Finnish Wood

For sun worshipers and libertines everywhere!

There's just something about the summertime. The temperature rises and clothing retreats. Everything we wear gets shorter and looser. Naked skin gets softer and browner—warm and enticing in the heat. Everywhere you look there is a celebration of abandon. People are so easy to watch as they move—no longer hidden beneath layers of heavy clothes.

The chiselled and powerful arms of men, strong and sinewy, extend from sleeveless shirts to flex and gleam in the sun. While the soft, naked thighs of women emerge alluringly from beneath the most tantalising of skirts. Even bodies that can bear to remain covered in the heat still ripple and sway beneath clothing that is barely there.

So, whether the summer is a distant memory, or you're about slip into part four of Sun Strokes in the sunshine, I hope the story within these pages will tease out the sun-worshipping hedonist in you!

The Candy Box by Kojo Black

Sun Strokes by Kojo Black

Immoral Views by Various Authors

Named and Shamed by Janine Ashbless

Naked Delirium by Various Authors

Making Him Wait by Kay Jaybee

Seven Deadly Sins by Various Authors

Strummed by Various Authors

Made for Hire by Various Authors

In the Forests of the Night by Vanessa de Sade

First published by Sweetmeats Press 2011

Copyright © Kojo Black 2011
Illustrations © Ruby Baiser 2011
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing from Sweetmeats Press. Nor may it be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN 978-0-9570037-0-5

Typeset by Sweetmeats Press
Sweetmeats Press, 27 Old Gloucester Street, London, WC1N 3XX, England, U. K.

www.sweetmeatspress.com

I met her in the Purple Bar of the Sanderson Hotel.

As the dry, hot London summer blazed on, I'd rejoined a colleague for drinks in the early evening cool of the theatrical scarlet saloon. I was delighted to see my old friend and we laughed about old times as we paid cautious respect to the oversized martinis that are the trademark of the bar. My friend regaled me with tales of international entrepreneurship, and an unwittingly hilarious story about the failure of a palm oil plantation in Polynesia. Both the story and the business concluded with 42 Polynesian plant workers coasting out of the factory on a wave of palm oil. Through my laughter, my eye was drawn to a young woman as she entered the bar.

A dusky little thing—all of about five foot—she'd already purchased a drink and had begun to look around nervously. She sipped quickly from her glass, all the while her eyes scanning the room. Her discomfort was evident and she looked as though she might, at any moment, bolt for the door. When suddenly her eyes fell upon my friend, her relief was palpable and the broadest smile unfurled across her face. She hurried to our table where she embraced my friend who then introduced her to me.

I shall introduce her to you as Aisha. She was (and is) a young writer who had recently published a collection of short stories. I was elated to learn that we were both recently published writers and, effectively, label-mates. My friend had introduced her to my publisher whom, upon reading her first work, had snapped her up instantly. Aisha had come to share the good news with my friend, and to assure him that her new publisher was working as hard to promote her and her work, as he was to promote me and mine. I was immediately drawn to Aisha's energy and intellect. Initially, she could err on the quiet side, but her comments were always thoughtful and reflective. As the heat of the day dissipated, the three of us retired to the courtyard while at the same time weaning ourselves off the nearly-neat vodka and onto champagne. We talked and laughed late into the evening before we finally parted company. With a smile, a kiss on the cheek, and a copy of her book, Aisha left me. And that, in all honesty, I thought would be the end of our association.

Over the next couple of days, I read Aisha's work. For the work of one some years my junior, the book was a rich tapestry of heartache, humour, sensuality and juxtaposition. I was riveted from one story to the next. I know how much I appreciate when someone tells me how much my work means to them. And I hoped that, as a new writer, Aisha would similarly appreciate my praise of her. I called her as soon as I finished the last page. Writing is a strange thing. She seemed at once bashful that I had perused her efforts so carefully, but at the same time she could not disguise her glee at my enjoyment of her work. She had not even expected me to take it home—much less to read it, nor further to enjoy it.

