*continued from Vitis Coffea, Part I
*adult content
There was no other way to put it... she was dressed to kill. The day after following him on the beach, she put on a sleek black dress and waited for him outside of the lobby. In French, she interrupted his reading of an English newspaper and asked him for the time. He responded politely and feigned a lack of notice of her figure, but a momentary widening of eyes betrayed him, and she could feel those eyes long after she said merci, monsieur and walked away.
As she hurried back to her hotel and changed for the day's work - the trip to Marseilles was not for fun and games, after all - she noted that he had an excellent French accent, but spoke horrible French. She also thought she saw an unsure recognition. Perhaps he did remember her from the night in the club, when he seemed so out of place, yet so exactly where he should be. Whether he did or not didn't really factor into her plan. If it did, she'd have given him more time to figure it out. Even so, she had made sure she wore the same perfume and made equally sure that he could smell it when he checked his watch for her.
***
"Hate to bother you... again, but what's the time?" English, this time. Already dressed for work, it is no accident that her jacket is unbuttoned, her skirt hiked just a little extra, and her choice of tank top just a little tight.
"Ah..." He's perplexed. She smiles her beautiful smile, knowing he definitely remembers her now. "7:17. How did you know I speak English?" It is a subtle English accent. Weak, almost non-native to England.
She taps his newspaper, The Daily Telegraph.
"Have we met?" he asks. "Before yesterday, I mean."
"Yes," she replies, beginning her walk away, "we have."
A small smile curves into existence on the right side of his mouth. He's not going to give chase, because he knows he'll see her again. "What's your name?"
"Alex." It's as if she were yelling out to everyone. Then again, she may have been.
***
They enjoy a lunch together, seated at a windowed table near the front of the restaurant. She planned to request an outside seat, but it's a bit chilly today and she doesn't want to appear too aggressive in spite of her aggression. Americans have a reputation of arrogance and she wants none - neither him, nor any witnesses - to come away from her with that impression. She's meticulous in her listening. Japanese grandparents immigrated to England, their London-born son marrying an American exchange student, and time spent at school in the United States. The sadness from the beach seems mostly gone and he's comfortable in his general loquaciousness. She loves to hear him talk, loves his voice as she spices up her mood with a few glasses of a house wine.
While he talks, politely attempting to keep his attention away from anything below her neck - and, indeed, from her neck as well... he finds its smooth perfection rather irresistible in itself - she moves her torso and legs in a way that makes it more than clear that she's wearing nothing underneath. As they leave, she imagines that were he to follow her, they could find some little used corridor and enjoy a flip of her skirt. But she will not let him, not today. Today, she repays his prior lack of notice with a tease. And an unspoken promise.
***
A promise kept under a loss of inhibitions, inspired by her Château Pétrus. Conversation as mere protocol lost beneath the wine-flushed burn of two distinct skin tones. Milliliters remaining mimicked by the millimeters separating the inevitable. And the bottle, now empty, a false reflection of a body filled with that of another's. It is a vintage lust, aged to perfection by her vinified patience. An uncorked pouring of emotion worth waiting for. It is a sommelier's intercourse, a matching so perfect and a coupling so expert that its execution need little conscious attention. This evening's specifics will mostly fail in memory, but its impressions will forever succeed in their imaginations.
***
She can't sleep. She lies on her side, staring out the open window overlooking Vieux Port, listening to his sleep-heavy breathing and feeling the warm exhale on the back of her neck. His arms wrapped around her, their bodies aligned perfectly in mock fetal positions. A smile from noticing that he's still aroused... whether by dream or residual thought makes no difference to her. She can't help burying her face in her pillow in attempts to hide uncontrollable giggles and an embarrassingly wide smile that she knows nobody can see. She had feared regret from effectively forcing this night, but none manifested. It all - everything about it - seems too right.
An inadvertent squeezing of her legs together fosters an unconscious reaction. She covers her smile with her hand as she's gently pushed onto her stomach. Feeling him on top of her, she widens her legs a bit to allow him in. His hands, childishly, caress her buttocks for a few moments before they graciously and gratefully begin a massage of her shoulders. The massage is more than enough to wet her and his penetration is a smooth and breathtaking glide. There is gentle teasing as he bites her neck with his lips and exposes her moon-reflected skin while shifting her beautiful hair to his pillow. Unlike before, sobriety ensures memory will be perceived accurately, and both carefully consider their movements, showing the other how much they want this to last forever.
A purposeful squeezing of her legs percolates a wine that he doesn't hesitate to taste. He looks up into her eyes and she makes another unspoken promise... this one to return the favor. And it is kept. Wines and sweat come together in the most intoxicating of cocktails. Her smile is omnipresent and only a sensual bite on her nipple convinces her that this not a dream.
***
She wakes up alone and a second that could've given away to panic instead remains calm. She hears him in the kitchenette, moving about. There's a scent in the air, one as comforting as it is encouraging. He has, obviously, no intention to leave.
"What were you doing at the beach the other day?"
He pops his head into the bedroom, an expression of curious satisfaction. "I'm sorry?"
"The beach. You seemed so sad."
His expression shifts to concern, though the curiosity amplifies. Her words clear implications that this - for him, anyway - was not pure serendipity. He disappears behind the door and another second that could've given away to fear also remains calm. He's returned to his task at hand. "I was," comes the muffled reply.
She rolls over onto her back and breathes a sigh of relief. "Why?"
Entering the bedroom holding two coffee mugs, he hands her one and sits on the edge of the bed. Her eyes brighten and she grabs it with both hands, hiding still another smile in a sip of local roast.
