I met him at a party, a friend of a friend sort of thing. His name was Arthur, and the truth is that I was attracted to him, not necessarily sexually, but attracted the way two masses are attracted by Newton’s law of gravitation, from the moment I’d first seen him across the shabby, cluttered, thirty-something choked room.

I hadn’t planned on going out with him when we were first introduced, even though I felt inexorably drawn to the guy. I had fallen out of the habit of going out with anyone at that stage of my life; things just got too complicated, too quickly. And yet… He had that hot scientist thing nailed. He gave the impression of being made out of tinkertoys; tinkertoys with pale-olive skin draped over. He was tall and gawky, like a stork, with outrageously big hands and chestnut hair mixed with gray and ears that stuck out like the parachutes of a drag racer. We sat next to each other on the broken-backed beige couch, and conversed while the party swirled on around us.

He was smart. Crazy, ridiculously smart, he was getting his PhD in a branch of mathematics I’d never even heard of; and he had a very dry and offbeat sense of humor. Arthur was the kind of guy who would say something absolutely hilarious, and you would only realize that it was hilarious about two minutes after he’d said it, by which time he’d be talking about something else entirely, and would look at you when you cracked up laughing with a curious tilt of his head, his big brown eyes saying ‘Is this chick fucking insane?”

He stood a full head taller than me, and he had a loping half-gallop, half-shuffle that I had to scramble to keep up with. He also had the most beautiful penis I have ever seen. (Of course I didn’t know that at the time, that detail I only found out later!) It certainly wasn’t the biggest cock I had ever encountered, but it was definitely the most lovely: a beautifully proportioned, beautifully sculpted column of male flesh. Michelangelo’s David should be hung like that!

When he asked me out, he was so earnest and cute and vulnerable that I, despite lingering misgivings and misapprehensions left over from the Darla debacle, heard myself saying ‘Yes’.

Why not? After all, it was only dinner and drinks. Nothing had to happen. And so here I was, inside his charmingly ratty little apartment, splayed out nude on his futon mattress.

Oh sweet Jesus he was good too! Not just smart and cute and funny, but genuinely talented in bed! I was unbelievably turned on by him; not just my pussy — which was absolutely soaking wet — but my whole body was in lust with this guy. He had it down: everything about him was sexy, from those big oven-mitt hands to the unruly mop of already-graying hair to the delicious-looking, quiveringly hard penis that jutted out from his crotch like the bowsprit of a sailing ship. I wanted him. I wanted him to take me and use me and do filthy things to me. I wanted him to fuck me.

That looked to be exactly what was about to happen. He gave me a look that seemed to ask permission, half-shy and half-defiant, and fished a condom out of a shoebox next to the futon mattress. I caught a glimpse of something secret; anal beads? lube? And then the box was closed again.

Arthur attempted to suavely tear the condom wrapper open with one grand swift, sexy gesture, like a matador flourishing his cape. At this he failed entirely, and ended up having to gnaw the foil packet open with his teeth, which to my way of thinking, was just as sexy. If not more so. Flickering candles stuck in wine bottles on milk crates to either side of the bed, casting writhing, surreal shadows on the walls of his bedroom.

He’d been at it for hours, torturing and tormenting and pleasuring me with his lips, fingers, and tongue until I was a gelatinous, squirming, red-hot ball of jelly, making a large wet puddle on his sheets. He went down on me for so long, I don’t even know, hours it seemed like. It is really hard to get me off that way, especially when I am trying not to come, but he had me right on the edge. My clit stuck out like a big wet sore thumb.

He towered above me like a naked, disheveled scarecrow, tormenting me with his beautiful erect penis, rubbing it up and down my vulva until I was literally panting with desire.

When he finally skewered me with that hot, hard as marble, exquisite, condom-sheathed cock, I just gave in, surrendering to the sensation, letting myself go. I made a sound like a cartoon chef sampling a perfect soup: “Mmm-mmmm-mmm.” I wrapped my legs around his back, pulling him even deeper inside me, humping back against his every stroke, bringing us both inevitably closer and closer to climax.

My grasp on chronological order is tenuous at best. It happens all the time: my concentration lapses and I jump ahead or fall back five minutes or an hour. Sometimes I wake up in the morning a day or a week out of order. It’s quite vexing, and socially awkward, but nothing I haven’t learned to cope with. But when I orgasm, I come totally unstuck. I get catapulted completely out of sequence, months or years out of sync with the rest of the universe. The last time I’d had an orgasm was with Darla, and that had ended in disaster. That was three fairly-contiguous years ago; since then I’ve tried not to come at all, and not to put myself in a position where I might be tempted to get off.  Usually I put a stop to things way before they get anywhere near that far. Not this time.