The days passed quickly as a friendship blossomed. I delighted in Aisha's love of storytelling and of the written word. Even now I smile to think of her burgeoning pride and assurance as she earns her place among the literati. As the success of her book gained momentum, she was invited to a book signing in Helsinki. I was surprised to learn that the book had such resonance in Finland because Aisha herself is half Finnish. The other half is Indonesian. An unusual mixture, I grant you, but a beautiful one. I've said she was small of stature, with a healthily athletic frame. She is most comfortable in casual attire—flat trainers and three-quarter length combat trousers that she allows to slouch off her hips. In the hot summer, I never saw her in anything other than little vest-tops, cut to expose just a few inches of her smooth belly, and the uppermost brown swell of her breasts which jounce playfully and pleasantly as she walks. Her face, arms and midriff had bronzed easily in the sun and her lustrous black hair falls nearly to the small of her back. Laughing, she explained that every summer all manner of people would approach her and begin babbling in Spanish, assuming her to be Caribbean or Latin American.

In any event, I had a social engagement in St. Petersburg at around the same time as her book signing. So I suggested we make it a joint expedition. I was as delighted as she was excited, and in two weeks we were on our way to Finland.

From London, she and I and a brace of press coordinators flew to Helsinki. The flight is not a long one and the plane did not need to be luxurious. Still, it was functional and comfortable and I did not resist the urge to doze.

My dreams were peculiar; flitting between incongruous events, as dreams can when one sleeps fitfully. But, as I became more comfortable in slumber, my dreams became longer and more cohesive.

I stood in a completely spherical room. The room was painted with lavender swirls. Across the room was a door that appeared to be made from upholstered purple suede. Aisha appeared from behind me, as though she'd been there the whole time.

“How long have you been waiting?” she said.

I didn't know. So I didn't say anything.

Aisha just smiled and touched my face gently with her fingertips. She backed away from me and beckoned me to follow before turning and walking toward the door. We crossed the floor together and, when we arrived at the door, Aisha pulled it open. She craned her neck around it, before flashing me a licentious smile, as though she was looking at something she shouldn't on the other side. She held her finger to her lips and once again beckoned me to her.

I peered round, over her head, to find a large room in which there stood a number of people, bewildered and drenched in oil. We were definitely indoors, but the light was of the most dazzling sunlight, as though we were outside. Oil oozed from the walls, creating slow-moving waterfalls and making little tidal pools here and there around the room. In places, oil fountains gurgled up from the floor, while elsewhere oil gurgled in streams and rivulets away into the distance. And everywhere the sunlight made the amber liquid sparkle like gold.

I made to enter the room, but Aisha held me back.

“Wait,” she whispered. “It's about to start.”

The people in the room were slightly built, brown and strong. Their light cotton clothing was saturated with oil and it hung heavily and uncomfortably about them. The men struggled to hold up their trousers under the weight of the liquid, and the dresses of the women trailed heavily along the floor. Their hair, faces, and bodies were smooth and slick, and their clothes stuck to them, outlining every contour and bulge. The women tried to preserve some modesty by pulling the viscous fibers away from their bodies, but it was no use. The thin, saturated cloth covered their sleek frames and simply sprung back into place, growing tighter with every tug. The unctuous fabric clung to their thighs, their buttocks, their tight bellies and small breasts. The fabric rudely and conspicuously highlighted the delta at the apex of their thighs, as it clung and sucked and sought to enter those secret crevices.

The men looked to each other with expressions of despair as their clothes grew heavier and heavier, and more and more useless. Between the weight of the fabric and the frictionlessness of their skin, the men eventually allowed their ineffective trousers to fall from their slight, muscular bodies. One by one, the gooey garments slid to the floor. There was almost a sense of relief at the inevitable. The men stepped free of their pants as they pulled their oil-logged shirts up and off over their heads. Their strong, healthy bodies and work-chiseled torsos shone in the light. Here and there the odd smile began to crease the lips of the men, as they slicked back their hair and wiped their faces. Fulsome strands of oil fell in slow motion from their stout and stubby penises.

Some of the men began to help the women loosen the constricting fabric from their bodies. But other men misunderstood the intent. While some men moved to preserve female modesty, others moved to exploit it. What began with gentle hands helping the ladies to hold their clothes up and away from the ubiquitous goo, soon turned more roguish and rugged.

I stole a glance at Aisha. But her gaze was concentrated, expectant and fixed upon the spectacle before her.