"I was wondering if I'd ever find you."
The schoolgirl giddiness overcomes her and she spasms uncontrollably in sheer joy. Lunging forward, she discovers that coffee tastes much better when poured from his lips.
Showing posts with label prose:erotic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label prose:erotic. Show all posts
Friday, June 25, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Vitis Coffea, Part I
The Asian was hopelessly drunk the night they danced together, so she prepares to remind him of her name. She does not, however, prepare for his complete lack of recognition. Of course, a little tipsy herself that night, a small possibility exists that this is not the same man. Still, she is certain of his identity and the memory of first noticing him is a sober one. Or is it? Yes, of course it is. The momentary confusion exists only due to the badly lit club allowing his face to disappear in a sea of faces.
Lying prone on a towel at a small beach near La Pointe Rouge harbor, she watches as he walks by her and continues down the sand. The sweat on her skin, just on the pale side of a golden brown, glistens with disappointment. Removing her bun, then sweeping her dark brown hair from her face, she nudges her black Prada sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and takes another look. A gentle breeze carries a few shoulder-length strands of hair, as if gesturing to follow, while the rest of her longer hair caresses her back and assures her that, yes, it is him.
She exhales slowly, cautiously reexamining her attraction to him that night. She wants to think that it was probably just of the moment, lust enhanced by being in a foreign country, and that she imagined the shock at seeing him. C'est la vie and all. But she believes too much in serendipity and can't shake it. He's been in her dreams for years. Someone like him, anyway. Someone who looks very much like him.
Standing, she pulls a light and dark-brown patterned sarong out of her beach bag and wraps it around her waist. Nervous of her conscious decision to pursue him, she hesitates before donning her black shirt. She picks the towel up and pops it clean. Securing her sandals in her right hand, she rolls the towel and shoves it in her bag while trying futilely not to appear to be in a hurry.
Thankfully, the Asian moves slowly, eyes to the ground, pausing every few steps to look out at the Mediterranean. Finally, he sits in the sand and stares at the horizon. Again questioning her own intent, she considers approaching him... instead, she maintains safe distance, finding a bench farther from the water and pretending to share the view. He seems sad, somehow. Alone. But maybe that's how he prefers it. Or, maybe, the sunset reminds him of a broken heart patiently awaiting a new dawn. Smiling inwardly at the thought, she places her sunglasses in her bag and watches the horizon fade as sky darkens into sea, the water's surface penetrated by a retreating twilight.
She's no idea what either of them are doing there.
***
Unsure of whether to let it - him - go or not, she listens to the sounds of the city and absorbs herself into their chaotic consistency. The vehicles of passersby mimicking the flutters in her stomach. Why not? deafens any question of why?
He sat there for hours, and so did she. Even when the cool sea air began to arouse goosebumps on her skin - she blamed it on the sea air, though his silhouette certainly may have been a cause - she waited. Even when he lay on the beach - awake, but motionless - she waited.
By the time he finally leaves, she's realized that something is wrong. Not with her, nor with him, but with the moment. She's caught up too eagerly in her desire, and he's caught up too introspectively in his mystery. Her intent to approach abandoned, she follows him to learn where to find him. Almost as in a film, two taxis pull up almost simultaneously and she orders the driver of hers - in her limited French - to follow the other.
She is joyous to discover serendipity again with her; he's staying at the Oceania Escale, just around the corner from the Kyriad Carré Vieux Port... her hotel.
Later, in her room, she enjoys a bottle of Château Pétrus, a congratulatory gift from her mother in San Diego. Merlot, she finds, warms her nicely. A chemical foreplay for the most devious and long-awaited seduction of her life. She wanted to wait for his touch, should it ever come, but she soon finds herself enjoying her own. There is a youthful and reckless abandon in the way she uses her hands and fingers, but the whole of her mind and body are smiling in unison, and she can't but help bring them to laughter.
As she fades into sleep, she dreams of tomorrow. It will be the start, no doubt, of one of the most memorable experiences she'll ever have.
*continued in Vitis Coffea, Part II
Lying prone on a towel at a small beach near La Pointe Rouge harbor, she watches as he walks by her and continues down the sand. The sweat on her skin, just on the pale side of a golden brown, glistens with disappointment. Removing her bun, then sweeping her dark brown hair from her face, she nudges her black Prada sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and takes another look. A gentle breeze carries a few shoulder-length strands of hair, as if gesturing to follow, while the rest of her longer hair caresses her back and assures her that, yes, it is him.
She exhales slowly, cautiously reexamining her attraction to him that night. She wants to think that it was probably just of the moment, lust enhanced by being in a foreign country, and that she imagined the shock at seeing him. C'est la vie and all. But she believes too much in serendipity and can't shake it. He's been in her dreams for years. Someone like him, anyway. Someone who looks very much like him.
Standing, she pulls a light and dark-brown patterned sarong out of her beach bag and wraps it around her waist. Nervous of her conscious decision to pursue him, she hesitates before donning her black shirt. She picks the towel up and pops it clean. Securing her sandals in her right hand, she rolls the towel and shoves it in her bag while trying futilely not to appear to be in a hurry.
Thankfully, the Asian moves slowly, eyes to the ground, pausing every few steps to look out at the Mediterranean. Finally, he sits in the sand and stares at the horizon. Again questioning her own intent, she considers approaching him... instead, she maintains safe distance, finding a bench farther from the water and pretending to share the view. He seems sad, somehow. Alone. But maybe that's how he prefers it. Or, maybe, the sunset reminds him of a broken heart patiently awaiting a new dawn. Smiling inwardly at the thought, she places her sunglasses in her bag and watches the horizon fade as sky darkens into sea, the water's surface penetrated by a retreating twilight.
