I’ll admit I wasn’t quite sure who I was going to find there. It isn’t every day, you know, that a woman finds herself in this particular situation.

  “Good morning, Kathy,” Jim said, rising into a half-sitting position and smiling shyly at me, his dark eyes glowing.

  “Er… good morning,” I answered. I tried to smile back, but my face felt frozen. I didn’t want to look at his eyes, so I looked at his body instead. Sure enough, he was naked, too. His penis had also risen into a half-sitting position, and it swayed gently as the cool breeze ruffled through his pubic hairs. Vaguely I wondered if it aroused him the way it did me.

  “I guess this is a little weird, huh?” he said. He stretched a long hand out towards my hip, but stopped short of touching me.

  “Oh,” I said, not really sure what to say. “We’ve been friends a long time, Jim. I guess it was bound to happen eventually.”

  He inched closer. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to notice, so I pretended not to.

  “Are we… okay?” he said, his eyes full of questions I didn’t want to answer.

  I took mental stock of my body, lying stark naked in a strange bed with sun trickling through the blinds. My breasts were sore. My thighs were sore. I felt like I’d been ridden hard and put away wet. All in all, it wasn’t a bad way to wake up.

  I turned back to him. He still had that arm hopefully extended and I took it and drew it around me. He pulled me toward him until my face was buried in his chest. He was covered with the smell of sweat and sex. He’d never smelled like that to me before. I didn’t think I minded it.

  “We’re okay,” I replied.

  With a great heave of his long arms, he yanked me up on top of him and enveloped me in a big bear hug, his hands tight to my waist, his chest tight to my breast. Maybe if I’d had some warning, I could have resisted. But as it was, I couldn’t help myself. I threw my legs around him. I felt his cock hardening and my insides responding. Wetness was already invading my thighs and I wondered where it had been hiding. This can’t be a good idea, I thought. But that damned breeze was still ruffling irresistibly through my pubes and I didn’t know what to do. If we did it again now, who knew where it might lead?

  I shifted and his penis slid smoothly over my clit. It felt good, so I did it again. And again. He placed his hands on my ass and squeezed, hard. That made it even better. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  “Starting without me, eh?” said a voice on my left.

  “Morning, Sam,” Jim said, not lessening his grip on my ass.

  “Morning, Sam,” I echoed, still sliding that cock back and forth between my legs. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “Quite all right,” he said, smiling at me with eyes that shined.

  I paused to look him over. He, too, was completely naked, except for the pair of ladies silk panties strewn across his neck. I couldn’t tell if the window-breeze was ruffling his pubes or not. There was too much fully erect cock in the way.

  “This is a little weird, huh?” he said, his eyes fixed on me and Jim. He suddenly rolled toward us, sending the panties flying. He, too, smelled of sweat and sex. I thought maybe I liked it.

  I shrugged. “We’ve been friends a long time, Sam,” I said evenly. “It was bound to happen eventually.”

  He nodded his agreement. I nodded, too. Jim nodded back.

  It’s so wonderful when good friends agree.

  Sam reached out to caress me with the back of his hand. My hips stopped moving. They were getting better ideas.

  “Um, so what do we do now?” he said.

  I didn’t answer. Instead I rolled off of Jim and lay down between them. They cuddled up on each side of me, warming my body better than any early morning sunshine, their erections pressed hard against my thighs. Then they reached around me. I felt their fingers tickling my pubes and I forgot all about the breeze.

  I spread my legs apart, as wide as they would go. There wasn’t much room with them nestled beside me. The combined smell of sweat and sex was overpowering. Some of it was coming from me. I was sure now that I liked it.

  “I don’t know about you,” I said. “But I’d like to be ridden hard and put away wet.”

  They snuggled in closer, reached underneath me, got their hands on my ass, and squeezed. I shifted and they both began stroking my clit. It was way better than when I did it.

  “And what about tomorrow?” Jim asked me, his hands still busy below.

  “Yeah, will we all still be friends?” Sam said, stroking me harder.

  “No!” I gasped. “We – ”

  I couldn’t finish my answer. My body was jerking in climax.

  They waited while I was catching my breath. They lay with their heads on my breasts, their eyes searching mine. I looked out the window behind them. The sky was bright with sunshine. And so, I thought, was I.

  I took their heads in my hands. Ran my fingers through their hair. Breathed in the smell of our sweat and sex. And kicked off the last half of that stubborn ankle sock. That was no good for riding.

  “No,” I said again, more gently this time. “We’ll be something much better.”

  And I smiled.

