"Elakala Waterfalls Swirling Pool" (photo by ForestWander Nature Photography)

A young couple was coming to the waterfall through the forest. They had been there many times before. They knew where to go and what to do. They found their customary place sheltered by bushes and trees, took off their clothes, piled them neatly on a rock out of reach of the tumbling water. Taking a bar of soap from their carrying bag, they made their way through the bushes and over the rocks and walked to their secret place behind the waterfall, balancing themselves against the rocky cliff.

An old man was shuffling around the pool, a Great Dane on either side of him, as if guarding him, guiding him. He crossed the old wooden bridge where the pool turned into a river again. When he arrived on the other side, he climbed up on the rocks and slowly walked into the forest, the two dogs flanking him faithfully, attentively. Neither of them made a sound, nor did the old man find it necessary to talk to them. They, too, had come here many times before and knew where to go and what to do. They, too, belonged, to the forest and to each other.

Further downstream, out of sight of the young couple and the old man, a fisherman was standing on the riverbank with his fishing rod, not catching anything. He didn’t mind. He loved the river; he loved the solitude. Although he would have liked to be able to cook some fresh fish for his supper, he just kept dangling his line in the water and didn’t worry about expectations. He was used to it. He had come to the river many times before. Sometimes he caught something, sometimes he didn’t. It didn’t make much of a difference to him, as long as it was a perfect day for being quiet and thinking lazy thoughts. He loved being by himself by the river and thinking lazy thoughts. Beautiful afternoons were made for that.

A short distance further downstream, a woman was sitting naked on a flat rock in the middle of the river. She had never been there before, at least not as far as he knew. He took her presence as a kind of an intrusion into his solitude, but since she seemed to be very beautiful, he didn’t mind that, either. From where he stood on the riverbank, he could only see her back, her long blond hair falling down to her shoulders, the hint of a full breast. He fantasized about what she looked liked from the front, about how she would come out of the water, how they would tumble into the soft grass together. But she didn’t move, didn’t even turn to look at him, so single-minded was her contemplation of the river parting behind her, reuniting below her, flowing on.

The young couple picked their way carefully along the narrow path between the rock face and the waterfall until they were completely surrounded by water and soaking wet from the spray. They laughed gleefully. They loved being behind the waterfall where they were all alone. The water was coming down in front of them, running down the cliff behind them, dripping from the rocks on either side of them. They took the bar of soap and began to lather each other with the cool water, laughing and teasing each other, then getting serious with the lathering.

He rubbed her breasts diligently and fervently until they were completely covered with suds, her pink nipples strutting proudly from her breasts.

He rubbed her breasts diligently and fervently until they were completely covered with suds, her pink nipples strutting proudly from her breasts. She sighed contentedly. She took his penis into her hands and rubbed it with the soap, pulling his foreskin back and soaping the pink head, reaching down to his balls and lathering them with great relish and at great length. He groaned with pleasure. After a while, he reclaimed the soap and reached down between her legs, soaping her pussy and rubbing the soap into her crevices and into her opening. She moaned deeply, voicing her absolute delight with his attentive treatment.

When they were both covered in soap, they put their arms around each other and rubbed their slick, slippery bodies together, laughing and moaning from the pleasure they derived from each other’s soapy skin. The young woman flung her arms around his neck, put one leg up over his hip, and hoisted herself up until she could lift her other leg up over his other hip. He put his hands under her buttocks to provide her with the necessary support and she lowered herself to impale herself on him. They groaned when he penetrated her, his soaking penis sliding effortlessly into her soaking vagina. She started bobbing up and down, much to their mutual delight, and he squeezed her buttocks to add to her pleasure.

It felt as if they were doing this for the first time, even though they had been there many times before. Some things tended to feel that way, every time as good as the first, as exciting as the last. Theirs was no exception. They were ecstatic with the way their afternoon progressed, with the pleasure they derived from each other behind the thundering waterfall.