She's no idea what either of them are doing there.
***
Unsure of whether to let it - him - go or not, she listens to the sounds of the city and absorbs herself into their chaotic consistency. The vehicles of passersby mimicking the flutters in her stomach. Why not? deafens any question of why?
He sat there for hours, and so did she. Even when the cool sea air began to arouse goosebumps on her skin - she blamed it on the sea air, though his silhouette certainly may have been a cause - she waited. Even when he lay on the beach - awake, but motionless - she waited.
By the time he finally leaves, she's realized that something is wrong. Not with her, nor with him, but with the moment. She's caught up too eagerly in her desire, and he's caught up too introspectively in his mystery. Her intent to approach abandoned, she follows him to learn where to find him. Almost as in a film, two taxis pull up almost simultaneously and she orders the driver of hers - in her limited French - to follow the other.
She is joyous to discover serendipity again with her; he's staying at the Oceania Escale, just around the corner from the Kyriad Carré Vieux Port... her hotel.
Later, in her room, she enjoys a bottle of Château Pétrus, a congratulatory gift from her mother in San Diego. Merlot, she finds, warms her nicely. A chemical foreplay for the most devious and long-awaited seduction of her life. She wanted to wait for his touch, should it ever come, but she soon finds herself enjoying her own. There is a youthful and reckless abandon in the way she uses her hands and fingers, but the whole of her mind and body are smiling in unison, and she can't but help bring them to laughter.
As she fades into sleep, she dreams of tomorrow. It will be the start, no doubt, of one of the most memorable experiences she'll ever have.
*continued in Vitis Coffea, Part II
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Gravity
He realizes as he stares up at her that there is no word for her. Gorgeous comes close, but is too superficial. Beautiful, though accurate, misses something. He realizes as he stares down at her that a word is not necessary. Her landscape is perfect with its imperfections. He realizes as he stares up at her that she is the word. Constantly at the tip of his tongue, caught between speech and taste.
She's timid in the light, hurrying to wrap the bed sheet around her body. The way the fabric sticks to her curves, caught within the gravity of her sweat, keeps him aroused. He can think of nothing, except what she wants him to think. She turns off the light and the sheet morphs into wings, carrying her gently through the air as she lands gently on top of him.
He's never had a coherent conversation during sex before, but somehow she manages to separate his mind from his body, arousing each in simultaneous and distinct ways. His body, grounded, feels the physical pleasures of hers. Her brunette hair shifting lightly against his stomach and his legs. Guided hands guiding in turn. At the tip of her tongue, caught between speech and taste.
His mind, aloft, races to comprehend just how wonderful she is. Though that word, too, fails. He often dreams of flying and this is what it feels like. Even with eyes closed he knows she's looking up at him. There's a smile in her eyes that he can hear. She is the top of his world, and he is upside down.
The climb begins. Soft curves slide into place A mouth waters another, both now silent and tasting of each. Her hair shifting lightly against his face. Her wings fall to the side and he carries her gently through the air as he lands gently within her. Guided hands on hips, then guiding other hands. At the top of the world, caught between the sky and the sea. A word finally comes to him... she is fluid. Snow on a mountain finding its way home to the rivers below. And he must drink.
***
He wakes up, quite literally from the dream. That her shoes remain safely and comfortably on the floor lets him know... quite figuratively, as well.
She's timid in the light, hurrying to wrap the bed sheet around her body. The way the fabric sticks to her curves, caught within the gravity of her sweat, keeps him aroused. He can think of nothing, except what she wants him to think. She turns off the light and the sheet morphs into wings, carrying her gently through the air as she lands gently on top of him.
He's never had a coherent conversation during sex before, but somehow she manages to separate his mind from his body, arousing each in simultaneous and distinct ways. His body, grounded, feels the physical pleasures of hers. Her brunette hair shifting lightly against his stomach and his legs. Guided hands guiding in turn. At the tip of her tongue, caught between speech and taste.
His mind, aloft, races to comprehend just how wonderful she is. Though that word, too, fails. He often dreams of flying and this is what it feels like. Even with eyes closed he knows she's looking up at him. There's a smile in her eyes that he can hear. She is the top of his world, and he is upside down.
The climb begins. Soft curves slide into place A mouth waters another, both now silent and tasting of each. Her hair shifting lightly against his face. Her wings fall to the side and he carries her gently through the air as he lands gently within her. Guided hands on hips, then guiding other hands. At the top of the world, caught between the sky and the sea. A word finally comes to him... she is fluid. Snow on a mountain finding its way home to the rivers below. And he must drink.
***
He wakes up, quite literally from the dream. That her shoes remain safely and comfortably on the floor lets him know... quite figuratively, as well.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Correspondence
*adult content
Enclosed is a photo with my little league baseball team. I'm the cute one. - KW
Yes, you are cute. I find baseball boring. I prefer football. - AM
Football? I didn't know the French played football. - KW
You call it soccer, silly. Soccer. What an ugly word. - AM
That conversation took three weeks to have.
***
She's barely stepped through the front door before he throws her on the couch. He can't help himself. Doesn't want to. Though this is the first time they've met face to face, they've known each other for years. Serendipity made them pen-pals in the third grade. A love of correspondence kept them that way. Even in high school, when email started becoming prolific, they preferred to read the hand-writing of the other. Subtext lost in sans-serif remained in the lines and curves of ink. Email did, however, become their primary method of exchanging photographs... they've known what each other has looked like throughout their lives. Their voices, however, remained mysteries to each other until a few weeks ago.