He was fucking me hard, fucking me fast, his eyes glazed over, sweat beading up on his forehead. His cock made sexy squishing sounds as it slid in and out of my juicy cunt. Nothing makes me come harder than a nice fat cock in my pussy! I was on the edge, slipping, slipping past, slipping, spinning over that edge.

“Oh fuck yes, fuck yes, fuck me! Oh yes, yes, yes, oh so good! Oh yes, I’m coming!”

And away I go. Unstuck.

I am in the bathtub. I’ve been here a million times before, so I know what’s going to happen. I just relax and enjoy it.

I’m a little girl. I’m still not sure exactly what age this is; old enough to take a bath by myself, not old enough to have been swept up in the tides of puberty.

I have just recently discovered that if I squeeze my rubber ducky (of all things!) and press him hard up against my vagina, and then sort of rub him back and forth, that it feels really, really nice. Glowingly nice. Achingly nice. Compulsively nice.

This activity isn’t exactly naughty, but it also isn’t something you do around other people. So I confine myself to doing it in the privacy of the tub.

This was going to be the first time, and I knew that it would be particularly intense. I found the sweet spot, pressed my rubber ducky just so, moved him up and down just so, and I felt it coming, building inside my young body. I mentally braced myself for the shock, even as the waves of pleasure built and built, faster and more intense, like storm-driven Pacific swells crashing upon a rocky beach. I knew what was coming and I didn’t stop, didn’t back off, clutching the duck in both hands and squishing him against my pussy even as the orgasm broke over me, making my legs flail and kick, splashing bathwater out of the tub and onto the tile floor. The sensation was better than anything I had ever felt. I was instantly addicted.  I wanted it to go on and on forever even as felt myself slipping away, even as I came unstuck.

I am in my cubicle, staring at the computer screen. I am not sure how old I am or what year it is. I know that I worked for Hokkaido Consolidated for a while in the mid twenty-teens, and that I should probably be doing something work-related, but I haven’t the foggiest idea what. The spreadsheet that is open on my computer doesn’t clue me in one bit. The rows and columns full of numbers mean nothing to me. Some kind of report, possibly?

I give up puzzling over the spreadsheet and turn to solitaire. What will be will be. Shortly thereafter, my phone buzzes.

“Ms. Takahashi wants to see you in her office. She says to bring a hard copy of your quarterlies.”

I print up the spreadsheet on my computer and set off to find Ms. Takahashi’s office. Walking past row after row of cubicle, I am overcome with a wave of déjà-vu that sends me spinning five minutes or so into the future. I find myself standing in front of Ms.Takahashi’s office door, clutching the quarterly report in my sweaty hand. I know I ended up getting fired from this job. Is this the day?

I rap nervously on the fake wood veneer door. Her cool, aloof-sounding voice drifts through the plastic material: “Enter”, and with butterflies in my stomach, I bounce back three or four minutes, wandering through the hallways trying to figure out which office is hers without looking like a complete ass.

I finally find her office, mainly by good fortune and process of elimination.  I rap nervously on the fake wood veneer.


Clutching the crumpled quarterly report in my sweaty hand, I walk into her office, shutting the door behind me.

She is sitting on her desk, tall and imperious-looking, carelessly swinging her long, long, long sleek, slender legs. She is half-Asian, which definitely helps you climb the food chain at this company, and I know she is an utterly ruthless corporate animal. She is beautiful in the glossy magazine sense of the word. She doesn’t dye her hair; she doesn’t need to. It is steel-grey and elegant. Her face might have been chiseled from a block of composite jade analog. Behind her fashionable titanium-rimmed glasses, her eyes twinkle mischievously.

“Come on in,” she says, “Sit down. Do you know why I called you in here?”

I swallow hard and make a non-committal nodding gesture.

“You were fantastic last night! I never would have suspected that you had it in you. Just set that report in my inbox, I’m sure it’s fine. I never properly thanked you for last night… I never truly expressed my appreciation.”

She kicks her shoes off. They are expensive-looking black high heels, the kind that make my ankles hurt just looking at them. This woman is so far out of my league it’s not even funny.

