PotErotica Series

Two decades after college, their marriage was passionate, satisfying. Then a weed-thin teen, tall and pretty, moves into their spare room - his man cave - cutting off access to his marijuana stash and tempting him with progressively more revealing outfits and behavior. When her voluptuous and flirtatious mother shows up, desire, temptation and opportunities multiply. Welcome to PotErotica. ~~~~~ PG Excerpt ~~~~~ "Good morning." I almost dropped the square paper container of General Tsao’s as I jumped. By the light of the open refrigerator, I could see Weed standing with a half-smile, leaning against the doorway. The thin sleepshirt covered our young houseguest to near mid-thigh, which still left a mile of tan, slim legs. Her pretty face was scrunched up, squinting against the light. She sounded groggy. The microwave clock said 2:08 AM. Morning indeed. She shuffled across the vinyl floor and wrapped her arms around me in a hug. Her body was relaxed, almost collapsing against me, still sleepy. My wife was petite, slender, but my arms seemed to reach almost twice as far around Weed's taller, skinnier frame. "You smell like sex." She was my height or a hair taller, so my face buried against her neck as she leaned into me. She smelled like pot. Weed. My pot. Mixed with a sweet, girly musk. I had no idea how to respond to her observation. "Damn. You really smell like sex." She drew a slow sniffing breath along my jaw, repeating the exact words, stretching them out with more deliberate emphasis. I shivered. It felt electric. Her pixie nose dragged up to the corner of my mouth, still tracing the scent. Her mouth was close to mine, the sweet, pouty lips I had fantasized about so many times recently. Fantasized about those lips kissing mine, about the suggestion of them sealing around the end of my glass pipe. The tip of her tongue flicked out, sampled the skin near the corner where my lips joined, where she had last sniffed. I held myself motionless. "Yes." She whispered, lips vibrating against my skin. "nothing else tastes quite like that." I moaned. Not much more than a whine. Weed leaned in, her thighs and stomach hard on mine. My arms responded without permission, wrapping even further around her. Lips kissed, tasted along my jaw, feather light, weighty with promise. "Mmm. Nice and fresh." She pushed her tiny hips in harder, found my swelling shape. "I always wondered how Aunt Carrie tasted. I wanna ‘nother sample." Her body dragged lower against me until her slim form slipped below my arms. Dropping to her knees, she leaned close, mouth open. Air hissed in between my teeth at the feeling of heat that reached me through the light flannel my pajama pants. The refrigerator cast light over one side of Weed's face, showing the concentration there as she fished a hand through the open fly and pulled me free. She cradled me in delicate, long palms and fingers, allowing hot breath out between her lips, millimeters away. Then her tongue was on me as her big eyes came up to find mine. I knew what she must be tasting, after so recently feeling Carrie moving under me, while I pictured instead this slender waif in her place. "Mmmm."

Welcome to PotErotica, where marijuana and sexuality combine in intelligent erotica intended to entertain as well as arouse. Summer heat, a power outage, and a misunderstanding bring together a fit young couple who have long yearned for each other. Clever teasing and word play, a plaid skirt, melted ice on sweaty flesh, and a very personal tattoo all weave their sexy spell. ~~~~~ PG Excerpt ~~~~~ Turning the corner a block from his new apartment, the images of Trixie and her slick-with-sweat, trim and tempting post-workout body, her bright smile and addictive laugh were all temporarily chased from his mind, by curiosity and a sudden rush of boy-sees-girl reflexive hormones. His attention locked in on a very different distraction, though still obviously trim, fit and feminine. One with shiny jet-black hair, bangs cut in a severe line. She half sat, half leaned against one of the two short squat brick pillars marking his home, her bare legs stretching out from beneath pleats of red plaid. With her weight leaned back on her arms, a wide swath of tan midriff showed, flat except for the shallow shadows hinting at rippled muscles below. Multicolored ink formed a swirl of Koi-ed colors trailing down one arm, a sharp contrast to the skirt and the crisp white button down shirt, tied high at her solar plexus. A matching plaid tie, much too small to be businesswear, and bright white sneakers over lace-topped short socks completed the look. In the time it took him to cover the block, he saw two different men, plus a small boy holding his mother's hand, turn to gape at her as they passed. One of the men, the younger, paused and said something to her. Her reply was curt, without the slightest movement, and he stomped off, shaking his head. Drawing close, she looked away from his direction, showing him her body’s profile. He could see the slightest curve of a small breast under the white cotton. His eyes dropped, pulled to the silent invitation of the shadows that gathered at the contour of each lean hip where the low-slinging skirt began and smooth belly disappeared. He thought of beads of sweat tracing down from a redhead’s tanned navel, years ago. Just before he stepped past her to turn up his stairs, glossy black bangs swung out as her face turned to him, blue eyes bright and amused. Eyes that caught his rising too late from their gawking. Wide lips opened into a bright, broad metal-less smile. "Well, hi there. Right on time." He stumbled, both his feet and tongue. "T...Trix?!" "No. I am not trying to turn tricks." She sent the wig's fine hairs splaying out in a neat wedge when she shook her head. Her upper lip pulled higher, toward one nostril. "Yuck. How do girls put up with the jerks out here? I will never wear this skirt again. In public." Turning tricks? His thoughts tried to adjust to her surprise presence, and her comment. 'In public?' Like she might wear the skirt again in private? "Are you going to invite me in?" Bright upturned eyes flitted between his own, searching for an answer there, showing doubt, needing reassurance. "I'm tired of the leers. And it’s way too hot." "Of course. Sorry. I was distracted. Come on up.” She looked over at him as he held the door for her, near anger. "What gives them the right to assume I'm a prostitute?" She continued before he could muster an answer. "They prolly wonder what I'm costing you right now. And giving you. But look at this skirt. I might not be a call girl at all." She stood, hands flaring out plaid pleats. It showed him more bare leg, calling his eyes back to where the low-slung waist only accentuated her lean, lovely stomach. "Right?" His thoughts had time to catch up, somewhat. He had no idea what exactly he was agreeing to. "Absolutely." "Yeah. I could be a... a student, visiting her teacher to maybe earn some extra credit, raise my grade."