The old man with the two Great Danes circled through the forest until he came to the other end of the waterfall. Telling his dogs to stay among the trees, he carefully picked his way down over the rocks in search of some berries until he was right next to the waterfall. To his considerable surprise, he could clearly see the two young people engaged in their act of sexual union behind the watery curtain. Although he had come to the waterfall many times before, he had never realized that there were two lovers hiding behind it. He was thrilled. It was such an idyllic yet also such an utterly sensuous and intriguing view he couldn’t take his eyes off them. He simply kept standing there, watching them. The longer he watched the two and listened to their moaning and groaning as they raised each other closer and closer to their orgasms, the younger he became, the younger he felt.

Downstream, the fisherman was getting tired of standing on the riverbank and not catching anything. He thought of packing up and going home, but he was getting increasingly more curious about the naked woman out on the rock. He wondered what she might say if he joined her in the water. His hormones racing wildly through his body by then, he decided to throw caution to the wind. He quickly took off his clothes, waded out into the river, and circled the rock. The woman was indeed very beautiful, light and airy, almost watery, otherworldly in a spellbinding and sensuous way. She seemed to be part of the rock, part of the river, and he an intruder in her own private world. But she smiled encouragingly and readily spread her legs.

"full relax" (photo by Flickr user flavio.leone)

He stepped up to the rock between her legs and took her breasts into his hands. They were full and firm, a perfect fit. She moaned, balanced herself on the rock with her arms. Then she arched her back, and threw her head back until her face was lifted up to the sun. Emboldened, the fisherman slid his penis into her proffered vagina and started thrusting into her. She moaned again, yet she never moved nor spoke a single word, just moaned with obvious pleasure.

All around them, the fish he had been trying to catch all day were leaping out of the water, as if mocking him, if fish were capable of such an emotion. Life can be like that; the great ironies of living in cycles. Being in a river downstream from a tumbling waterfall and a pool has been known to make things simpler and easier, but it didn’t. The afternoon was simply gliding along its path.

The more the fisherman thrust, the older he became, the older he felt. She seemed insatiable. With his last ounce of energy, he bore down on her and gushed into her, groaning with the culminating effort and the delicious release. He couldn’t tell if she had an orgasm of her own, and she still didn’t say anything. When he withdrew from her, she simply bent forward and kissed him lightly on his lips. He took that as a sign that their encounter was over. He limped back to the shore, picked up his clothes and his fishing gear, and melted into the forest. The trees and the bushes closed in around him, the forest getting darker as the afternoon wore on. Out on her rock, the woman shuddered through a series of intensely pleasurable orgasms of her own.

Behind the waterfall, the young couple was in the throes of their orgasms as well. The old man detached himself from his voyeuristic vantage point, climbed back up over the rocks, and called his dogs. They flanked him obediently as he walked back out of the forest, charging in among the trees once and barking as if they were chasing something. Then they were at his sides again, protecting him. He walked around the pool with a new lightness in his step, a new smile on his face, then vanished in the dimming light of the forest on the other side.

The young couple stepped through the waterfall and jumped into the pool. They swam around for a while, grabbing at each other, pretending to push each other under water, enjoying their time in the refreshing water, reveling in their youthful exuberance. They weren’t aware of anything around them. They were much too involved with themselves and with each other, he with her breasts bobbing lustily in the water, she with his penis getting bigger again, he with her still-moist pussy. As was their right. They were too young to be concerned.

They swam to the other end of the pool where the water was shallow and calm and the bottom sandy and soft. There they fused themselves to each other again, half their bodies lying in the water, half on the sun-warmed sand. The old man wasn’t watching anymore. The fisherman didn’t know they were there. The woman on the rock had her own life to live. The couple stayed in the pool, filling themselves with each other, fulfilling their destiny as they needed to and were supposed to.

The sun was slowly disappearing behind the tops of the trees, nearing the end of another journey. An eagle circling overhead. Somewhere a sign: “You are here.” An arrow, pointing. Markers for the mystic quest.

