Playtime: A Novel of Sexual Fantasies

By Kim Corum

"It all started with this thought: I've never had sex with anyone else but him."

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to have sex outside your relationship? If you're like Mona, you don't have to wonder. You already know.

After a hasty divorce, Mona and her ex agree to stay together while allowing each other to explore their sexuality. Soon, Mona is having the time of her life and fulfilling her sexual fantasies one by one. But things hit a snag when her ex gives her some news she'd rather not hear. Is he willing to stay the course or will Mona's playtime end sooner than expected?

Playtime is a hot and bothered account of one woman's attempt to start her own personal sexual revolution. It's about what happens when a couple, quite literally, open up to one another and give each other the permission to do what they want sexually. It is about love, marriage, divorce and sexual freedom. Please keep in mind, however, that this newly reissued edition contains adult situations and language and is intended for a mature audience.

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Tradition Books
• Release date: Apr 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781938107405

Book preview

Playtime

ALSO BY KIM CORUM

99 Martinis: Uncensored

Breaking the Girl

The Other Woman

Now She’s Gone

Eager to Please

Dead Sexy Vampire Erotica: Two Dark and Thirsty Stories

Take Your Shirt Off: A Novel of Hollywood

Cursed By Love

I Married a Vampire: A Tale of Vampire Erotica

Breathe: A Tale of Vampire Erotica

Sex Scenes Erotica Excerpts: Volumes 1 and 2

Playtime

Belle Epoch

Playtime: A Novel. Copyright © 2013 by Kim Corum.

This edition published in 2013 by Belle Epoch.

eBook ISBN–13:  978-1-938107-40-5

eBook ISBN–10:  1-938107-40-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher. For more information, email [e-mail].

First published by New Tradition Books in 2003.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

For K. You know why .

Contents

Fantasy #6: Mystery Date

Fantasy #2 and #3: Cherry Popping

Fantasy #3b: Goin’ to the Chapel

Fantasy #9: Sex with Strangers

Fantasy #4: Sex with Someone You Love

Frustration #9: D-I-V-O-R-C-E

Fantasy #61: Gay Men

Fantasy #19: Porno

Fantasy #99: Ménage à Trois

Fantasy #1007: Sex with a Genius

Fantasy #818: Sex with Your Boss

Fantasy #16: Sex with a Blind Date

Fantasy #4765: Sex with a Drunk

Fantasy #10: Sexual Healing

Fantasy #23: Everybody Have Fun Tonight

Fantasy #4: Sex with Someone You Love

Fantasy #14: Sex with the Best Friend

Fantasy #777: Role Reversal

Fantasy #56: Sex with a Younger Man

Fantasy #29: Sex with a Macho, Macho Man

Fantasy #33: Group Sex

Fantasy #91: Bi-Curious?

Fantasy #43: Sex in Public Places

Fantasy #55: Measuring Up

Fantasy #79: Penis Envy

Fantasy #11: Kiss Me, Love Me, Begin Again

Fantasy #215: Sex with a Rock Star

Fantasy #17: Kill the Bad Hairdresser

Fantasy #30: Sex with Food

Fantasy #74: Phone Sex

Fantasy #7: I Touch Myself

Fantasy #80: Disgusting Becomes a Friend (a.k.a. Toilet Paper Girl)

Fantasy #61: Just a Swingin’

Frustration #109: Southern Accents

Fantasy #31: Sex with Your Secret Crush

Fantasy #8: Let’s Stay Together

Fantasy #29: Rough Stuff

Fantasy #88: Children (a.k.a. Frustration #8)

Frustration #1: Life is Hard, Then You Die

Fantasy #46: Life Goes On

Fantasy #6: Mystery Date

Don’t.

What? I asked. Don’t what?

He stared at me from the corner of his eye. His lips were slightly pursed and wet from our last kiss, a kiss I wanted to pursue. He glanced away uncomfortably.

But we were deep into it. We were going to finish what we had started. What we had started five minutes, five days, five years, five millenniums ago. He was my tall, dark and handsome stranger and there was no way I was going to let him get away.

I stood back from him, liking the way he looked at me. That look in his eye showed the animal, the beast, the man inside of him. That look in his eye was what had brought him into this cheap hotel room that seemed set apart from the rest of the world. It was situated by a busy interstate and the sound of the passing traffic drowned out the television set.

I unhooked the clasp on the back of my dress and let it fall to the floor and stood before him in black panties and bra. Half-naked I stood and breathed in deeply, heart pounding and nerves almost frayed. I waited as his eyes grazed over me, over my almost nakedness. My bra showed the outline of my nipples, which hardened under his intense gaze. I loved the way he looked at my nipples, like he couldn’t wait to touch them, suck on them, and pleasure me. What was he waiting on?

