photo: Esquire, Jonnie Miles via Getty Images
Check out the 79-word story I wrote for Esquire’s short fiction contest. The story didn’t make their cut. Do you think it should have?
He makes me climax. Like no one else. He runs his tongue along the edge of my areolas, and plucks my nipples with his deft fingers, biting at them when they turn hard like erasers. He’s methodical. Like a scientist should be. And has provided dissertations on how third cousins share barely any genetic material. But I can’t think straight enough around him to worry the family might suspect. My sacrum perspires, my hips burn for another forceful touch.