The woman sitting on the rock in the middle of the river slowly detached herself from her resting place and let herself glide into the gently rolling water. She was smiling cryptically to herself, knowing she had to fulfill her own calling, prepared to find her own way. The slow current took her up like an old friend and she floated leisurely downstream to where the river opened up into a calm lake. She swam a few strokes from the river mouth out into the lake. Then she dissolved in the water, a wave on the quiet surface of the lake. The haunting call of a loon.

–

Peter Baltensperger is a Canadian writer of Swiss origin and the author of ten books of poetry, fiction and non-fiction. His stories, poems, essays and articles have also appeared in several hundred publications around the world. His erotic writing has been published in The International Journal of Erotica, In the Buff, Erotic Tales, My Wife and Her Lovers, and Kairos, is forthcoming in The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions, and appears online in Lucrezia Magazine, Oysters & Chocolate, Eros Monthly, Bare Back Magazine, and Samarel Artcore Fantasies. He makes his home in London (Canada) with his wife Viki and their two cats and a tortoise.

Broderick didn’t fit into all this. Although his slim body could fit just about anywhere, his mind needed bigger frames, larger tableaus. Big women. He needed breasts that were real breasts, where a penis could hide in the cleavage, get squeezed by the bounteous globes, squirt among the folds without getting wet. Buttocks that needed at least four hands to do them justice. Vaginas so wide and deep one could lose oneself going in, find oneself coming out, his hand his only reliable guide, journey into the underworld, into the dark cave.

"Ardra" by Flickr user Avoir Chaud

He saw them in the streets, on the busses, bulging over their chairs in coffee houses and restaurants, most of them too old, too tired from carrying their weight. Occasionally he was able to find one he could take home with him on a narrow afternoon, when travel didn’t matter and time was of no consequence, as it never was. He peeled their coverings off one by one, slowly and gradually releasing fold after fold of quivering flesh from their confinements. He relished the peeling, delighted in the progressive appearance of the folds, their bodies deliciously soft, deliciously scented.

When he completed his unveiling, they lay down on his bed, naked and vulnerable, spread out for his pleasure, opulent fruits for his indulgence, cornucopias of abundance and delight. He bounced on top of them, grasping whatever he could to keep his balance. He derived his exhilaration from the quaking mounds, the profusion of trembling arms and impatient legs enveloping his body. Nothing else mattered anymore, not the empty church, not the parks full of people, not even the irrelevance of time.

On this particular afternoon, he found his own rhythm in his cavernous explorations, his own cycles of fondling and being fondled, caressing and being caressed, manipulating the plentiful bodies and being manipulated himself. He loved the large hands on his body, the thick fingers wrapped around his penis, the sensuously voluminous breasts in his hands. And everything quivering underneath him, earthquakes of delight, exhilaration, tremors in the mountains he was allowed to call his own for a while.

Then the quickening of the pace, of the blood, the waves of mounting excitement rippling under him, through him, for him and because of him. His descent, his invasion of the spread legs, his courageous head-long dive into the dripping folds, the succulent lips, the eager protrusion of the agitated clit. He delighted in the profusion of tastes, aromas, smells, drank from the fountain until he thought he would be sucking it dry although there was always more, always more.

"Strutting nipples" (photo by Flickr user MightyMac <3)

Back up on the quivering mound, he found his way back into the cave, grabbed hold of the massive hills with the strutting nipples on top. Then he resumed his rhythm, generated a matching gyration, matching pulsations. It was as if he could hear the roar of the ocean, like putting a conch against his ear, as if he could feel the breakers rushing to the unsuspecting shore, the delicate softness of the sand. Fireworks in an abandoned sky. The screams from somewhere deep inside, the hurrying surges growing bigger and stronger, more determined with every thrust.

The church bell was ringing again, still out of synch with whatever it was supposed to mete out or signal to the world. His world became reduced to a penis in a vagina. His mind reeled with electrified currents riding synapses up into his brain, conjuring up images of death, exhilaration, the impending cataclysm that would send shivers of luxurious elation up and down their sensitized spines. The cushioned body under him started to convulse, scream, tremble like a glorious mound of jello, gyrate wildly, taking his body with it on its stormy ride.