  ***

  The inspiration from this story came from my second novel, Just the Three of Us: An Erotic Romantic Comedy for the Commitment-Challenged. The style of this piece differs somewhat from that of my novel – the humor here is more restrained – but it’s very much in the same vein. Frankly, I was delighted to revisit the concept because I really, really enjoyed writing that book. I love the characters, I love the setup, I even love the somewhat silly premise that three friends could just “happen” to fall in love in almost exactly the way that two friends might. In fact, I liked it so much that I’m halfway through writing the sequel. Plus I wrote this story. And then I got the idea for another short story called “Avalanche!” in which three friends… well, you get the drift.

  The funny t
hing is, I never would have thought I’d find the whole threesome concept so intriguing. And honestly, I’m not sure that I really do. For me it’s not threesomes in general, but more this particular threesome that’s so endlessly amusing. Of course, maybe that’s how it starts. Maybe it always begins with plain old monogamous, monamorous folks who, by chance, meet the two other people who make the perfect corners on that kind of triangle. One day you’re hanging out with your best friends – the next you’re in love. It could happen to you!

  Okay, probably not. But don’t discount the idea entirely, because you never know. And if it does happen, and it does work out, would you let me know? I could use another idea for a sequel…

  BALLROOM DANCE

  Tonight’s the night. The grand finale, if you will. The final class in ballroom dance. The culmination of weeks of practice and training; the months of tedium through which I have suffered in order to arrive here, at the end, the final evening. The evening in which I may at last don my gown.

  It’s a beautiful gown, this pretty, antiquated garment. Cut low, bracingly low, low enough that even a deep breath may send my bulging breasts quivering into my admirers’ anxiously waiting palms. Wearing it I will pity the modern woman who has cast aside such travesties of dress, not knowing, not recognizing the wondrous possibilities of the giant hoop skirt that, like a curtain, will conceal my naked undersides, the deep, dark crevices growing damp and moist with the heat of my body, the flush of my skin.

  Yet they will pity me in my grandiose garb; will say to each other, “Oh, see how quickly she tires!” and perhaps they will be surprised when I retreat by myself to a sad, lonely corner while the others persist in the dance. Standing there all alone I will think of Henry, that husky-voiced fellow with the large hands I have so duly admired each time I’ve found myself swooning within them. He is also mysteriously missing from the dance floor, much as I am so strangely absent, here at the last. No one will dream where he has really gone. No one will even think it odd the way I will have my hands folded in front of me while I stand quietly in the corner, watching the action on the dance floor; the way my lips will part as if I am breathing rather heavily for a person who is not dancing.

  And as the music continues no one will think it strange that more and more of the men retreat to the corner where I am so dejectedly standing, all worn out with dancing. Men tire, too, after all. What could be more natural than to see them gather in a circle at the far end of the room, chatting amongst themselves while the women continue to dance? No one will notice, against this masculine backdrop, when I turn slowly away towards the wall and rustle my skirts until Henry comes falling out, panting with the heat and exertion. No one will see me drop to my knees behind the concealing wall of men and unbuckle his belt and help myself to the refreshments within while my breasts protrude from their tidily-arranged cage, while he handles them with hard, groping fists as the others look on. No one will think it odd that one of the other men will help me to my feet; will, with the gentlest of rustles, again lift my skirt that another of his fellows might vanish beneath it.

  And should the music threaten to draw to a close before I have taken and given as much I’d like of the other ballroom dancers, perhaps I shall widen my stance, lift my skirts higher, and invite two at a time to dive hungrily between my legs and sample the sweet juices within. And if they should fight; battle for prime position, perhaps I will enjoy that, too, the faces prowling, probing my nethers, the tongues licking and sticking and kissing where I most wish to be licked and sticked and kissed. Perhaps it will even be too much, two prodding, probing tongues for one hapless organ; perhaps I shall have to send one on another journey, around the other way while I hold their heads in my hands, one before me and the other behind.

  And perhaps I will be so caught up in this music, my own music, the music of my body and theirs commingled into one, that I will fail to notice when the band stops playing, when the good men and women of this quaint suburban town abandon their positions and march towards the corner that I have so indelicately occupied in concert with the men who, like me, in the end, were more interested in pussy than dancing. Perhaps they will gather around, too, in horror and shock as I lift up my skirts to reveal one of their fellow-citizens nose-deep in my pussy, and an equally fine gentleman tongue-deep in my ass. Perhaps they will stand all around and watch while I scream and explode, while I spread my legs wide and plead piteously for more. Perhaps even as I drop to my knees to inhale the final cocks, to imbibe the last freshly squeezed juices of my partners in dance, some one of those fine citizens will feel it, too, the itch that I’ve got, and will come crawling forward on hands and knees to slide his own face underneath my still-hungry pussy, while I cover him discreetly over with the giant hoop skirt so that no one will see the shamelessness, the helplessness of my lust and his; of our lust and theirs.