I began to unhook my bra. He held his hand up.

Don’t, he said.

Don’t what?

Just don’t.

I turned as embarrassment stung my face. I wanted to cry, throw up. I wanted to fuck him. I wanted it so bad my stomach hurt. I picked up my dress, and then changed my mind. I turned and he must have been thinking the same thing because he came at me then, hard, fast, and furious. Our mouths found each other’s and we kissed, wide-open, tongue-throbbing, and gut-wrenching kissed. I couldn’t get enough. His mouth found my nipple. I threw my head and back and moaned. My hands were in his pants, which I wanted off so he could be inside, fucking me.

The phone rang.

I ignored it and we fell on the bed. Ahhh…bare skin… The phone kept ringing. It kept ringing. And ringing. And ringing until I couldn’t ignore it anymore and had to open my eyes.

Shit! I yelled and knocked it off the nightstand.

It wasn’t the phone. It was the alarm clock which meant it was morning. I slapped the snooze button and rolled over, trying to recapture the dream. I pulled my knees into my chest and thought about the way he had touched me, the way he knew how to touch me. The dream was all but gone. And it was time to get up.

* * * * *

It was the fantasies, I decided, that were going to do me in. They were driving me crazy, seeping into my subconscious in bright blazing colors. Colors like orange, blue, raspberry, magenta. They set me on fire, then doused me out, leaving me smoldering, wanting more, always in need.

The fantasies, I determined, were going to set me apart from the masses, set me atop a great mountain and leave me by myself. They would destroy me, the fantasies, then bring me back from the dead. But how to proceed? What to do?

Fantasy #2 and #3: Cherry Popping

We got married way too young.

Clay and I both grew up in Tennessee but didn’t meet until we were attending the same state university. We were young, broke and undecided on major. I leaned more towards the theatrics and he leaned towards the sciences.

I didn’t like the looks of him. He had longish hair, wore beer and grass stained khakis and a Ramones’ t-shirt. (Come to think of it, I did like that.) He was stoned out of his mind, slurping on a beer and smoking a menthol cigarette he’d bummed from the guy who had invited me to this little soirée, and subsequently, had been hitting on me all night. He and another similarly attired guy sat on the floor of his campus apartment and were decorating or destroying—depends on how you look at it—an old crate that was being used as a coffee table. I picked up a pen and drew a peace symbol.

Clay turned to me, frowning, and said, You want peace?

Was there any question of that?

He and the guy looked at each other and shouted, Anarchy!

What was wrong with him? I made a point to back away slowly and ignore him for the rest of the night.

The next time I saw him, he was strolling down University Lane, hands in pocket and pipe in mouth. Yes, a pipe. He strolled right past me, not a second glance. I muttered, Asshole, and hurried to my next class.

The next time was at a concert in the school auditorium. He was stoned, again, and wearing a jester’s hat. He turned towards me and I turned away, praying he wouldn’t try to talk to me. I felt him staring at me. I reluctantly turned back around.

He smiled and shouted, I knew you’d turn back around!

I focused back on the stage, at the band that was playing. Who did he think he was? And why did I keep running into him? It was like I couldn’t shake him no matter what I did.

Finally we had interaction. It was at the library, around midnight during finals. He burst into my study room and leaned on the door, breathing heavily. He scared the crap out of me. I jumped up and put my hand over my racing heart.

What the hell are you doing?! I yelled.

Shhh… he whispered, putting a finger to his lips. There’s this guy who... Anyway, it doesn’t matter.

Okay…

He and I aren’t quite seeing eye to eye on a subject, he said. He’s pretty pissed at me.

I eyed him. Okay…

It’s nothing, he said and walked towards me, hand extended, facetiously formal. I’m Clay McMartin. You’re Mona, right?

I nodded and shook his hand.

He sat down. I tried to talk to you at the concert a couple of months ago but you bolted.

How did you know my name?

You know that dick, Gus Adler?

I went out with him once, I said. Well, he invited me to a party. Not really a date.

You poor lady, he’s such an asshole. Anyway, I roomed with him last year, saw him around and asked about you…

I waited for him to continue. He didn’t. I said, So?

Oh, he said and seemed to jerk out of a daydream. Sorry, I was just thinking about something.

What? I asked.

This is the day we officially meet, he said and smiled.

I was immediately disarmed by that and couldn’t help but smile at him. He was being such a charming bastard.

Anyway, that’s it, he said and eyed my books. What ’cha studying?

I groaned, Art history.