Finally the long-anticipated release, the point of no return to which everything had been leading, for which they had manipulated and stimulated each other the whole time. It always took him by surprise, how intense the grand finale could be, how incredibly pleasurable the end was to the long symphony they had orchestrated together. It wasn’t any different on this narrow afternoon. They tightened their grips on each other in the final throes of their coupling, digging unforgiving fingernails into soft, pliable skin, quivering flesh.

Outside, nothing had changed at all; inside, everything. They weren’t the same people anymore who had only just recently taken off each other’s clothes for the first time and fused their exposed bodies together on an unsuspecting bed. They were in each other now, imprinted indelibly on each others’ minds, into their nerves, on the sensory receptors of their skin, their lips, their fingers, their hands.

"Morro Rock at sunset on Morro Strand State Beach" by Flickr user mikebaird

They kept trembling, he on top of her, clinging to each other like lobsters with their claws, gasping for breath, moaning and groaning together through the afterglow of their orgasms. It wasn’t until much later that he rolled off her and they collapsed on the bed, emptied yet fulfilled, satiated yet already feeling a new hunger arising inside of them.

The afternoon narrowed into a thin, flaming red strip stretching out across the horizon, ready to fade out as they were falling asleep. The parks emptied themselves of people and the church bell finally gave up trying to sound significant. A sliver of a silver moon began to differentiate itself in the dying sky.

XXX

Peter Baltensperger is a Canadian writer of Swiss origin and the author of ten books of poetry, fiction and non-fiction. His stories, poems, essays and articles have also appeared in several hundred publications around the world. His erotic writing has been published in The International Journal of Erotica, In the Buff, Erotic Tales, My Wife and Her Lovers, and Kairos, is forthcoming in The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions, and appears online in Lucrezia Magazine, Oysters & Chocolate, Eros Monthly, Bare Back Magazine, and Samarel Artcore Fantasies. He makes his home in London (Canada) with his wife Viki and their two cats and a tortoise.

Brighton Beach carousel (image via Flickr user Dominic's pic's)

He was a beautiful steed, decked out in intricate decorations of ribbons and precious stones, as if for a royal parade. His contours fitted perfectly between her legs, the polished brass pole rubbing against her pussy as he slowly moved up and down, up and down, carrying her around in never-ending circles, cycles. She pressed herself against his contours and the brass pole as tightly as she could, closed her eyes, let her imagination roam to the rhythmic movement and the sounds of the calliope.

Her pussy was becoming more and more agitated as her ride continued, her nipples hardening and burning in her bra, her mind flooded with images of copulation, incredible stimulation, and mind-blowing satisfaction. She wanted to cry her intense pleasure out to the world when she felt her orgasm welling up from somewhere deep inside her, but she contained herself and just let the delicious currents course through her, filling her body, her mind, her soul.

The ride came to an end all too soon. She left the carnival as quickly as she could without looking back once, just concentrating on the images in her mind, the beautiful communion with her steed, the deep joy of her orgasm.

As soon as she returned to her apartment, she logged onto the Internet and looked for carousel horses. She quickly found a beautiful website featuring exact miniature replicas from an obviously famous collection in Germany. They were absolutely beautiful creations, as beautiful and intricately decorated as the steed of her ride.

It didn’t take her long to come to a particularly impressive and arousing replica, a white steed that was designated as a nobleman’s war charger. She was falling in love all over again. The waiting was pure agony; she could hardly do anything with herself, aside from thinking about the steed being selected, wrapped, and shipped.

When the parcel arrived, she tore open the packaging with trembling hands, dug into the Styrofoam chips, and quickly pulled out her treasure. He was absolutely magnificent, breathtakingly beautiful, sexy and alluring beyond her wildest dreams. She just stood there in her apartment, holding him in her hands, taking in all the details of his royal demeanor: his sleek muscles, the pure white skin, the perfect saddle, the lavish decorations. His mouth was partly open, showing his white teeth, looking as if he were neighing at her. She pressed him against her breasts, felt his warmth, his love.

