Arthur Graham

by Horror Sleaze Trash on December 18, 2012

Hailing from the north woods of Michigan, Arthur Graham currently resides in Salt Lake City, Utah, with his wife and her cat. He writes his books alone in the dark, usually nude, surrounded by empty bottles and loaded guns. His style is one that willingly loses itself in the false dichotomy between “genre” and “literary” fiction, with much of it cleaving towards satire and surrealism. His work has been called “clever,” “tacky,” and even “a bit obscene.” One reviewer was kind enough to label it “Burroughs-lite.” He occasionally writes tailor-made smut for the various whores in his life, and has been known to quote Bukowski at appropriate times, which is all the time. One day, he hopes to sell enough books to supplement his drinking habit, but not so many that he’s forced to claim the income on his taxes.

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Arthur-Graham/305337313581

The Interview

 

I met you at a book signing – petite, brunette, and flirty as hell.

How flirty, you ask? Well, aside from the obvious interest you tossed in my direction, smiling and winking at every possible opportunity, you had this special way of sitting there, halfway across the room, giving me a perfect view up your skirt. Each time we made eye contact, you blushed a little and shifted your position, crossing and uncrossing your legs at just the right angle to afford me a prolonged peek at your green satin panties.

My cock begins to stiffen beneath the hardwood table. Every once in a while, a fan gets in my way. I sign their books and wait for you to show me more.

After the autograph seekers begin to clear out, you finally make your approach. You seem nervous, yet determined.

You’re unsure of what to say upon reaching the table, though, and so you simply stand there, nibbling your lower lip and sort of half swiveling, half swaying side to side in your little black dress. I lean forward, crossing my arms on the table between us. I make my best attempt to disarm you with my smile.

“So…” I begin, my voice lowered, forcing you to lean in closer. “”Do you always show your panties to strange men like that?”

We stare into each other’s eyes over a stack of books. I’m about to lay one of my best lines on you when…

“Make me cum,” you suddenly blurt out, clamping your hand over your mouth (too late).

I’m transfixed by you. “Come again?” I ask, almost positive that I hadn’t heard you correctly.

“See, that’s just the problem,” you whisper in my ear, leaning in closer still. “I haven’t met a man who could make me cum in quite some time…”

“Well, you’re in luck,” I say, playing it cool as you gingerly finger my necktie. “I just so happen to be writing a book on that very subject.”

“And what subject is that?” you ask, eyes narrowed in mock curiosity.

“Women who can’t cum,” I say, scribbling something down on a piece of paper. “Here’s my address in town – I’d love to interview you sometime.”

***

You arrive on my doorstep at the appointed date and time. I barely recognize you standing there. You seem so… innocent in your sweater and jean skirt, and you’re wearing a thin, white hairband with low-top sneakers to match. You smell so clean and so sweet, like coconut and berries. Me, I’m shirtless, barefoot, and unshaven. I haven’t showered and I’ve been drinking since about 10am.

“I didn’t think you’d show,” I say, clearing my throat as I sweep some empties into the bin. “Have a seat while I tidy up a bit.”

You sit down the couch, resting your hands on your knees in front of you. I pretend not to notice your legs while I make the place presentable.

Coming back from the kitchen, I sit down on an old recliner across from you, cracking open a fresh beer as I settle in.

You’re still sitting there, smiling expectantly.

I take a long pull from the tall can in my hand. Suddenly I feel like a poor host.

“You want one?” I ask, gesturing to the beer as I make to get up and grab another.

You shake you head slowly, never breaking eye contact as you slowly sink down into the cushions. Pushing your luscious legs forward, knees clamped tight together, your squirm in your seat as your clean white shoes do a little dance upon the filthy carpet. You’re biting your lower lip again, like you did that day at the book signing. It seems apparent that you have yet another surprise in store.

I relax, take another pull. I find it difficult to avert my gaze from the small strip of shadow between your thighs and your skirt.

“Spread ’em,” I rasp dryly, forgoing another drink to focus on your beautiful body – a welcome addition to the otherwise drab interior of my cheap apartment. Your knees slowly part, ever so slightly as your hands dip between your legs, caressing your inner thighs in circular, rhythmic strokes. As you spread them open, you’re careful to keep your hands centered between them, obscuring my view of the glory beyond. After teasing me to the very brink of panty madness, your hands slowly slip away. And then…

…I cannot believe what I see.

“Where are they?” I demand, abruptly standing up, eyes wild with confusion.

“Where are what”? you ask coquettishly, as if you don’t know exactly what I’m talking about.

“Don’t play dumb with me, girl…” I growl, advancing with barely restrained menace. “Where the FUCK are your panties?”

You smile with mischief in your eyes, wagging a finger in my direction as you reach into the handbag beside you. Grinning as wide as ever (and blushing as deeply, as well), you hold the skimpy undergarment aloft — black lace fringed with pink lining.

Moaning softly as you rub them between your legs, I down the rest of my beer in one heroic gulp, falling to my knees to crawl before you. By this point you’ve slid about as far off the couch as possible, your naked crotch at eye level as I advance upon your writhing body. You’ve shaved just for me, I deduce, as my tongue traces the perfectly smooth contours of your outer labia, slowly dragging it from your asshole to your navel and back again, careful so as to avoid the slit of pink wetness between. You gasp as I suddenly spread your lips with my fingers, zeroing in on your clit, kissing with gentle pressure as you wrap your legs around my head to grind yourself against my face.

Coming up for air, I flip you over onto your belly with one swift twist of my muscular arms, leaving you prone with your ass in the air. You scream into the cushion as I push my cock deep inside, pausing for a moment to stir your frothing honey pot. I place one hand across the back of your head, pushing your face even deeper into the couch, muffling your increasingly high-pitched screams of ecstasy as I hump the living shit out of you, your cheeks ever reddening with each savage slap.

It isn’t long before you can’t take anymore, flailing your arms behind you in a futile attempt to stop the onslaught of pleasure. I take hold of one arm and continue to hammer away. Next you try reaching beneath me with your free hand, shielding your clit from my pendulous balls, but failing to bar a single inch of dick from your guts. When you wrap your hand around the base of my cock, I nearly reach down to tear it away, but it’s actually quite a nice sensation. Your palm grows slippery with your own pussy juice, and the rings on your fingers press tight against my shaft. Fucking your hand now as well as your cunt, I’m able to double my pleasure while reducing yours to a more bearable level.

Despite this respite, you continue to moan as though birthing a calf, the couch no longer muffling your cries. My landlady begins to bang on the ceiling. I stuff an old sock in your mouth in a vain attempt to shut you up. It doesn’t make much difference, though, and so I snatch your panties from the floor beside us, wrapping them around your neck to garrote you from behind. Your face grows hot and congested as I pull them tighter, and you feel yourself going weak in the knees. As your oxygen is slowly cut off, the pressure continues to build in you head as well as your loins. It all goes black as you cum harder than you’ve ever came before, coating me in your latent creamy essence as you lose consciousness upon my spurting prick.

***

I return from the kitchen with two beers, a fifth of whiskey under one arm. You’re still lying on the couch, naked from the waist down and gasping for air. I sit down beside your and stroke you burning head. Your panties are still twisted around your neck. I unwind them and tuck them into my pants pocket.

“Whenever you’re ready to start that interview…” I grunt, unscrewing the cap from the bottle.

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