It’s Valentine’s Day, but this Valentine is lonely and horny and wondering how that will ever change for him. Then he opens a door to unexpected ecstasy involving two beauties and the fulfilment of a deep longing tied to his past. With a little help from a glass pipe of weed, how much ecstatic delight can three caring, creative people share? ~~~~~ PG Excerpt ~~~~~ Max guided me along one side of Ingrid and she snuggled close on the other. We eased tangled hair back from her face, offered light kisses and strokes as heart rate and breaths slowed once more. "How?" Ingrid's voice was faint. "How what, sweetness?" Max asked. "How did you know?" "Know what?" "How did you know...there was more...in there?" "You weren't a complete quivering mass of jelly on the floor. Yet." Max looked at me. I had the impression they had asked and answered similar questions in the past. "Though just cuz she's a puddle of jelly doesn't mean there isn't another little bitty one hiding deep inside still. Isn't that right?" "Max! Shh." "Is that right?" I joined in, leaned close to sniff bright, soft, intoxicating hair. "Could there really be more? Down here?" On all fours, I kissed down to her belly, after making a point to hover over her chest without touching there. It had had enough attention for now. Her ribcage rose, reaching for the contact at didn’t arrive. I moved a knee between her legs, nudging them wider, to kiss lower, above the darker red patch of hair. Smooth, toned belly shuddered, but Ingy didn't make a sound. The shuddering increased when I pushed her legs wider, both knees between hers to keep her that way. I eased lower, knees encouraging her smooth calves and ankles wide. Lowering my head, I sighted up along the landscape of her body. Nearest me, the narrow cleft that divided her thighs and unified so many urges. The reddish Royal forest, manicured and planned, before the nearly-flat, gloriously subtle undulations of her central plains, the belly I had just kissed. After a long stretch of the plains, punctuated only by the shadows of a single oval depression, they rose to the ridge of her ribcage, where a central shallow dip betrayed her rapid pulse. The ridge separated the plains from two of the region's most sacred locales: the puffed peaks that rose out of the soft flesh of her chest. Leaning back like this, gravity held down and stretched flat all signs of her except these glorious raised rosy twins. Rose-brown, they rose and descended with her breaths, the pace increasing as I watched. Crouched low to sight along her body, I watched my own hand, palm down, settle between her navel and the red hair below. "I think I feel it. Right here." Even though I was playing the game, teasing Ingrid, I thought I might sense a kind of vibration through the palm of my hand. She looked down at me, shaking her head hard enough to send red-blond hair wide. "No. There is nothing in there." Maxie laughed, stepping close again. When I had begun to tease Ingrid, Max had clambered up to her feet, moving to my table. "Pay no attention to the little man behind the curtain. Or his boat. Methinks the girl protests too much. Keep your hand right where it is."

The studious IT specialist and his new boss’s curvy, headstrong daughter have very different reasons for avoiding the boisterous college-town Halloween revelry this year. In spite of themselves, the holiday brings them closer together than either could dream. Aided by a skimpy kitty costume with a most erotically-attached tail, and fueled by a fat joint of weed, the two explore a shared attraction that is both heightened and hindered by past sexual explorations and a series of embarrassing revelations. Together they will discover mutual trust, ecstasy beyond any they have known before, and, ultimately, a passionate intimacy that lasts for years. ~~~~~ PG Excerpt ~~~~~ The thin sounds of music were louder, seeming to come from below. Rob looked down over the balcony, into the bare, grassless fenced yard. He pulled his head back immediately, stunned. Heart beating rapidly, he took a breath before risking a second quick glimpse. A single chaise lounge was below him. The music came from a single little speaker on the small table beside the lounge. The table also held a glass with the orangish ice left over from a vodka screwdriver, a disposable lighter and what Rob thought must be the small roach left after smoking a joint of the weed he had sniffed in the kitchen. What had stunned him was what, or who, was on the lounge. It had to be Sara. The red-blond hair, and lush young body in a bikini, bathing in a patch of mountain sun, brought back memories of the Martins' daughter three years ago, in a form-fitting dress at his brother Brian's wedding. It recalled the warm extended hug she had given Rob - 'My favorite swim coach!' - accompanied by a bright, genuinely delighted smile. Fortunately, now, her eyes were squeezed shut. The tension on her lovely face, the rigid arch to her torso, were explained by the two hands shoved down inside her bikini bottoms. Bare, extended arms squeezed together and displayed twin halves of a full, rounded chest. Rob thought he saw a slight shudder to the soft flesh. He pulled back from the balcony and snuck inside, short of breath and suddenly aware of the stiffened response in his cargo shorts. His mind raced with images, thoughts, urges. He needed something to focus on. An anchor. Something. Anything. His mind kept returning to the slight, perhaps imagined, jiggles of those mounds, barely held by the twin triangles of a bikini, pushed high and together by two straining arms. He grinned, his breath and heart slowing. He had been right: unlike her slim mother, Sara would definitely be beyond appropriate community standards going outside without a bra like her mother used to. He was right again: it was silly, and petty, but it gave him the anchor he needed. Control regained, he wondered at the strength of his reaction. He had been single for too long. IT as a profession and as an education had not brought him in contact with too many lovely ladies recently. Being reserved in nature, Rob hadn't found the big city of Boston fertile ground. Back in Chico, with many of his peers married now, Rob worried about never finding the 'right' one.