Ms. Takahashi purrs as she slithers out of her navy-blue pinstriped business suit; her breasts are strapped down by a bra that probably cost half of my weekly paycheck. Under her pants she wears a very sassy black lace V-string. I would bet you anything in the world she that her jade gate is waxed totally bald under those fancy panties.

I think about how thin the walls are, how well that door conducted sound. “Aren’t you afraid someone will hear us?” I stammer as she crawls on all fours toward me, like a panther prowling through the jungle. She might have been a freaking Calvin Klein ad. I realize that I am wet, despite myself; wet and swollen and tingly with anticipation.

“Well,” she says as she slinks up onto my lap, pressing her predator’s body against me and kissing my face, ears, and neck, “You’ll just have to keep it quiet then, won’t you?”

Her hands are inside my shirt, inside my bra, tweaking, pinching, cruelly tugging on my already hard nipples. I stifle the urge to scream, gurgling instead. I slump down in the swivel chair, my legs spreading of their own accord.

She is already tugging my underwear off: boring grey boy-shorts. She presses the damp crotch into her face and inhales deeply. “I can’t tell you how much I am going to enjoy this!” My panties land right on her desk, draped half-across her daily planner.

Man, she was good at it! It was as if someone had given her an intensive week of corporate training in cunnilingus just for my benefit. Her tongue was at least a meter long and was strong as a boa constrictor. She had me balanced right on the edge, bouncing back and forth in time, a few seconds forward, a few seconds back, as she licked my pussy like a well-trained expert. She’d lap at my cunt, tease my clit, nibble my thighs, slide a long finger with a perfectly manicured, dangerous-looking nail deep up inside me and then drag it out and up and down; and just when she had me completely flummoxed, she’d pull back and just blow on my wetness. I was dizzy with lust, inflamed desire, and temporal instability. I may well have been screaming by that time, I’m not really sure.

We end up with her face mashed in between my thighs, her tongue sliding up and down my clit, two or three fingers crammed up my sopping wet pussy, another pressed against my asshole. I can’t hold back any more. My body shakes spasmodically as waves of pleasure take over and I come, come hard, spinning completely unstuck and out of sequence.

I am in Mr. Schock’s fourth-period German class. It is hot and it is humid, and a big fat fly is repeatedly trying to kamikaze the window panes as Mr. Schock drills us on irregular verbs. One of the fluorescent lights is going bad, flickering and buzzing annoyingly.

I know I never should have taken German. I never ever used it later in life. I don’t remember any of it. Nipponese or Korean or Arabic would have been way more useful, but none of those classes were offered at my high school.

I squirm behind my desk. The seat is hard and uncomfortable. This class seems to last forever. I wish I were somewhere else, anywhere else. High school is the deepest pit in hell.

I raise my hand.


“Um, can I go use the bathroom?”

“Sagen, dass es in Deutsch.”

I furiously wrack my brain. “Kann ich das Badezimmer?”


Crap. The minutes slowly, painfully click by. Where is temporal distortion when you really need it? The only mercy is that at least Mr. Schock doesn’t call on me. I squeeze my legs together and make rude faces behind his back.

As soon as the bell rings, I make my hasty exit into a hallway crowded with adolescence, teen angst, and pheromones. I head straight for the girl’s room. Lock myself in a stall, yank my panties down past my knees, hands fly straight between my legs.

It just isn’t happening. I am dry as dead wood. It doesn’t help that giggling, snide teenage girls keep coming in and going out of the bathroom, banging the doors, shrieking, farting and flushing. I try slicking things up with spit, but it doesn’t help at all. I try to think about Darla, the kinky things she will do to me sometime in the future. It doesn’t seem real. I don’t even begin to get turned on, never mind approach orgasm. I feel about as far from unstuck as I ever have. Time clicks by in a painfully linear fashion, second inexorably following second.

I give up, pulling my panties back on and zipping my zipper, and I go on to suffer through the remainder of the school day. Pre-calc seems to last forever; Civics is even worse. Teenage drama plays out all around me, giggling and passing notes. The teacher drones on and on, going through the motions. Chalk squeals on the blackboard. I can’t stand this place. The girl sitting in front of me is quiet, studious, and charmingly hot in a black skirt and purple sweater. She is the kind of girl who would never get any attention in high school. I think she’s beautiful. I wonder what she is wearing under her skirt, wonder if she’s ever thought about fooling around with another girl.

Now my pussy is moist. Maybe when I got home I’ll have a nice satisfying wank and get off and get my ass out of this high school purgatory.