You don’t like it much, do you?

No, I said and groaned again. It’s too hard. And I can’t remember any artists in the Romantic period.

"Oh, the Romantics are easy. There’s Jacques Louis David, Death of Socrates, my personal favorite. Then there’s Goya, you gotta remember Goya! He does all those creepy paintings. Ingres… Delacroix! He’s easy. You know he did those self-portraits that looked kinda like Jesus."

He demonstrated by cupping one hand over the other and his face lost all emotion. My mouth fell open involuntarily. From that image, I remembered the guy. Delacroix, of course!

He grinned from ear to ear and shrugged. I like art.

Did you have this class?

He shook his head. No, my roommate had it and I helped him study for the final.

I was struck with this thought, Wow, he’s so smart. And, What was that about that guy and him not seeing eye to eye?

When’s your final? he asked.

Tomorrow at noon.

Then you’ve got time.

For what? I asked.

For a beer.

If it had only ended there, at the beer part. However, we had time for a beer, some good conversation and a fuck. Unfortunately, I had been a virgin and he didn’t even notice. I pretty mortified, to say the least.

Of course, we were both pretty drunk. However, this hadn’t been how I’d imagined popping my cherry.

I failed my art final and thought I’d never see Clay again, decided it was best that I didn’t. Then it was Christmas break and time to head home for the holidays.

I was waiting for my parents on the curb with a packed suitcase when he meandered up. I didn’t see him at first, only this pretty red rose that he held high above my head. Was he expecting me to jump for it?

Fuck off, I snapped.

He dropped the rose and fingered the petals, staring at me from the corner of his eye. What’s wrong?

Look, you need to turn on your heel, buddy, and get the hell out of my face.

Why are you so pissed? he asked.

Why was I so pissed?

What did I do? he asked quietly.

What didhe do? I’d tell him. I’d set him straight, right now. "You…you!" I began. You. You, uh…you made me fail my final!

I did not.

Did too, I spat and crossed my arms. And another thing, I was a virgin, so thanks!

He stumbled back. Shit, really?

I glared at him. And what does it take for someone to call someone else after that? I mean, I didn’t expect… I stopped and glanced him over. "Uh…much, but at least a phone call would have been nice!"

You ran off without giving me your number!

I had. After the deed was done, I had jumped up and took off. But still, that didn’t excuse him. I snapped, I’m in the student directory.

Oh, he said as if he hadn’t considered that. Well, I lost mine and I forgot what dorm you were in and I didn’t even know your last name so I had to go around to all the dorms and ask if a short, beautiful girl with really cute freckles named Mona lived there and then I got sidetracked and I met up with an old buddy of mine and we went out for a few drinks and I’ve slept since then and I’m a total bastard…

I blinked. Man, he could talk faster than me.

And then time just flew by and… He trailed off and stared past me. Do your parents drive a black Ford?

I jerked around and there they were slowly pulling up the steep hill. Perfect timing. I muttered, Yeah.

He turned back to me and said, I’m sorry, I didn’t know.

How could you not know? I asked.

He just stared at me, then his face became animated. He started to say something, stopped, then, Well, geez, I didn’t know you were a virgin and, fuck, Mona, we were both really drunk.

I punched him on the arm just as my dad let down on the horn.

He rubbed his arm. What’s that for?

That’s for being an asshole, I said and punched him on his other arm. And that’s because you didn’t know I was a virgin.

He rubbed his arm and muttered, Ow. Why didn’t you tell me you’d never bumped uglies?

What’s that? I asked.

What we did!

Bumped uglies? What did that mean? I thought and thought then I thought the right thought. Ugh. It was kinda ugly. I stared at him and wondered if he had bumped uglies before. I was sure he had, but with whom and how many times?

Oh, was all I could think to say. My parents were pulling up and my mom was waving frantically, like she hadn’t seen me in a million years. I rolled my eyes, picked up my suitcase and walked away without another word.

He called after me, Mona, I’m really sorry. I didn’t know, I swear!

"What-ever," I muttered.

Hey!

What?! I yelled and turned back around.

He held the rose out to me. Don’t you want this?

* * * * *

I started the spring semester a little wiser. Clay started it a little in love, which I was totally oblivious to. I had plans and they didn’t include Clay McMartin, who had taken to showing up at places I’d be. A lot. I eventually got used to him being around and we became friends.

One day at the student center he meandered up, plopped down beside me and asked out of the clear blue sky, You’re not pregnant or anything, are you?

I turned red and threw my hands up in the air.

I’ll take that as a no, he said, then leaned forward and said in a hushed tone, "Anyway, I just