She could just see herself riding him across the countryside, guiding him gently with the reins and the slightest of pressure from her legs on his flanks. It was as if she needn’t do anything except think about what she wanted him to do, and he immediately responded to her every wish and quiet command.

She had him cross the countryside at a slow canter to give herself the benefit of his bobbing up and down, the pressure of the saddle sending delicious shivers over her pussy, through her body, up to her breasts, her eager nipples, into her mind. Her legs fitted perfectly around his body, her thighs rubbing deliciously against the saddle, her calves and heels pressed lightly against his flanks.

Filled with exhilaration, fervent love, admiration, and absolute delight in her steed and her ride, she floated along on his back, her whole body in a state of pure, delicious arousal. Her mind was flooded with the images of her bobbing along as he cantered along quiet country lanes, through whispering forests, across shallow rivers. She couldn’t have wished for more.

"White Carousel Horses #2" image by Flickr user Nantaskart!

She finally tore herself loose from her reverie and found a perfect spot for him in her kitchen where she could look at him while she cooked her simple supper. Then she moved him onto the dining room table for her meal, and back into the kitchen again for the clean-up. From there she took him into the living room to watch television for a while. After the late news, she carried him into her bedroom and placed him on her night table so she could keep her eyes on him—and he his eyes on her.

Slowly, as if she were on stage at an exclusive club, she started to peel off her clothes and drop them on the chair in the corner. She knew he appreciated her disrobing, admired her full breasts when she let them fall out of her bra and straightened up to show them off, sucked in his breath when she slid out of her panties and stood naked before him. She shuddered, exhilarated from her wanton act, his appreciation, the arcs of electricity flying back and forth between them.

She could hardly wait to get into bed with him. She pulled back the covers, fluffed the pillows, picked him up from the night table and placed him carefully, lovingly, on the pillow beside hers. Then she climbed into bed herself, pulled the covers up over both of them, and put her hand on his fiery body. She reached between her legs with the other and rubbed herself to an oh-so-delicious, shuddering orgasm, her eyes wide open and focused on his the whole time. Her orgasm kept eddying through her body, filling every fiber, every nerve, every crevice in her brain with the luscious jubilation of her new love.

When the feelings of fulfillment and gratification quieted her body and she relaxed again, she kissed her steed goodnight, put her arm protectively over him, and fell into a deep, thoroughly contented sleep.

XXX

Peter Baltensperger is a Canadian writer of Swiss origin and the author of ten books of poetry, fiction and non-fiction. His stories, poems, essays and articles have also appeared in several hundred publications around the world. His erotic writing has been published in The International Journal of Erotica, In the Buff, Erotic Tales, My Wife and Her Lovers, and Kairos, is forthcoming in The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions, and appears online in Lucrezia Magazine, Oysters & Chocolate, Eros Monthly, Bare Back Magazine, and Samarel Artcore Fantasies. He makes his home in London (Canada) with his wife Viki and their two cats and a tortoise.

Death Valley National Park, California (photo by Flickr user Ken Lund)

A young woman was sitting in the passenger seat beside him, looking out the window. He had picked her up a while back, standing by the side of the road. He wasn’t sure whether she was looking for a ride or not, but when he pulled up beside her, she opened the car door and climbed in. She simply said she was going to visit a friend. For a while, he tried to make conversation with her, but all he could get out of her were a few monosyllabic responses that didn’t really tell him anything about her, or about anything else. He finally gave up and they drove on in silence, only he couldn’t get himself back into his reflective mode, his mind totally preoccupied with her presence. He didn’t even know her name.

They were driving past a stretch of forest when the woman suddenly pointed to something ahead and said in an uncharacteristically urgent voice, “Pull in there!”