It was soon difficult to determine the intent of any one individual. A naked, smiling man might approach a woman. Her face would take on an expression of relief as they worked together to adjust her clothes. When suddenly his sure, work-hard hands would—almost accidentally—tear the weakened, delicate fabric. Soft, brown, nubile flesh would show through the tear. And, while she sought to hold the gap closed, he would use the distraction to make a new one. She could not address front and back at the same time and, while she tried to, the man would take advantage of her confusion and of the flimsy, weakened cloth. Forcefully now, with hardened hands more accustomed to fieldwork than ladies' wear, he would grab handfuls of the dress and pull it asunder. With arms wide, he would stand clutching fistfuls of frayed fabric in each hand. The dresses tore like paper, leaving their erstwhile owners naked, gleaming and flustered between shreds of useless rags.

There is something wonderfully sobering about nudity. Certainly the initial transition can come as a shock. And some of the women cowered and crouched. But others were clearly glad to be free of the spoiled, burdensome clothes. And there is only so long one can remain shocked by nudity when everyone around you is naked as well. The women too began to slick back their hair—less worried about who could see what—and more proud of what they could show. Gradually, they returned the smiles of the glimmering, naked men. From beneath delicate lashes the ladies allowed their big brown eyes to flicker over the hardened, male bodies—oil dripping from the men at the only soft point upon them. And, as the women began to appreciate the men, to laugh with them—and touch them, so those soft points began gradually to stiffen.

The women began to rub the oil into their own flesh, shimmering supple and glossy with the effort. They helped each other—one holding up her own long, dark hair as a companion's hands slid tenderly over her back and shoulders, massaging the soothing fluid into her. In time, they turned to the men, playfully flicking the viscous liquid at them, before touching them—first cautiously, then affectionately, then intimately. The spaces between people decreased. Where there were groups of two, in time there became groups of three, of four, of five and six. As though they sought to amplify the pleasure that two slippery bodies could make by bringing more bodies to play.

Aisha was grinning lasciviously now, and she flashed a conspiratorial smile at me before returning her most devout concentration to the unbound women.

A woman who had begun only by sliding her hands over a man's shoulders, soon had her entire body pressed to him, swooning in the lubricious sensation of his sturdy back against her soft breasts and belly. Her eyes would close as she shamelessly ground her smooth, delicate body against his lean, harder one. Deftly, she'd reach for his even harder cock, manipulating his eager penis with first one, and then two hands.

As bodies joined, it became more and more difficult to maintain any regimented structure. Crevices that would have been most resistant without the oil, proved little more than curious caverns aching to be probed. Delicate fingers dove between manly buttocks and emerged from the other side clutching a squishy handful of bulging, tender testicles. While another hand from elsewhere tickled and stroked the corresponding erection as it pulsed and twitched with unspeakable joy. Looking up, one saw the face of the man attached radiating absolute rapture, as those pleasuring him were in turn manipulated, massaged and pleasured by others.

Tawny brown bodies writhed and twisted together, as the golden pleasure-giving oil cascaded down. The liquid trickled and splashed into the most sensitive fissures. Brown flesh soon exposed pink as curious fingers pushed and played with the blossoming lips of expectant pussies; or traced delicately around the puckered openings of tender, yielding assholes.

Feminine thighs parted—almost accidentally at first—then obviously, and then insistently. Tender cunts made slick with oil soon grew even slicker with their own desire. The liquid sound of cascading oil had given way to the unmistakable sound of slippery bodies moving, twisting, and manipulating together. And that in turn gave way to the sound of unequivocal, vocalised lust. The low moans of the men were soon punctuated by the clear, shameless cries of the women as they too found their pleasure.

A man, with his head thrown back and buried between the squatting thighs of a squirming woman, could not even see the other woman who spied his turgid prick jutting stout and proud from the maze of flesh. Languidly she swam through the undulating bodies until she reached her swollen prize. She reached out to touch it. Tickle it. Suckle it. She took it deep in her throat so her cheeks bulged. In time she turned, guiding the slick, bulbous penis between her buttocks until the tip kissed her asshole. Closing her eyes, she relaxed her primed and oily sphincter to let the bulging glans push her apart. With the man locked down by thighs, arms, and a dozen oiled bodies, she set the tempo. She took her time. And gradually, slowly, she filled her pink and pliant bottom with that throbbing, slippery gristle. Once she'd taken the pleasing prick deep inside her ass, she slid her buttocks right down to its hilt, until the rounded globes of her bottom flattened against his abdomen. She began to ease herself on and off of her chosen guest, riding him for her vulgar pleasure. And the poor man could do nothing but bellow his delight into the engorged cunt and tawny thighs clamped tight around his head.