She had written that she was coming to the United States. Not to visit him, of course, but to interview for jobs in New York and Los Angeles. He was excited that they would finally be on the same continent, but living just north of Dallas, he didn't think they would have the chance to meet during her trip.
An irresistible need to alleviate being alone changed all that.
She's smiling through their kiss and begins to laugh. Pushing him off slightly, she looks up and says, "Hello." There's almost another laugh, but their mouths draw together too quickly. During their long correspondence, they always managed to maintain a platonic facade. That wall has fallen, and neither would have it any other way.
***
I am not sure. He has been aggressive. I want to travel and he wants me to settle down. - AM
Nah, don't settle. The world is there to be seen, you know? - KW
I left him. I'm going to blame you if this does not work in my favor. - AM
I'll buy you a coffee if it doesn't. - KW
Are you going to mail it to me? - AM
Got a gift card loaded with Euros just in case. - KW
That one took three days.
***
She lands gently on his bed, knees bent firmly on its edge. Her skirt is flipped up and she's in no mood to wait for him to undress. She motions him closer with her left hand and shifts her panties to the side with her right. He never even notices their color before she grabs his hair and pulls him in. Perhaps they are pink, but from his vantage, everything is pink.
***
"Hello?"
"Hello. This is Audrey."
"Holy shit. How are you? You sound... hot."
"I am hot. You know this."
"I suppose I do. What's up? Wow. This is weird."
"I am coming to America to interview for work."
"No shit?"
Three minutes.
***
She's on top, facing away from him. His hands lay gently on her hips, her silhouette arousing him more than he thought possible. She turns her heads and smiles, her profile seeming to glow blue in the absence of artificial light, then leans back onto his chest. Their eyes meet for moment before she playfully cranes her neck, exposing it to his awaiting mouth. She wants him to do something, but he's unsure of what. Confused, his hands begin to probe her body, fingers joining in lustful exploration.
"No, like this." There is no awkwardness in her command, and he feels no embarrassment in obeying. The language of their bodies becomes as fluent as their tongues.
***
"Will you?"
A smile, a nervous laugh. She covers her face in uninhibited joy. Though this is the first time they've met face to face, they've known each other for years. Thousands of sheets of paper exchanged between them lead to a simple answer:
"Of course. Yes."
Three seconds.
Enclosed is a photo with my little league baseball team. I'm the cute one. - KW
Yes, you are cute. I find baseball boring. I prefer football. - AM
Football? I didn't know the French played football. - KW
You call it soccer, silly. Soccer. What an ugly word. - AM
That conversation took three weeks to have.
***
She's barely stepped through the front door before he throws her on the couch. He can't help himself. Doesn't want to. Though this is the first time they've met face to face, they've known each other for years. Serendipity made them pen-pals in the third grade. A love of correspondence kept them that way. Even in high school, when email started becoming prolific, they preferred to read the hand-writing of the other. Subtext lost in sans-serif remained in the lines and curves of ink. Email did, however, become their primary method of exchanging photographs... they've known what each other has looked like throughout their lives. Their voices, however, remained mysteries to each other until a few weeks ago.
She had written that she was coming to the United States. Not to visit him, of course, but to interview for jobs in New York and Los Angeles. He was excited that they would finally be on the same continent, but living just north of Dallas, he didn't think they would have the chance to meet during her trip.
An irresistible need to alleviate being alone changed all that.
She's smiling through their kiss and begins to laugh. Pushing him off slightly, she looks up and says, "Hello." There's almost another laugh, but their mouths draw together too quickly. During their long correspondence, they always managed to maintain a platonic facade. That wall has fallen, and neither would have it any other way.
***
I am not sure. He has been aggressive. I want to travel and he wants me to settle down. - AM
Nah, don't settle. The world is there to be seen, you know? - KW
I left him. I'm going to blame you if this does not work in my favor. - AM
I'll buy you a coffee if it doesn't. - KW
Are you going to mail it to me? - AM
Got a gift card loaded with Euros just in case. - KW
That one took three days.
***
She lands gently on his bed, knees bent firmly on its edge. Her skirt is flipped up and she's in no mood to wait for him to undress. She motions him closer with her left hand and shifts her panties to the side with her right. He never even notices their color before she grabs his hair and pulls him in. Perhaps they are pink, but from his vantage, everything is pink.
***
"Hello?"
"Hello. This is Audrey."
"Holy shit. How are you? You sound... hot."
"I am hot. You know this."
"I suppose I do. What's up? Wow. This is weird."
"I am coming to America to interview for work."
"No shit?"
Three minutes.
***
She's on top, facing away from him. His hands lay gently on her hips, her silhouette arousing him more than he thought possible. She turns her heads and smiles, her profile seeming to glow blue in the absence of artificial light, then leans back onto his chest. Their eyes meet for moment before she playfully cranes her neck, exposing it to his awaiting mouth. She wants him to do something, but he's unsure of what. Confused, his hands begin to probe her body, fingers joining in lustful exploration.
"No, like this." There is no awkwardness in her command, and he feels no embarrassment in obeying. The language of their bodies becomes as fluent as their tongues.
***
"Will you?"
A smile, a nervous laugh. She covers her face in uninhibited joy. Though this is the first time they've met face to face, they've known each other for years. Thousands of sheets of paper exchanged between them lead to a simple answer:
"Of course. Yes."
