Gwen Masters on Clean Sheets
Click the titles below to read a few of Gwen's stories:
NEW! Ancient History
As I unbuttoned his dress slacks, he took another drink of the gin. As I slid his clothes from his body, he poured some of the alcohol into my mouth. It burned all the way down, lit a fire in my belly that could only be quenched with a different kind of taste.
In two steps Max had a grip on Clarice's wrist. She tugged hard to free herself and he used brute strength to pull her out of the doorway. He flung her onto the bed. She bounced once, then turned onto her back and scrambled away from him, her feet bunching up the covers and shoving the pillows from their careful places. Max grabbed her ankle and hauled her back down. With the other hand he yanked on the top of her blouse.
The buttons flew and ticked on the hardwood floor.
In the Rain
Larry's radio murmured as he turned into the parking lot of that hotel, the one with the broken mirror in Room 108, the one with the non-smoking rooms that smelled like smoke and the king-size beds that were too big for two people in love. The windshield wipers made their comforting thump-whack and his watch kept up the steady ticks and the rain poured down, coloring everything a darker shade as he thought of Katherine.
The Marital Truth
I opened the screen door to the back porch and stepped into the autumn heat. I was naked and it felt glorious. The first drops of rain began their freefall and I fell with them, the thunder rumbling as Mark laid me down on the soft green grass. A quilt shimmied above us. The leaves whispered and the branches clacked. "Two years," he said again.
On a Saturday Morning in October
Long after that first sweet taste in the kitchen, when I said to you that I couldn't wait to get to the bedroom, that I hardly believed it took us as long as it did, you laughed that private laugh and said you wanted to run down the hallway to find the bed and take me down on it with you. When it comes to this, we always think alike.
Tropical Storm Warning
A shingle flies right over us, spinning like a child's kite on an unruly spring day. Something else cracks like a gunshot and though I feel a moment of fear, I hear your heartbeat and feel your arousal at a fever pitch. At that moment some things are
much more important than an old tree falling or a window breaking
or a whole house coming down, for that matter.
Ten Years Later
(Winner in the Rock-Me Erotica Contest)
His eyes are dark as ever and he looks even better out of the suit than he looked in it. He tastes like cigarette smoke and cologne and icy cold water. He has a scar on his chest, a small thing that cannot be seen, only felt. I want to ask him where it came from but I donít, because it makes him vulnerable and that isnít what rock stars are.
It was this sheet, actually, this one that I pulled over us after the love happened and before the yawn, the one that I buried my nose in when you said that one little thing that made me blush like mad. I think of it now and I blush like mad again, a blush that goes from my ears to my nose to my chin and down my chest, even right between my legs,
for though it made me shy and subtle, it also made me excited,
to know that you can make me do such things.
Now it's the third night, and I am kissing him with a passion I thought long dead. I had forgotten how he whimpers when I pull away. I had forgotten how his hands feel in my hair and how they shake just a little when he gets excited. He grows hard against my belly and I feel twinges of misplaced guilt. But I don't stop kissing him.
Is that how it starts? How affairs begin? With a gesture or a word that suddenly turns an old friend into a lover, crying out above you in a rented bed somewhere on the edge of nowhere? Does it always drop out of the blue and explode, fragmenting your life? And then plant itself inside you and grow into beauty, into memories and smiles, building you into something stronger than you were?
Diary of an Unfaithful Woman
It had been too long...too long, being ignored and taken for granted. Too long of living on his timetable and being last on his list. Too long of his touches that were nothing but mercy fucks; I could tell because everything in him was into the act except for the light in his eyes. His eyes were dead, but I was not, and so there was Jason.
It was simply too hot to fuck. One of those days when even the mere thought brings on heatstroke. I told him this. He rolled his eyes and rolled his body and trapped me under it anyway. The humidity drifted into my lungs like water rolling into places where only clean air should have been. Like that warmth right before giving up, that voice that said it was okay to not be anymore. How did purgatory really feel?
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