  I am ready; it is time. On to the dance.

  ***

  Probably the less said about this piece, the better! Although I had already been writing and publishing erotic work for some months when this story first came out, there was something about this particular piece that was so over the top of the naughty sex scale that I didn’t even want to promote it. What if my boss read it?!

  It certainly does possess a depth of dirtiness that goes beyond that of most of my sexually explicit work. But I suspect I have more of this type of piece lurking somewhere inside me. At some point, when I feel like taking a break from writing novels, I thought it might be fun to put together a series of short stories like this. I’ve even got a title picked out: I’ve Got an Itch.

  Just don’t tell my boss.

  TO ALL THE PENISES I’VE EVER KNOWN

  Yours, little brother of my best friend, was the first one I ever saw. We were five and you were four. One summer afternoon when there were no grownups around you dropped your shorts to take a leak on a bush in our backyard. Your penis dangled limply, almost absurdly in its shriveled laxity, and seemed to me no more noteworthy than my own peeing-mechanism. But that night I dreamt that we found a garden snake in the yard, a snake that blew up like a monstrous red balloon and devoured us all. Freud would have been proud.

  You, stepfather, revealed yours to me without ever knowing it. I was self-sufficient at the age of eight, and an early riser, and one Sunday morning while I was eating my cereal and reading the funnies in the kitchen you emerged from the bedroom you shared with my mom to fetch the rest of the newspaper from the doorstep of our apartment. Did you have to do that entirely naked? I did not need to see you that way, my newest dad, did not need forever after to be stuck with the image of that penis, so much longer than my best friend’s little brother’s, wider, thicker, and half-erect. But any chance that I might have forgotten it vanished when I glimpsed it again not long after, through the ventilation grating by the floor in the wall between my bedroom and the bathroom. I wasn’t peeking, honest; I heard funny noises coming from the bathroom and wondered whether I should be scared of whatever was in there, but it was just you on the toilet, pooping, that penis hanging down again between your legs, pointing right at me where I was squatting on the other side of the wall.

  Your penis, my puppy love, my high school sweetheart, was the first I ever touched, ever held, ever took into my mouth and body. It was yours that I squeezed too hard or not hard enough, yours that I learned to protect and to be protected from, yours that was not only a penis but part of a package that conformed so neatly to the cupping of my hand. Your body was still growing then, and your penis was, too: the sweetly modest member of the boy I had loved transformed into the stern soldier of the man I didn’t.

  Yours, my cocky, confident friend with benefits, was oversized overall, but I wasn’t aware of that then; I knew only that I never seemed to have enough room to contain it all. Yours was the one I measured, so I might in future have a basis for comparison, and although you didn’t object, I think I embarrassed you with my giggles and my ruler. I wondered afterwards if you ever knew how
you stacked up against other men, and if you did, whether that was what gave you your self-assurance.

  You, my college chums, casual boyfriends, victims of my capricious lust, introduced me to a variety of penises, short and long, thick and thin, curved and straight. You had brown ones and red ones and black ones and purple ones – though I never liked to look at the purple ones much. You gave them to me in many forms and guises, from different directions, and at different angles, and different speeds. And you let me pat them fondly and be on my way without lingering, without embracing, without promising if or when I would see you or them again.

  Your penises, you miscellaneous, meaningless men I met after college but didn’t especially care for, yours were as immemorable as your faces, your bodies, your spirits. Not one of yours could I pick out of a lineup, not one do I recollect fondly, not one among them did I ever really want to have or to own, but every now and again I still needed to have, even if I did not need to own.

  But then came yours, my love, my life, my happily-ever-after, the penis to put an end to all the other penises. For sometimes it is red, and sometimes brown, and when you hold me one way it is large, and in another small; you curve it into me when it needs to be curved, and straighten it when it should be straight, and if I want it to be fast, it is fast, and when I want slow, it is slow. From you I learned that it is not the penis that matters, but the man who stands behind it. Truth be told, I don’t even look at your penis much anymore; mostly only when you’re climbing out of the shower and it’s dangling there all shrunken and lifeless and resembling very much in form, if not in size, the first penis I ever saw. Your penis may be different from all of the others, but it is also exactly the same. And that is how I know that there is more to being a man than having a penis, because after all these years, and all those penises, I’ve kept coming back only to yours.