Three seconds.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Irrewind, 20100227: Adult Fiction
*Yes, I know that this is not the 1st or 3rd Saturday of February, but because of the River of Mnemosyne challenge at The Tenth Daughter of Memory, I had to adjust my posting schedule... and I didn't want to let February go "Irrewind-free," so nyah.
I certainly didn't mean for this to happen, but it sorta did. Wait... you have no idea what I'm talking about, so let me back up.
Somewhere along the way I developed a reputation (a small one, but a reputation nonetheless) for writing "adult fiction." Some might call it erotica, I might call it porn, whatever, but you get the idea. Whatever it's called, it was an accident. In an attempt to learn how to write women (and characters in general) better, I went the way of sex. Primarily as an exercise, mind you, but also because I, well, like sex and am intrigued by the notion of being able to write it well (I'll get there one day!)... so why not?
Anyway, in recognition of this new, er, goal of mine, here you go:
"The Anniversary"
It was a cool Texas night. Autumn was fading into winter. But she did not know it. Had she thought of it, she might have had some poetic inkling concerning the weather or the changing of the seasons, but her mind was elsewhere. Hundreds of feet up in the air, protected by the shatterproof windows of her hotel room, the temperature and time of day were far away from the landscape of her mind... Read More
"Push"
There's both a shy and aggressive nervousness in fumbling around in the dark. Lips struggle to stay locked together as two bodies sway clumsily around the room, as if separation might signal the end to it all. A subtle scent of alcohol mixes with faded perfume and cologne and only adds to the vertigo. The edge of a bed strikes the back of knees in silk stockings, and the free fall begins... Read More
"A Kiss by Extension"
His hands move slowly, aware of her heightened sensitivities. Lips place themselves against lips, resistant at first, but gradually relaxing. There's a hint that he's tasting her, though she's not quite ready to return the sensation. A tongue rolls gently in circular motion, offering subdued exhilaration in its attempt to encourage. He wants more, but she's unsure... Read More
"Linger"
A foot falls, then another. Timed to the breathing of approaching surprise. Ambient sound creates shadows in which to safely exhale. The gentle beating of a ceiling fan whips the air, further inhibiting the long-obsolesced ability to feel movement. Her silhouette, perfectly curved in the dark, tunes itself to the music of this silent dance. A foot falls... then another... Read More
"Amid Hints of Sensation"
The stain on the dress is not hers. Hidden amid the black and white polka dots, Natalie can only imagine what her roommate might say - or worse, ask - were it more obvious. She bundles it to further hide the spot, hoping to prevent any possible revelation to any possible visitor, blithely unaware that her confused but all too revealing smile is cause enough to elicit questioning. Feeling the grin, Natalie raises the dress to cover her face, unsure if... Read More
There's also that rather (as one reader put it) intense sex scene in The Storms of Dust, but I'll let you find that one on your own. However, as a bonus, here is the original version of the poem "Arson" that went up this past Tuesday:
"Arson" (original)
flick, switch
match strike
a burst of flame
quenches
a lustful thirst
her room is afire
beneath his friction
and though she drips wet
it is not water
she comes to him
and he in her
as lovers burn
to the ground
I certainly didn't mean for this to happen, but it sorta did. Wait... you have no idea what I'm talking about, so let me back up.
Somewhere along the way I developed a reputation (a small one, but a reputation nonetheless) for writing "adult fiction." Some might call it erotica, I might call it porn, whatever, but you get the idea. Whatever it's called, it was an accident. In an attempt to learn how to write women (and characters in general) better, I went the way of sex. Primarily as an exercise, mind you, but also because I, well, like sex and am intrigued by the notion of being able to write it well (I'll get there one day!)... so why not?
Anyway, in recognition of this new, er, goal of mine, here you go:
"The Anniversary"
It was a cool Texas night. Autumn was fading into winter. But she did not know it. Had she thought of it, she might have had some poetic inkling concerning the weather or the changing of the seasons, but her mind was elsewhere. Hundreds of feet up in the air, protected by the shatterproof windows of her hotel room, the temperature and time of day were far away from the landscape of her mind... Read More
"Push"
There's both a shy and aggressive nervousness in fumbling around in the dark. Lips struggle to stay locked together as two bodies sway clumsily around the room, as if separation might signal the end to it all. A subtle scent of alcohol mixes with faded perfume and cologne and only adds to the vertigo. The edge of a bed strikes the back of knees in silk stockings, and the free fall begins... Read More
"A Kiss by Extension"
His hands move slowly, aware of her heightened sensitivities. Lips place themselves against lips, resistant at first, but gradually relaxing. There's a hint that he's tasting her, though she's not quite ready to return the sensation. A tongue rolls gently in circular motion, offering subdued exhilaration in its attempt to encourage. He wants more, but she's unsure... Read More
"Linger"
A foot falls, then another. Timed to the breathing of approaching surprise. Ambient sound creates shadows in which to safely exhale. The gentle beating of a ceiling fan whips the air, further inhibiting the long-obsolesced ability to feel movement. Her silhouette, perfectly curved in the dark, tunes itself to the music of this silent dance. A foot falls... then another... Read More
"Amid Hints of Sensation"
The stain on the dress is not hers. Hidden amid the black and white polka dots, Natalie can only imagine what her roommate might say - or worse, ask - were it more obvious. She bundles it to further hide the spot, hoping to prevent any possible revelation to any possible visitor, blithely unaware that her confused but all too revealing smile is cause enough to elicit questioning. Feeling the grin, Natalie raises the dress to cover her face, unsure if... Read More
There's also that rather (as one reader put it) intense sex scene in The Storms of Dust, but I'll let you find that one on your own. However, as a bonus, here is the original version of the poem "Arson" that went up this past Tuesday:
"Arson" (original)
flick, switch
match strike
a burst of flame
quenches
a lustful thirst
her room is afire
beneath his friction
and though she drips wet
it is not water
she comes to him
and he in her
as lovers burn
to the ground
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Amid Hints of Sensation
Natalie stares at the dress as it lies on the floor. It is a reflective and questioning stare, and one unlikely to ever provide a satisfactory answer. A piece of woven evidence to what transpired the night before. Still stunned and lacking any other reaction, she picks it up and examines it.