I ditch my backpack in the front hall and positively run upstairs to my room. The familiar old house seems unreal to me. It is so much smaller than I remember. I slam the bedroom door after myself, kicking off my shoes. My clit feels like a fat ripe cherry. My panties are around my ankles as my ass hits the bed. I wish I owned a vibrator at this point in my life. Just as I start to let my fingers do the walking, my Mom taps on the door and asks if I am ok. I say “Sure”, scrambling to pull up my jeans before she pokes her head into the room. She looked at me a little funny, but just asks if I am still going to that party with Grahm and the other kids. I say I guess I am. She tells me ok, but I have to do my homework first, and take the recycling out and clean my room. When that is all done, she tells me to have fun and to be really careful.

It is always bittersweet when I cross paths with Grahm, my first real boyfriend. I know he comes out as gay later on and dies of AIDS in the late ‘80s. I wondered where we were currently at in our relationship, which had begun tentatively and sort of faded out after two mostly fun years when he owned up that he liked guys and I got interested in exploring other girls.

“So where did you just fly in from?”

Grahm is one of the very few people I ever told about my non-linear condition.

“Ugh,” I say, “My mid-thirties. Corporate hell.”

“That doesn’t really seem like you.”

“It’s not me at all. I don’t think that gig lasted very long.”

“Do you know what we’re going to do tonight?”

My breath catches and my heart flutters in my chest. We are finally going to do it. I am going to lose my virginity tonight.

Grahm’s friend Jamie’s parents are out of town, and a bunch of kids are hanging out at his house. It’s our crowd; nerds, geeks, dweebs and freaks. There is beer, Olympia beer in cans, which holds no novelty for me. Grahm and me discretely migrate upstairs, to Jamie’s bedroom, and lock the door.

We’ve done plenty together already; basically everything you can do without actually fucking. I am nervous, jumpy, jittery, and horny.

The sounds of the party going on leak upstairs in a muffled sort of way as we make out on Jamie’s bed. Grahm has a nice, almost feminine body; soft and pale and curvilinear. His penis sticks out like an exclamation point. How could he not have known he was gay? In retrospect it is glaringly obvious.

I wondered if me and Grahm and Jamie would ever get together on this bed, all three of us at once? I can’t remember such an event ever taking place, but it seems only natural that it might.

We fool around for a while. I go down on him. I had forgotten how much I enjoyed sucking his dick. It is a very nice size, I could get the whole thing into my mouth without choking or gagging; and Grahm is always extremely expressive while I was doing it, moaning and groaning and gurgling in ecstasy, which is a huge turn-on for me.

I am wet. He is harder than hard, swollen and trembling, slick with my saliva, red and purple with bulging veins and a big fat dribble of pre-come oozing out the end. I am so ready for him!

I lick off the pre-come. It is sweet and sticky like thin honey. I help him roll on a condom; I know he doesn’t have HIV yet, but being a time traveler is hard enough without being pregnant too.

“Are you ready for this?”

I nod my head eagerly, my legs stretched so wide it hurts.

“Are you scared?”

“No,” I lie.

He awkwardly climbs on top of me. I like the warm bulk of his body, his appendage probing between my legs. My cunt is slick, wet, I am so ready for this, and yet I am scared. I figure I am safe this time, there is no way I’ll have an orgasm the time I lose my virginity. No-one ever does.

His fingers intertwine with mine. I squeeze his hand. He kisses me on the lips. The latex-covered head of his cock is nuzzling up against my horny pussy, driving me insane with lust. With a huff, he collapses his full weight upon me, sliding his dick straight up my cunt.

Ouch! It fucking hurts! I feel myself tearing, and I try not to tense up, try not to cry aloud. All that comes out is a tight-throated little whimper.

Grahm is thrusting in and out of me with joyous abandon. It feels like he is bulldozing my poor torn-up pussy. His dick isn’t even that big, thank God! His eyes are glassy with pleasure.

“Oh baby it’s so good! Your pussy feels so good on my cock! Oh yeah, it’s even better than I had imagined! I can’t believe I’m fucking you… oh God, I’m going to come!”

