I promise not to get weirded out if I see smut

Originally I wasn't going to put anything up, but it seemed almost twisted not to pay off the poor bastards who dealt with the silly decision tree.

This half-assed sex scene is from a work-in-progress, and the protagonist gets killed later in the work. Such is the penalty for immoral acts, not to mention eternal damnation in hell! Be warned! I present this information only to help you avoid the same scourge of sin in your own black heart!

Yes - pussy ground into my face, to be on the bed with the woman above me and I have my hands on her hips and I am pulling her in closer and my tongue is thrusting up - my tongue is huge, bigger than my mouth, and it is burned by the brush of her lower pubis and finally she stops trying to lift off of me and pushes down hard, shoves herself into me and I can taste her through the burn, and she grinds and grinds as if to drive me through the bed through the floor down to the dug-out Manhattan ground, through the basement.

She has forgotten that I am anything but a machine a way for her to get what she needs, and she goes away - but she goes away where I can see her, and I smell her, and there she is. My cock is absolutely as hard as some sort of rocket ready to launch but she has forgotten it, and me, and again the grinding hard.

I gently stroke the side of her hips. The tension is there, rising and falling, the muscles, and there's no language for all of it, and I know that it can't last, this moment of serving without fear. I reach around to grab the sides of her ass, soft and full, the bottom of it bumping my chin. The roughness of the pubic hair, the gentle slide of the cunt riding from my nose to my chin, and there she goes. There she goes.

She is shaking, she is riding and pushing, and now she is gasping and now she is going to cum. She is going to cum. She is going to cum. I arch my whole body, penis shaking in the cold air, and push my head against her weight, 130, 140 lbs and I am full, I am getting my fill. She is going to cum. I begin to murmur in my low voice and let the sound shiver through her, let it vibrate and she makes a begging noice and I grip her ass with both hands and pull her onto me; she shaking and twisting. I push out my tongue as far as it can go and move it hard, my face riding up and down inside of her, my chin pressing between the cheeks of her ass, and start to murmur harder, to almost cry out into her, then finally I feel it around me, the whole of her pelvis contracting and pulling towards me, and she gives a tiny cry and grabs my hair and she moves her whole body in motions and motions.

She comes back to me then, halfway through the orgasm, still above me and drifting back to earth. And when she is done, when she is back down, she pulls away. She lifts her knee from the side of my face and shifts by me, touches my chest in silence, puts her head against my soft shoulder and kisses it gently, leaves her lips on me absently. I say farewell to what was there and she falls asleep at my side, her breath on me. When she is quiet I turn away and slowly move my hand, gripping my cock, until I cum silently into her sheets, my breathing never changing. I turn back to her, and she turns back to me and we fall asleep that way, our breathing slightly out of sync.




Ftrain.com is the website of Paul Ford and his pseudonyms. It is showing its age. I'm rewriting the code but it's taking some time.


There is a Facebook group.


You will regret following me on Twitter here.


Enter your email address:

A TinyLetter Email Newsletter

About the author: I've been running this website from 1997. For a living I write stories and essays, program computers, edit things, and help people launch online publications. (LinkedIn). I wrote a novel. I was an editor at Harper's Magazine for five years; then I was a Contributing Editor; now I am a free agent. I was also on NPR's All Things Considered for a while. I still write for The Morning News, and some other places.

If you have any questions for me, I am very accessible by email. You can email me at ford@ftrain.com and ask me things and I will try to answer. Especially if you want to clarify something or write something critical. I am glad to clarify things so that you can disagree more effectively.


Syndicate: RSS1.0, RSS2.0
Links: RSS1.0, RSS2.0


© 1974-2011 Paul Ford


@20, by Paul Ford. Not any kind of eulogy, thanks. And no header image, either. (October 15)

Recent Offsite Work: Code and Prose. As a hobby I write. (January 14)

Rotary Dial. (August 21)

10 Timeframes. (June 20)

Facebook and Instagram: When Your Favorite App Sells Out. (April 10)

Why I Am Leaving the People of the Red Valley. (April 7)

Welcome to the Company. (September 21)

“Facebook and the Epiphanator: An End to Endings?”. Forgot to tell you about this. (July 20)

“The Age of Mechanical Reproduction”. An essay for TheMorningNews.org. (July 11)

Woods+. People call me a lot and say: What is this new thing? You're a nerd. Explain it immediately. (July 10)

Reading Tonight. Reading! (May 25)

Recorded Entertainment #2, by Paul Ford. (May 18)

Recorded Entertainment #1, by Paul Ford. (May 17)

Nanolaw with Daughter. Why privacy mattered. (May 16)

0h30m w/Photoshop, by Paul Ford. It's immediately clear to me now that I'm writing again that I need to come up with some new forms in order to have fun here—so that I can get a rhythm and know what I'm doing. One thing that works for me are time limits; pencils up, pencils down. So: Fridays, write for 30 minutes; edit for 20 minutes max; and go whip up some images if necessary, like the big crappy hand below that's all meaningful and evocative because it's retro and zoomed-in. Post it, and leave it alone. Can I do that every Friday? Yes! Will I? Maybe! But I crave that simple continuity. For today, for absolutely no reason other than that it came unbidden into my brain, the subject will be Photoshop. (Do we have a process? We have a process. It is 11:39 and...) (May 13)

That Shaggy Feeling. Soon, orphans. (May 12)

Antilunchism, by Paul Ford. Snack trams. (May 11)

Tickler File Forever, by Paul Ford. I'll have no one to blame but future me. (May 10)

Time's Inverted Index, by Paul Ford. (1) When robots write history we can get in trouble with our past selves. (2) Search-generated, "false" chrestomathies and the historical fallacy. (May 9)

Bantha Tracks. (May 5)

Tables of Contents