The stain on the dress is not hers. Hidden amid the black and white polka dots, Natalie can only imagine what her roommate might say - or worse, ask - were it more obvious. She bundles it to further hide the spot, hoping to prevent any possible revelation to any possible visitor, blithely unaware that her confused but all too revealing smile is cause enough to elicit questioning. Feeling the grin, Natalie raises the dress to cover her face, unsure if shame should be the proper reaction. For though the stain is not hers, the dress most certainly is. It is then she notices the scent, and her inhibitions of both posture and memory suddenly find themselves with no desire to hold.
She remembers the seduction and everything about it. The tastes, the smells, the communication with the eyes and the alarming lack of spoken word. Natalie loves men, and never imagined herself in such a situation, but she fell victim of someone who had done this before... someone who knew how to use strangeness to reinforce one's sexuality by forcing them to break it. Its effectiveness was quick and more than a little startling, but as she tasted the lipstick of another amid hints of raspberry schnapps and strawberry vodka, the fear and exhilaration mixed themselves into an inebriation that no form of alcohol had any hope of inducing.
In the name of cautious experimentation, she obeyed the order of her temporary lover to unbutton the blouse that covered a body so similar to her own. Recalling a technique favored by her boyfriends, she paused to taste the perceived but nonexistent flavor of a woman's nipples. Natalie herself preferred gentle handling of her bosom, but Stephanie wanted to be bitten, and Natalie complied. Again mimicking the motions of men, her hands immediately wandered to lower places. Stephanie, however, stopped her and teasingly chided Natalie to have patience. Natalie felt that it was a violent patience, this forced extension of tactile lingering, but as she became overwhelmed with an understanding of what men experience when every inch of them reveals a heartbeat, she knew that the violence would resolve itself in ecstasy.
Briefly, Natalie separated herself from the moment and asked if she, too, should undress. The answer revealed itself in Stephanie's finger to Natalie's mouth, followed by an at-once gentle and rough push to the bed. Slowly, reassuringly, Stephanie straddled Natalie's left thigh and began to oscillate back and forth, gently squeezing her own thighs together in a rhythm timed to her own needs. Natalie gasped as Stephanie's left hand found its way in accompaniment, as if a master conductor in a finely balanced orchestra. Though this overture would not end in fanfare, but in a pouring out, both of emotion and fluids. A final allegro whose only written note would be a stain hidden amid the polka dots of a dress.
Afterward, when Stephanie had left, drunk with both alcoholic spirit and satisfaction, Natalie let it all sink in. Her upbringing caused her to feel a certain dirtiness with what she just did, and she took an extended shower in an attempt to wash off the mental filth. But the filth wouldn't go away, and she found herself more and more aroused as she thought about it, an arousal that soon took over the original purpose of the shower.
No, she decides, continuing to hold the dress near her smile. She should not feel dirty, nor will she. Despite the new memories she will forever willingly relive, she knows who she is and what she wants to make her happy. That she delved into something else has no bearing on that.
Still, she finds herself enjoying the scent of her dress. Perhaps she will wait until tomorrow to do the laundry.
The stain on the dress is not hers. Hidden amid the black and white polka dots, Natalie can only imagine what her roommate might say - or worse, ask - were it more obvious. She bundles it to further hide the spot, hoping to prevent any possible revelation to any possible visitor, blithely unaware that her confused but all too revealing smile is cause enough to elicit questioning. Feeling the grin, Natalie raises the dress to cover her face, unsure if shame should be the proper reaction. For though the stain is not hers, the dress most certainly is. It is then she notices the scent, and her inhibitions of both posture and memory suddenly find themselves with no desire to hold.
She remembers the seduction and everything about it. The tastes, the smells, the communication with the eyes and the alarming lack of spoken word. Natalie loves men, and never imagined herself in such a situation, but she fell victim of someone who had done this before... someone who knew how to use strangeness to reinforce one's sexuality by forcing them to break it. Its effectiveness was quick and more than a little startling, but as she tasted the lipstick of another amid hints of raspberry schnapps and strawberry vodka, the fear and exhilaration mixed themselves into an inebriation that no form of alcohol had any hope of inducing.
In the name of cautious experimentation, she obeyed the order of her temporary lover to unbutton the blouse that covered a body so similar to her own. Recalling a technique favored by her boyfriends, she paused to taste the perceived but nonexistent flavor of a woman's nipples. Natalie herself preferred gentle handling of her bosom, but Stephanie wanted to be bitten, and Natalie complied. Again mimicking the motions of men, her hands immediately wandered to lower places. Stephanie, however, stopped her and teasingly chided Natalie to have patience. Natalie felt that it was a violent patience, this forced extension of tactile lingering, but as she became overwhelmed with an understanding of what men experience when every inch of them reveals a heartbeat, she knew that the violence would resolve itself in ecstasy.
