August MacGregor

Celebrating Sensuality. Intended for mature audiences, 18 and over


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Two Tree Branches

Inspired by fellow author Nicci Haydon, I tried writing a story of four sentences. It’s a good challenge, one that I enjoyed as I took a break from editing a novel. Quite a shift in speed to come up with a story in a limited amount of space…

Two Tree Branches

Travis thought of Denise from accounting as aloof until, at the office happy hour, they both complained about the soulless song playing in the background at the bar, behind their co-workers’ chatting. They launched into a tipsy conversation about U2 — with Denise firmly resolved that their finest album was The Joshua Tree, and Travis arguing the band hit more powerfully with War. They finally agreed to disagree and played three rounds of darts, all of which Denise won, then they called it a night — going their separate ways in Uber rides. The next Friday night, after dinner at a Thai restaurant then going to Denise’s apartment, they first kissed as “With or Without You” started, and Travis knew he wanted to draw out much more from Denise — but at a slower pace than he was used to.

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Happy with a Banana

gorilla in store, by Ian Broyles (Flickr, Creative Commons)

Ian Broyles (Flickr, Creative Commons)

The store is filled with sodas and rice and noodles in all kinds of shapes and loads of packaged foods with additives you can’t even pronounce, let alone know what they hell they actually are.

Forget all that. Give him fruit. Give him bright oranges and juicy pineapples and mangoes with colors of blending red-yellow-green that’re so beautiful you’re captivated by the look of them, and then, when you actually eat a bite, you fall to the floor in astonishment, and you have to eat the rest of the mango down there — because you dare not try to eat it while standing on trembling, unsteady legs.

But let’s skip that for today. Today, he’ll just have a banana, thank you very much. He’ll sit on the floor and peel away the yellow gift wrapping and smile because he’s happy.

*****

The photo above is used under the non-commercial Creative Commons license. Click on image to jump to photographer’s Flickr page.


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Don’t Talk to Me About Love

“Don’t talk to me about love,” she said to him. “You don’t know love. You’re too young. What you think you know about love is actually what you’ve taken from the movies. And those are full of pink roses and froth. Those are falling in love with what you think is the ideal man or woman.”

She continued: “And that’s not love. That’s fantasy. Because love — real love — is more than that. Love is more than the image you have of someone. It’s not just a pretty picture. It’s not just thinking you know someone based on their texts or their tweets or their blog or their profile on some dating website.

“Love is getting to know that person far beyond that surface stuff. Seeing them every day. Seeing them in hard times that are so difficult you want to cry and scream and rage out. And you do those things to let those crazy emotions out. Love is staying through that chaos and staying there afterward. Love is sometimes being pissed off at the other person so badly you want to slap the shit out of them, but you don’t. Love is saying you’re sorry and actually meaning it. And doing things to make up for the stupid mistakes we’re all capable of.

“Love is seeing the ugly shit underneath the pretty surface. Love is dealing with your disappointments when someone doesn’t live up to your unrealistic expectations of them. Love is seeing the other person for who they really are.

“That takes days and days, years and years. Because we clean up ourselves when we go out on dates. We stick to sparkling conversation that tries to show our intelligence and our humor and our charm. We try to make the other person think we’re glowing good souls, when a lot of our selves are petty and selfish and lazy about the things we really don’t care about.

“So don’t jump off and tell me you love me when you haven’t seen me in all that. You love our dating. You love our sex. You love the charm. But you don’t fully, truly love me.

He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes thoughtful as he took all of that in.

Finally, he said, “Then let me find out about love. I want to find out with you.”

Another moment, a longer one than before. “You better be as strong as you think you are.”

“I am.”


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Under the Table

Renee knew that her boyfriend, James, didn’t want to be there. Going to a dinner to celebrate her friend’s wedding engagement wasn’t his idea of a great time. Renee knew he would’ve rather been sitting at the bar with some other guys and watching the basketball game on TV.

But he wasn’t. He was sucking it up and being with her. He was doing what they called boyfriend duty. Something that he wasn’t wild about, but doing it because he loved her.

There were times she dealt with his love of watching sports on TV, when she would’ve rather watched something else. Girlfriend duty. Once, on a long road trip, she had unzipped him and said, “Time to do girlfriend duty,” and had given him head as he drove on the highway. Afterward, she said with a grin, “Just kidding. That’s not duty at all. You know I like doing that.” Which made him melt even more.

So it went both ways, times when each put in a duty for something they’d rather not do. Compromising.

At the restaurant, Renee laughed at something that someone said about the honeymoon. Their group had sixteen people sitting at a long table, with everyone eating and laughing and drinking to celebrate the engagement of the lovely couple.

Renee placed her left hand on James’s thigh that was closer to her. Her hand slid upward, toward his groin. Cupped his groin. Slowly massaged him. The handle of his fork tinged against his plate. He cleared his throat and took a long drink of wine.

“Are you okay?” Jenny, who was sitting across from James, asked. A mischievous smile grew on her face as she added, “You’re not getting nervous from the pressure, are you?”

Renee’s hand kept massaging his growing, hardening arousal.

“What pressure?” James asked, his voice catching.

“About getting engaged,” Jenny replied. “You and Renee have been dating for a long time, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, but –”

Renee jumped in: “Oh, there’s no pressure at all. We’re too busy enjoying each other now. There’ll be time to talk about that later.”

Melissa was sitting on the other side of James, and movement in his lap caught the corner of her eye. She saw Renee’s hand down there, covered with James’s white napkin, as it fondled him.

Melissa raised her glass of wine and said, “And here’s to enjoying each other. Married or not married.”

“I’ll drink to that,” came from eager people from around the table.

“I’ll definitely drink to that,” James said and kissed his girlfriend after taking a drink.