He slowed his car just in time to see a narrow lane leading across a strip of grass into the forest, just wide enough for his car. He turned into the lane, drove in among the trees, and came to an abrupt halt when the lane came to a sudden end.

“Now what?” he asked.

The woman didn’t say anything. She simply unhooked her seatbelt, unhooked his, and, to his considerable surprise, reached over and undid his belt and pulled down his zipper. He couldn’t quite believe what was happening, but he certainly didn’t protest. He just sat there behind the wheel and let her proceed with her unexpected yet totally arousing action. She reached for his penis, pulled it out of its confines, bent over him, and took him into her mouth. He moaned delightedly, pushing himself further into her. She was very skilled, very sure of herself. It only took her a few short minutes of stroking and rubbing and sucking to bring him to a very pleasant and enjoyable orgasm. He groaned deeply to himself as he gushed into her and let his seed spill into her receptive mouth.

“Your turn,” she said after she licked the last few droplets from his shaft. “In the back seat.”

They climbed out of the car and rejoined each other in the back. She immediately pulled off her jeans and slipped her top over her head. She wasn’t wearing anything else. Then she reclined into the upholstery, spread her legs, and braced her feet against the tops of the seats. He feasted his eyes on her breasts without touching them, then dove straight into her proffered pussy. Licking her swollen lips, he lapped up her abundantly fragrant juices, inhaled her musky scent, saturated his mind with her titillating emanations. She didn’t move the whole time, didn’t say a word or make a sound.

He moved his tongue to her clit and started licking and rubbing it, delighting in her sensuous offering. Then he took it between his lips and sucked at it until her silent body shivered and her braced legs relaxed.

“Oh, yes,” she said, more to herself than to him. After a few minutes, she pulled herself up and put her clothes back on. Still without saying a word, she climbed out of the car and went back into the front seat. He stepped out of the car himself, arranged his shirt and trousers, and climbed behind the wheel to back out of the forest and get back on the meandering road.

They were driving in silence through the landscape again when the young woman pointed to a farmhouse off to the right. “You can drop me off right here,” she said, not a touch of emotion in her voice.

He pulled up to the driveway and she climbed out of the car without saying anything else. He waved to her from behind the steering wheel, but she didn’t respond, so he pulled away and continued his journey along the winding road. She stood by the curb for as long as he could see her in his rearview mirror, watching him drive away.

X X X

Peter Baltensperger is a Canadian writer of Swiss origin and the author of ten books of poetry, fiction and non-fiction. His stories, poems, essays and articles have also appeared in several hundred publications around the world. His erotic writing has been published in The International Journal of Erotica, In the Buff, Erotic Tales, My Wife and Her Lovers, and Kairos, is forthcoming in The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions, and appears online in Lucrezia Magazine, Oysters & Chocolate, Eros Monthly, Bare Back Magazine, and Samarel Artcore Fantasies. He makes his home in London (Canada) with his wife Viki and their two cats and a tortoise.

Calliope, 1872 (photo: Wikimedia Commons)

The last orgy at Phillip and Sylvia’s house was by far the best and the biggest they ever had at their place. They were known among their friends for always doing everything just right. They started out small, as any small business should, and then gradually expanded, being careful not to expand too quickly, and finally reached the almost-fifty mark. It was supposed to be the real fifty mark, but Jim and Sonja and Bob and Cindy didn’t show up. Nobody knew where they were or why they didn’t come.

Perhaps they went to the carnival. Everybody always knew when the carnival was in town because of the distinctive sound of the calliope. Everybody remembered going to the carnival when they were children, and then again as parents when they had children of their own. The women remembered the pleasant feeling of arousal when they straddled the wooden horses with the metal poles on the carousel and rode around and around, bobbing up and down. Perhaps Jim and Sonja and Bob and Cindy were riding around on the carousel, bobbing up and down.