Briefly, Natalie separated herself from the moment and asked if she, too, should undress. The answer revealed itself in Stephanie's finger to Natalie's mouth, followed by an at-once gentle and rough push to the bed. Slowly, reassuringly, Stephanie straddled Natalie's left thigh and began to oscillate back and forth, gently squeezing her own thighs together in a rhythm timed to her own needs. Natalie gasped as Stephanie's left hand found its way in accompaniment, as if a master conductor in a finely balanced orchestra. Though this overture would not end in fanfare, but in a pouring out, both of emotion and fluids. A final allegro whose only written note would be a stain hidden amid the polka dots of a dress.
Afterward, when Stephanie had left, drunk with both alcoholic spirit and satisfaction, Natalie let it all sink in. Her upbringing caused her to feel a certain dirtiness with what she just did, and she took an extended shower in an attempt to wash off the mental filth. But the filth wouldn't go away, and she found herself more and more aroused as she thought about it, an arousal that soon took over the original purpose of the shower.
No, she decides, continuing to hold the dress near her smile. She should not feel dirty, nor will she. Despite the new memories she will forever willingly relive, she knows who she is and what she wants to make her happy. That she delved into something else has no bearing on that.
Still, she finds herself enjoying the scent of her dress. Perhaps she will wait until tomorrow to do the laundry.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Linger
A foot falls, then another. Timed to the breathing of approaching surprise. Ambient sound creates shadows in which to safely exhale. The gentle beating of a ceiling fan whips the air, further inhibiting the long-obsolesced ability to feel movement. Her silhouette, perfectly curved in the dark, tunes itself to the music of this silent dance. A foot falls... then another.
Hands reach around her body and one rests above her heart. Beats skip between a sudden inhalation, then gradually relax. The smell of temporary fear escapes her neck and is tasted. She attempts to turn, but the embrace holds firm and she closes her eyes in the dark. A free hand feels its way and lifts too many folds of a dress. The spider feels its prey struggle in its web, vibrations eliciting a sensation akin to hunger. Thumb and forefinger intrude cloth seams and revel for a moment in enveloping moisture. Beats skip... then relax.
Bodies dance to a song of breath and gasp, almost in unison, but one a half-beat behind the other. Hands rest above the hips of a lover, still hidden beneath her dress. A delicate push followed by gentle pull. She smiles as she tenses, hearing a heartbeat behind her and feeling it between her. Slowly, she adds a sway to the tango. Vertigo replaces balance as movement becomes an exercise in chaotic futility. Delicate push... gentle pull.
Spasms replace vertigo and there's a final pull accompanied by two final gasps. More beats skip, then relax. A foot falls, then another. By the time she turns around and opens her eyes, she's alone again... a silhouette in love with a rhythm of far away.
Hands reach around her body and one rests above her heart. Beats skip between a sudden inhalation, then gradually relax. The smell of temporary fear escapes her neck and is tasted. She attempts to turn, but the embrace holds firm and she closes her eyes in the dark. A free hand feels its way and lifts too many folds of a dress. The spider feels its prey struggle in its web, vibrations eliciting a sensation akin to hunger. Thumb and forefinger intrude cloth seams and revel for a moment in enveloping moisture. Beats skip... then relax.
Bodies dance to a song of breath and gasp, almost in unison, but one a half-beat behind the other. Hands rest above the hips of a lover, still hidden beneath her dress. A delicate push followed by gentle pull. She smiles as she tenses, hearing a heartbeat behind her and feeling it between her. Slowly, she adds a sway to the tango. Vertigo replaces balance as movement becomes an exercise in chaotic futility. Delicate push... gentle pull.
Spasms replace vertigo and there's a final pull accompanied by two final gasps. More beats skip, then relax. A foot falls, then another. By the time she turns around and opens her eyes, she's alone again... a silhouette in love with a rhythm of far away.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
A Kiss by Extension
His hands move slowly, aware of her heightened sensitivities. Lips place themselves against lips, resistant at first, but gradually relaxing. There's a hint that he's tasting her, though she's not quite ready to return the sensation. A tongue rolls gently in circular motion, offering subdued exhilaration in its attempt to encourage. He wants more, but she's unsure.
Her breath is erratic and a gasp further elicits his arousal. She wants time to inhale, exhale, but he will not give it to her. Hands begin to wander, aimlessly, but with determined purpose. Her back arches and her body stretches out... he enjoys the scent of hair as oxygen is temporarily displaced by lust.
This could be a dream, but it's very real. He briefly considers a gentle bite, but decides against it. Complete trust has yet to be earned. She moans as his lips make a promise to return. Her emotions are raw before him, and he wants to see them. Another moan signals an impatience, and he keeps his promise.
He caresses the length of her legs and becomes subtly aware of feet curling in ecstasy. She quivers. The thought occurs to him that her strong thighs, warm as they are against his neck, could easily kill him. But such a threat is hardly enough to stop the kiss.
When she can take no more, he glides across her torso and whispers something that makes her smile. Sliding into one, she's finally ready. His mouth is familiar, but the taste is different. His lips tastes of woman, of herself, a burning confusion fueled by the fade from paramour into lover.
Her breath is erratic and a gasp further elicits his arousal. She wants time to inhale, exhale, but he will not give it to her. Hands begin to wander, aimlessly, but with determined purpose. Her back arches and her body stretches out... he enjoys the scent of hair as oxygen is temporarily displaced by lust.
This could be a dream, but it's very real. He briefly considers a gentle bite, but decides against it. Complete trust has yet to be earned. She moans as his lips make a promise to return. Her emotions are raw before him, and he wants to see them. Another moan signals an impatience, and he keeps his promise.
