Mind Caviar Fiction

Tempeste Johns has been writing erotica since she started having sex in her teens.  She cannot say which is better-- her sex or writing about sex.  In the spirit of growth, Tempeste continues to explore both with the dedication of a professional.  She lives in South Los Angeles County and makes her living as an accountant, which explains her vivid imagination. Mind Caviar is pleased to announce this is her fiction debut.

Email Tempeste Johns.



Cowboys & Poolhalls
 

They drive into town in their shiny trucks pulling horse trailers behind them.  It's a small town, a town where the people on the sidewalks stop to watch the parade of pickups and trailers as they move down Main Street, where the young girls dream of big cities and the young boys dream of being cowboys.

They ride horses in the glare of the lights, bleachers full of the good folks from town.  Man and horse, one animal, synchronicity.  No wonder they do it.  Itís Zen.  After its over and the arena is littered with popcorn boxes and stray candy wrappers, the cowboys head to the bar.  Thereís only one bar in these towns.  Itís loud tonight.  There's a party tonight.  There are cowboys tonight.  Cowboys and pool.

Some are brash and swaggering-- walking into the bar with a big noise.  They want the entire room to turn and look at them, rush at them, congratulate them, regale in their tales of victory.  The Outlaw is quiet.  He walks into the bar without a boom.  Still, everyone turns and stares and talk ceases for a moment, then resumes but in a hush this time.  He sits with his friends.  They laugh amongst themselves at the corner table.  

She is a waitress.  She watches him sit down at her table.  She sends a prayer to God silently, thanking Her.  God must be a woman to have made a man so beautiful, either that or Heís a gay man.  She asks for their order.  His eyes are indigo; they dance and laugh as he asks for a beer.  "Would you like anything else? Anything at all?"  She means it.

She places the beer in his hands and lets her fingers touch his.  She canít look in his eyes when she does this, she feels so exposed.  She imagines his fingers catching her wrist, her arm and pulling her into his lap. She imagines his hands all over her back and his lips against hers.  She imaginesÖ

Her arms knock his cowboy hat to the floor as fingers tangle in the black and silver strands of his hair.  He is close-shaven, almost perfectly so, and smells like the earth, and feels like soft grain leather as his face brushes hers in kisses that resemble hunger against her mouth that resembles the meal.

He removes her denims and undoes his fly, penis springing free preceding his body crawling after her onto the green felt of the pool table.  Hips rise to meet pelvis, the lips of her pussy gasping open and closed.  Hands wrap around his cock, throbbing as the veins fill with blood creating crooked highways from its base to its tip.  She navigates the head to the opening between her legs, eager, dripping.  It slides past the lips and the first shudder of expectation runs through her body.

He slides himself fully into her-- one, long, slow, precise stroke caught on her open mouth, her parted lips in a sigh that never finds its voice.   Retreats-- almost completely and slides back again. And again.  Long, slow, complete strokes.  In and out of her cunt, which grabs at him, clutches him, holds him. She is rolling, she is tossing, she is lost on a succession of physical waves moving up and down her bare flesh.  He is in her again and again and again and again, moving increasingly faster, more blunt, more forceful.

Ankles - hers-- fly to shoulders, his, and rest beside his ears. Hands - his --  push into the softest part of her thighs.  In and out of her glistening sex, wet and warm, secreting an opaque, white cream.  The light above the table glares down upon her, a dull roar fills her ears but she canít hear the raucous crowd as they whoop and holler, waving their hats in the air.  Hips press forward to meet each thrust.  Rush steadily mounting, mounting, mounting until her mouth twists open in a grunt, a groan, a sound so primal it quiets the bar sending each occupant into the corners of their own unexpressed desires.

He plunges into her one last time, body dancing spasmodically before his full weight crushes the tail end of the moan escaping her, finally silencing it, in one fitful breath expulsion.

*  *  *

The Outlaw plays pool with his friends on that table and she listens to the soft click of the balls against each other creating a calming rhythm.  She watches him from time to time. He lines up his shot with relaxed concentration and taps the ball.  Itís Zen.  Itís poetry.  Their eyes meet.  She looks at the table, then into his eyes.  His eyes laugh.  His eyes dance.  His eyes tease.  He knows what she is thinking.  Other waitresses in other bars have had these same thoughts, too. His dancing eyes tell her.
 

Copyright  ©  2003 Tempeste Johns. All Rights Reserved. Do not copy or post.


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