Checking Out - Sex Stories

Checking Out

Tod smelled the acrid oil on the cool metal he held near his face. Up close it didn’t look as smooth as it had in the storeroom. It had fine lines from the machining process & wasn’t as heavy as it’d first seemed. He looked it over carefully, checking each screw, all the moving parts and grip. It was ugly & powerful at the same time, but it would never be a thing of beauty. It was too cold, lifeless and mechanical looking to ever meet his standards of beauty. The cold blue-black steel of the barrel stared at him without blinking as he saw the groves machine-cut inside the tube that was the muzzle, looked into single eye in the face of the instrument of death. He thought about the day he found it. A WW II vintage American made Colt revolver, loaded, as lethal looking as anything he’d ever seen in his thirty years. It made him tremble to consider he might one day fire the destructive weapon at another person. Maybe at a wolf or weasel, even that oaf Owain, who tormented him at the pub as mercilessly now as he had years before while at school together. Owain married Penelope, the gold-haired beauty of their school and age group, though after two kids & ten years, Owain she no longer quite met Tod’s exacting personal standards for feminine beauty. Kerith however, did meet his exacting standards for beauty. Her beautiful long red-gold hair danced in the wind of autumn, her fair milky skin, a scattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose. Her smile with subtle dimples, her red ...

... lips curving up in a secret smile that showed brilliant, even white teeth. She’d lick her lips when she talked intently, the tip of her tongue flicking to wet those crimson lips, slender neck flexing as she swallowed. Her shoulders, bare were scattered with freckles that trickled like flecks of golden sand down over her bare breasts, almost translucently white, blue veins showing through her skin... barely a handful each, small and pert with reddish-blush colored aureole, with a tinge of orange tipped long erect nipples. The freckles trailed off, following her lean ribs, her heaving chest, smooth pale tummy, the small delicate dent of a belly button, slight gentle swell of her lower belly above her crotch, where her neat waist flared softly out to her hips. Her shape was unmistakable, lean and toned, just enough flesh to her hips over her pelvic bones to save her from skinniness. Her legs were long and slender; the legs of an athlete, walker, swimmer, bike rider... Her feet were translucent like her breasts, pale, veins showing through, toenails artfully painted a light frosty violet like her fingernails. Nails shaped carefully not to crack, edges smooth, showing efforts to groom carefully. Just over her left ankle on the inside was a thin scar she’d told him was from a bicycle accident when she was eleven, long since healed. The soles of her feet were soft, smooth and pink, her calves and thighs, while well-shaped by exercise had smooth, supple curved lines, not the lined ...