He caresses the length of her legs and becomes subtly aware of feet curling in ecstasy. She quivers. The thought occurs to him that her strong thighs, warm as they are against his neck, could easily kill him. But such a threat is hardly enough to stop the kiss.
When she can take no more, he glides across her torso and whispers something that makes her smile. Sliding into one, she's finally ready. His mouth is familiar, but the taste is different. His lips tastes of woman, of herself, a burning confusion fueled by the fade from paramour into lover.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Push
There's both a shy and aggressive nervousness in fumbling around in the dark. Lips struggle to stay locked together as two bodies sway clumsily around the room, as if separation might signal the end to it all. A subtle scent of alcohol mixes with faded perfume and cologne and only adds to the vertigo. The edge of a bed strikes the back of knees in silk stockings, and the free fall begins.
Her face glows in the dark, blue-white silhouette beneath an intent so longing and sinister. A turn of her head shifts hair and exposes the sensitive skin of her neck. Caution thrown to the wind as a well-placed kiss elicits both a gasp and a simper. There's chaos in every movement of hand and finger, though shadows make it appear choreographed.
An overpowering instant of lust tears apart her blouse, and an errant button is heard impacting the floor. Dexterity quickly learned results in the rest of her clothing falling to the bedside. A pause. Curves in ambient light burn in memory an image of forever. She inhales every time she's touched, her eyes closed, yet seeing everything. Subtle smiles at the corners of her mouth help light the way.
She radiates a seductive warmth, causing nervousness to slowly give way to confidence. Minuscule beads of sweat pretend to rain. Hands slide from hip to waist, confirming what the eyes do not quite believe. Woman. Beauty. Ecstasy. A forced patience almost collapses under perceived weightlessness. Resolve prevails, however, and every inch is explored before the free fall continues.
Her skin is smooth and played as a piano. Fingers traverse its length, tones shifting from left to right, top to bottom. Dance and music deceptively combined in lustful art, soft colors in all the right places. In the center of it all, another pause. A childish abandon overwhelms as a belly's button is tasted and teased. Another smile succeeds in extending the teasing, but fails to prevent the touch and taste of something so personal.
It was only a matter of time. There's one more button left as bodies finally align, and she very much wants it pushed.
Her face glows in the dark, blue-white silhouette beneath an intent so longing and sinister. A turn of her head shifts hair and exposes the sensitive skin of her neck. Caution thrown to the wind as a well-placed kiss elicits both a gasp and a simper. There's chaos in every movement of hand and finger, though shadows make it appear choreographed.
An overpowering instant of lust tears apart her blouse, and an errant button is heard impacting the floor. Dexterity quickly learned results in the rest of her clothing falling to the bedside. A pause. Curves in ambient light burn in memory an image of forever. She inhales every time she's touched, her eyes closed, yet seeing everything. Subtle smiles at the corners of her mouth help light the way.
She radiates a seductive warmth, causing nervousness to slowly give way to confidence. Minuscule beads of sweat pretend to rain. Hands slide from hip to waist, confirming what the eyes do not quite believe. Woman. Beauty. Ecstasy. A forced patience almost collapses under perceived weightlessness. Resolve prevails, however, and every inch is explored before the free fall continues.
Her skin is smooth and played as a piano. Fingers traverse its length, tones shifting from left to right, top to bottom. Dance and music deceptively combined in lustful art, soft colors in all the right places. In the center of it all, another pause. A childish abandon overwhelms as a belly's button is tasted and teased. Another smile succeeds in extending the teasing, but fails to prevent the touch and taste of something so personal.
It was only a matter of time. There's one more button left as bodies finally align, and she very much wants it pushed.
Friday, December 7, 2007
The Anniversary
It was a cool Texas night. Autumn was fading into winter. But she did not know it. Had she thought of it, she might have had some poetic inkling concerning the weather or the changing of the seasons, but her mind was elsewhere. Hundreds of feet up in the air, protected by the shatterproof windows of her hotel room, the temperature and time of day were far away from the landscape of her mind.
Love was in the air, as is often the case during and after a wedding. Lust, too, was present that night. Two emotional warmths amid the chill the wind had brought from distant deserts and shores. She was drunk, to be sure, but the clarity of the sensation shined through the haze of the alcohol clouding her mind. He was on top of her, inside of her, and she could do nothing about it, even if she had wanted to.
Caught between impulses to resist and the desire to wait for what came next, her mind continued to wander. Neither here, nor there, she felt what was happening. A part of her trapped in a moment unexpected, one she did not want to end. Another part of her freed in a surge of emotion, watching herself watching herself. And it was magic.
Her hands caressed and attacked her lover. His body was still strange to her, and this was a new that she would never get used to. He did not seem to mind. He understood her confusion, her unbearable pleasure. He just smiled and kissed her. For, that night, she was loved.
And still is.
Love was in the air, as is often the case during and after a wedding. Lust, too, was present that night. Two emotional warmths amid the chill the wind had brought from distant deserts and shores. She was drunk, to be sure, but the clarity of the sensation shined through the haze of the alcohol clouding her mind. He was on top of her, inside of her, and she could do nothing about it, even if she had wanted to.
Caught between impulses to resist and the desire to wait for what came next, her mind continued to wander. Neither here, nor there, she felt what was happening. A part of her trapped in a moment unexpected, one she did not want to end. Another part of her freed in a surge of emotion, watching herself watching herself. And it was magic.
Her hands caressed and attacked her lover. His body was still strange to her, and this was a new that she would never get used to. He did not seem to mind. He understood her confusion, her unbearable pleasure. He just smiled and kissed her. For, that night, she was loved.
And still is.
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