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Butt Dialed

No verbal answer came to Pamela’s “Hi hon, what’s up?” Instead, she was answered by the sound of clothing shuffling.

He butt-dialed me again, she thought. What is it about his phone?

She knew it was her husband, due to the caller ID showing up on her smartphone.

“Mitchell!” she said. “Pick up your phone!”

After more shuffling, the unmistakable sound of his zipper. Mitchell kept his cellphone in his right front pocket, so it was close enough to the zipper to pick up the noise it made. Either him zipping up or zipping down.

“Mitchell!”

“Mmm. What’s in here?”

Pamela froze. The female voice coming out of her cellphone didn’t have a name or face attached to it in her memory. It was simply a voice from somewhere out there. Somewhere where Pamela’s husband was. Unless he loaned his phone to someone else.

Which was so highly improbable, it edged to impossible.

“Happy to see me?” the woman asked.

More shuffling, then “Always am.” Mitchell this time. Most certainly Mitchell.

Oh my God. No. No. No.

“Mitchell!” Pamela yelled. “Mitchell, pick up the fucking phone!”

Shuffling, then a thump. At first, Pamela thought the call was disconnected — but then there were other sounds. Muffled talking that she couldn’t make out.

She pictured the scene. Zipper down. A woman’s hands down Mitchell’s boxers. His pants being pushed down his legs, then punted off. Had to be. The phone was still on, but it wasn’t close to the action any more.

Action? Yes, this was action, and the muffled sounds of it came through. Sounds of moaning. Sounds of pleasure. Sounds of sex.

The very short conversation echoed in Pamela’s brain: Happy to see me? Always am. Always am.

How long is always?

“Fuck you Mitchell!” she screamed, threw the phone to the kitchen counter, and burst into tears.

At some point in her sobbing, she realized that she hadn’t tapped the red button to the end the call. Before she tapped the button, she screamed out another “Fuck you!” Which felt a little good to do, but she knew that after he returned home, screaming that to his face was going to feel even better. To see him realize he’d been caught.


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Tumbling, Tumbling

steep steps, by byronv2 (Flickr, Creative Commons)

byronv2 (Flickr, Creative Commons)

Stupid bastard never saw it coming.

Simply did as he did every evening: paused at the top of the stairs to grab the handrail and get his bearings.

Told me once that he used to have severe fear of heights, but this set of stairs helped cure him of that. No, he had said, not cure. Not really. Not fully. Because there was still the trepidation he felt at the top of those stairs.

That’s right, he used the word “trepidation.” Moron tried to impress me with words like that. Make him seem all sophisticated. As if he were more than a merchant. As if he really deserved more out of life, perhaps some cushy city job where he simply had to wave his hand and the staff of his department would leap into action.

But no. That hadn’t happened. And he made it seem that forces completely out of his control had acted against him, where he landed as a merchant instead of that cushy job.

Don’t make me laugh. His bullshit like “trepidation” couldn’t fool me.

Nor when he said he used those steep stairs because he didn’t want to navigate the long way around to home and add ten minutes to his walk.

Yeah, you heard right. He actually used the word “navigate.” Blustery bastard. All he had to say was he walked. But no, he had to puff it up.

Never could square with the fact that he was just one of us. A merchant. Might as well square with your lot in life.

Too late for him, though. With him tumbling, tumbling down his precious shortcut that helped him deal with his severe fear of heights.

Should’ve listened more to that trepidation. Maybe it would’ve signaled my hands on your back shoving you as hard as I could.

And now, I’ll get his customers. Expand my lot in life a little bit.

*****

The photo above is used under the non-commercial Creative Commons license. Click on image to jump to photographer’s Flickr page.


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Put This On

Put this on. Touch yourself while you think of the sexiest thing you can imagine. When I get home, show me.

The note was on top of a box that was on top of their bed.

Naomi slid the box lid up, and her eyes opened a little wider when she saw the deep crimson lingerie. It felt very sexy when she put on the lingerie and looked at herself in the bedroom’s full-length mirror.

Brandon had bought her lingerie before, so he knew her size. And it was sexier to Naomi that he had picked out this particular piece, that it had aroused him in the store and he imagined it on her.

She now imagined wearing this while standing on a balcony in an old, posh hotel. The warm evening wind smelled of jasmine. Downstairs, the party in the enormous ballroom was still going on, with snippets of conversation and laughter drifting up to her. People were still down there, dancing and drinking and having a grand time.

Brandon entered their hotel room with a bottle of Champagne and two tall glasses. He’d gone back downstairs to get the bubbly while she had undressed. “Room service would take forever,” he had said.

The glass door to the balcony was open, to let the jasmine wind inside. Brandon, wearing his tux, appeared in the doorway, and Naomi drank in the sight of him as he drank in the sight of her.

Without saying a word, Brandon shook the bottle a few times, then pushed against the cork with his thumb. Pop! The cork flew off the balcony to the hotel’s lush grounds. Giggling, Naomi grabbed the neck of the bottle, the Champagne froth rushing out, and she drank directly from the bottle, as some of the froth spilled onto her chin and chest.

Brandon grinned, approving. He leaned down and licked the spilled Champagne on her skin, then took the offered bottle and had a drink. He held onto the bottle as he kissed her lips. Kissed her hard, his passion intense.

Later, in real life, Brandon came home without Champagne. Naomi waited for him in the living room, sipping white wine — as there was no Champagne in the house.

Instead of a tux, he wore a dark gray suit, and she still drank in the sight of him. She rose and walked slowly to him, loving the warmth of him and feeling of the cloth against her skin as they kissed for a wonderfully long time.

Then his lips touched her ear, and he whispered, “Now show me.”