Amazingly, I am too. The orgasm is trickling up through the pain, threatening to overwhelm me. I fuck back up against him, arching my back and squeezing him between my legs, picturing him doing a hot teenage boy like this, dicks flopping together, balls jiggling, kissing and touching each other as they fuck. I wonder if that is what Grahm is picturing too. I am really close, even as his breath starts to come in ragged pants and his humping became harder and more erratic. I slip a hand between us, down to where his cock was running rampant in my cunt, slick with blood and joy juice, and help myself along, petting my engorged clitoris…

I am in Darla’s apartment, tied face-down to the bed, squirming with unsatiated desire. How long has she been teasing me? My ass stings from the spanking I must have just received.

She is sitting cross-legged on a pillow at the head of the bed, inches from my face. She is, as always, beautiful: chunky in a reassuring way, dark muppet-hair spilling down over one eye, ears sticking out. She has the biggest boobs of any girl I’ve ever dated, and they are not just big, but gorgeous, with huge areola and shy, winking nipples. Her stomach is soft and round, her navel charmingly deep, her legs are thick; she has small princess-like feet and high arches. Her toes are tiny and delicate and the nails are painted green.

Her pussy is spread open and wet. It is surrounded by a forest of whisper-soft dark hair, which is currently slick and sticky with her come. I can see her clit. It is fat and eager and pink and exposed. She lazily slides two fingers all the way up inside, removes them and holds them out for me to inspect. They are covered with her juice, absolutely coated. She smells delicious.

“Do you want this, Baby?”

Yes! Yes! Yes!

“That’s good, ‘cause you’re going to get it. But first I’m going to fuck you in the ass.”

Oh God, anal sex. I’ve been terrified of it and fascinated by it for years, scared it will hurt, curious what it feels like, shy to ask for it. I know that later in life I will adore it, actively seek it out, relish a nice, well-lubricated cock up my ass; but so far I’ve never actually experienced it. The immediate prospect sends a horny thrill through my body, which translates into a rush of wetness in my cunt. What is that pleasant/painful aching sensation in my breasts? It turns out I have these scary-looking stainless-steel clamps affixed to my nipples. I try to force myself to relax, telling myself I really want this.

Darla unties my ankles, leaving my wrists securely fastened. She casually swats my ass, hard, making me yelp. She grins. I get up on my knees, my face pressed sideways on the pillow. I can smell her arousal.

She spreads my ass-cheeks apart with her hands, tut-tutting happily as if she had just sliced open a delicious loaf of home-baked bread and it had turned out just right. I hold my breath. The anticipation -and the nipples clamps- are killing me!

She kisses me on the base of my spine, just above the crack of my ass, and unceremoniously sticks her thumb up my sopping-wet pussy. *Whack* she slaps my ass again, and again I yelp and start. I was going to have one sore bottom the next day!

She kisses her way deliberately down my ass, studiously avoiding my anus, and any remaining shreds of self-consciousness melt away. My asshole feels like a lotus blossom, the pulsing, exuberant, hyper-sensitized center of my universe. Finally, after an eternity and a half, she has mercy on me. The tip of her tongue finds my clenched asshole. It worms its way up inside, like a honey bee extracting nectar from an orchid. Her tongue feels like a naughty, kinky snake, squirming away deep up inside of me. Her thumb keeps moving, slowly, patiently, inside my pussy. I feel myself starting to come, and I slip back a few seconds, to where she is parting my ass cheeks and tormenting my anus. I clench my jaw, willing myself to stay present.

At long last she comes up for air. Her tongue leaves my asshole winking and gasping. Her thumb slips out of my cunt. She embraces me, her huge breasts pressed warmly against my naked back, nuzzling the nape of my neck. Two fingers slid back inside my pussy; her slick wet thumb presses hard against my virgin asshole. We stay like that, joined, breathing hard for a long moment. Then my body relaxes ever so slightly and her thumb is inside me, invading my asshole, and she is fucking both my holes at the same time, and I am coming, coming oh so hard, and the world shifts as I come unstuck.

I am in bed with Arthur, and it’s not his apartment, so it must be the house we bought together later on. We are spooning, his dick is soft and wet between my ass cheeks. I feel the warm, pervasively relaxing glow of a very recent orgasm. The wetness between my legs confirms this suspicion.

“Where were you just now?”

“Darla’s apartment. She just fucked me in the ass.”

“Mmmm. That girl had good taste.” His fingers find my pussy, wet and open and slick. He starts caressing my clitoris, softly, lazily, as if he were petting a tiny kitten.

“You’re going to make me come again,” I warn him.

“Well, that was sort of the point.” His fingers are working their magic. I can feel his penis swelling between my butt cheeks. Despite myself, I am playing with my own nipples, pinching and twisting, as he kisses my hair and strokes my clit in tiny, never-ending circles.