In any case, they missed the best ever orgy at Phillip and Sylvia’s house. Phillip and Sylvia always hosted the best orgies in town. They prepared everything very carefully, they selected their guests very carefully, and they played the host and hostess roles to perfection. Everybody knew they could always count on the couple to be the most gracious hosts. As a result, their house was full of very happy people, sprawled all over the place. With so many people in attendance at this particular orgy, it was quite difficult for everybody to find a satisfactory place for their various activities.

Some were standing in the living room, drinks in hand. The men were fondling breasts, the women were stroking penises. Everybody was talking, mostly about breasts and penises. Two women had their men on all fours on the floor. The men had leather collars around their necks with a leash attached to them. The women were sitting on their backs, straddling them like horses, holding the leashes in one hand and riding crops in the other. They kept tugging at the leashes and whipping their steeds’ flanks and buttocks with the riding crops as the men made their way slowly and carefully around the room.

“Giddy-up,” the women said. “Giddy-up.”

Two couples were taking turns on the table in the dining room, switching partners with every turn. Out in the hallway, a couple was trying to get comfortable on the carpeted floor and get something going. Two couples were making use of the stairway, holding on to the railing so as not to roll down the stairs. Another couple occupied the bathroom upstairs, doing things to each other under the shower. In the spare bedroom, two couples were taking turns stimulating each other and sharing their sexual skills. The room was equipped with all kinds of leather paraphernalia, collars and leashes and face masks and whips and sundry other items, but the two couples weren’t quite at that stage yet. They were planning to make use of some of the equipment later on.

In the master bedroom, three couples were rolling around on the king-size bed, everybody fondling everybody’s breasts, everybody stroking everybody’s penises, everybody rubbing everybody’s clits. Everybody was moaning and groaning and yelping and screaming with delight. A fourth couple was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, watching the proceedings on the bed. The man was working a vibrator for the woman. After she came, the man stretched out on the floor on his back. The woman climbed on top of him and straddled him like a horse.

The vibrator and the calliope are both instruments. They are both designed to make music, albeit of quite a different kind. In a dimly lit workshop in a village somewhere far away, it was well past midnight and everybody was asleep, but an inventor was working on a vibrator with the soundtrack of a calliope built in. He had a miniature carousel on a shelf, with miniature horses going around and around, and a miniature tape to record the sound. The vibrator isn’t likely to be on the market in the near future, as it will take the inventor many more sleepless nights to perfect his invention.

It was well past midnight in Phillip and Sonja’s house when things were beginning to slow down. People were starting to get tired from all their activities. Some of them were beginning to make themselves comfortable wherever they happened to be. One by one, the couples started to fall asleep, and before long the house grew peaceful and quiet, just as any other house in town.

Only Phillip and Sylvia were still awake. They had spent the evening circulating among their guests, making sure they all had everything they needed, taking care of spills and other minor accidents, and generally playing their host and hostess roles. They had a special room in the basement, strictly reserved for themselves, and they retired to their room as they did at the end of every orgy (and on numerous occasions in-between), when they were completely alone in the house.

The next day, they all went to the carnival and rode around on the carousel. The women were straddling the horses, bobbing up and down, remembering their childhood experiences. The men stood beside them, pretending to lead the horses around and around. The calliope was playing its tunes and everybody was having a great time. They stayed until evening, when the carnival closed its gates.

It was the last day of the carnival, and after everyone had left, the calliope stopped. The carnival workers took everything apart, loaded it into trucks, and drove off into the night, on to their next destination.

X X X

Peter Baltensperger is a Canadian writer of Swiss origin and the author of ten books of poetry, fiction and non-fiction. His stories, poems, essays and articles have also appeared in several hundred publications around the world. His erotic writing has been published in The International Journal of Erotica, In the Buff, Erotic Tales, My Wife and Her Lovers, and Kairos, is forthcoming in The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions, and appears online in Lucrezia Magazine, Oysters & Chocolate, Eros Monthly, Bare Back Magazine, and Samarel Artcore Fantasies. He makes his home in London (Canada) with his wife Viki and their two cats and a tortoise.