The pleasure takes my body like a wave, and I am transported, even as I wriggle seductively back against his hardening cock.

Cock. I am surrounded by it, yards and yards of cock. The room reeks of sweat and sex and excited maleness. My nipples are swollen and sore, my jaw aches. I am flat on my back, and someone I don’t recognize is fucking my pussy, hard, deep and fast. He is a black guy, and he looks pretty hot. His cock is making sexy squelching noises as it pistons in and out of my pussy. Two other guys are jerking off over me, apparently intent on coming all over my face and/or tits. I reach down and pull back on my clit, exposing it like a pencil eraser. The guy who is fucking me grins broadly and licks his thumb, playing my clit like a banjo as he fucks my cunt. I can hear myself wailing as the orgasm rocks through my body.

It is amazing how cold the desert gets after the sun goes down. I am bent over the hood of our Winnebago, and the residual heat from the engine feels nice against my boobs. Arthur is fucking me from behind. I’m not sure how I know it is Arthur, but I know.

My pussy is dripping wet. It may be artificial wetness, there is a bottle of lube close at hand, but nonetheless it feels delightful. He feels delightful inside me.

The full moon lights up the desert in stark contrast. Tall cacti stand like sentinels. Closer in, sagebrush lurks mysteriously. I look at my hands. They are old, lined with age, wrinkled and bluish and withered. I am in my seventies, at the very least. I can hear Arthur behind me panting raggedly as he fucks my pussy.

“Oh my God, it feels so good! So good!” I tell him.

“Oh yeah Baby,” he gasps. His voice has been roughened and worn thin by age, but it is still his. “Come for me… Come for me!”

I know he is not wearing a condom, we are way past that now, and I am filled with lustful desire to feel him shoot off inside me, to feel my pussy flooded with his semen. But the orgasm is coming on too fast, washing over me, and he knows just how to excite me, tickling my asshole and pulling my hair as he fucks harder, harder and faster and more urgently, and I am calling out his name as I come.

I am back in Arthur’s bachelor apartment, on the futon mattress with him. We are both naked and the candles are guttering low. The aftershocks of my orgasm are still trembling delectably through my body. I am glowing. I feel happy and sexy and safe.

There is a worried expression on his face. His dick is soft, but he hasn’t yet removed the condom, and it looks slightly ridiculous.  “Are you ok?” he asks.

“Oh Arthur,” I say, “If you had any idea just how okay I am right now!”

I pull him down to me, kissing his salty lips, removing the spent condom from his not-entirely soft penis. I am going to fuck this guy again. And again. All. Night. Long.



  1. What an amazing journey Elsie….another great piece of writing.
    You should have advised during the writing of the Time Traveler’s Wife about the non-linear condition.
    In reading this it felt as close as a description I can find to the incredible non-linearity of masturbatory fantasies – how they dip in and out of past experiences sometimes seemingly with a will of their own.
    Parts of this had me extremely aroused and parts had me re-reading to check that what I had read was as sublime as it felt the first time around.

    • elsiewrites said

      Thank you for your sweet comment! I corrected the typo in your original comment; don’t worry, I knew what you meant! I’m glad you enjoyed the story, and that it had the intended effect.

      I should add that I definitely owe a debt of gratitude to Audrey Niffenegger as an inspiration for this piece; her novel ‘The Time Traveler’s Wife’ is a fine piece of non-one handed writing! I’m looking forward to checking out her graphic works as well…

      • Thank you for that Elsie, you know your work is as original as any on here. Not only always arousing, thought-provoking but always written so well…quite incredible.

  2. Margot said

    I was going to pick a passage to quote as an example of your creative, richly descriptive style, but I’d have to cite the whole thing. I love the structure. I love the language.

    Also: this is super, super hot.

    • elsiewrites said

      Thank you! You are going to make me blush. Compliments will get you everywhere…

  3. jrobnavet said

    Beautiful. The concept, the imagery, the execution are all right there. The last few paragraphs really made the story for me. A future glimpse of people in their not-so-different-from-now state, no sci-fi gizmos cluttering up the story, this is the type of feeling that MAKES a reader care about the characters and want more. No, not a sequel necessarily, just more Elsie.

    • elsiewrites said

      Well, thank you!

  4. Calvin said

    That was really cool! The idea of jumping from orgasm to orgasm is a very intriguing concept. Thanks for writing it!

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