The Literary Courtesan

An erotic salon where my pen will stroke your senses.

Sunday, February 27, 2005

Enya's tired of winter

Imagine that it’s a moonlit night in June, right after the equinox. We’ve been at the conference all day. In the morning, you went to a workshop and I worked on my book. That afternoon, in the heat of the day, we took a hike and then took a sweaty nap wrapped in each other’s arms. Dinner was followed by a reading and then a couple of glasses of wine with our fellow writers. But now, now it’s almost midnight and we’re finally alone again. The whole time we were at the reading,the heat of your leg next to mine radiated through me and I resisted the urge to explore your belly with my hand. Later, at the bar, you kept your hand on the small of my back, and that point of contact between us became the center of my universe.
I’ve suggested we go for a walk. We take the road up away from campus. It’s perfectly clear and we take turns pointing out various constellations to one another. The moon is full, so some of the stars are blanked out, but the Milky Way is clearly visible. The cicadas and the crickets are competing for auditory supremacy. It should be a quiet night, but it’s not; the air vibrates with the sounds of insects, and that vibration plays itself as a thrum in my groin. The longing for contact with your body has built all night. You must be able to sense it, perhaps you can even smell it on the night air. If we continue up the road, we’ll wind up on the old ski run. We could lay down in the middle of the field, make love under the stars, but we’ll rise covered in mosquito bites. I have something else in mind. As we come level with the graveyard, I pull you to the left, down a little path to the chapel. It’s always open, and it’s always empty. As it is now.
We pull open the heavy doors, walk into utter silence. The moon is streaming through the wall of windows. As much as I love to watch your face as you make love to me, I don’t turn the lights on. I want to touch you in the shadows, let us touch each other without our eyes as the guides.
We walk around the corner, enter the sanctuary. It is empty; just a few chairs facing an open altar. One wall of windows; one wall of stone. Behind us are the booths for individual meditation. Should I bring you into one of those? I could kneel before you there, take you into my mouth, receive your blessing. How much blasphemy do we want to risk committing? I toy with the idea, but for the moment, I simply lean myself back into you, your arms around the front of me, and we stand there, like this, and allow the silence to envelop us. I can hear you breathe, hear your heartbeat; I can feel it against me. I can feel you growing hard as I lean into you, and my breath catches as I feel arousal surge through me, flooding me.
It doesn’t seem to matter how many times we’ve already made love. I can’t seem to get enough of you. If I could, I’d find a way to keep you inside me always.
I’m wearing a summer dress. Sleeveless, backless, just a couple of thin straps criss-crossed across my back, the skirt that falls halfway down my thighs. Your hand is running up my leg now, touching the outside of my knee, my lower thigh, pushing the dress up. You laugh as your hand finds my hip. I’m being my usual summer wanton self. No underwear to get in the way, and your hand strokes my bare ass. I turn around, press my face up to yours, begin to kiss you. I nibble on your lower lip, suck your tongue into my mouth, caress it with my tongue. Your hand is still under my dress; you move your fingers toward my mound. Your other hand cups one of my breasts. I push against you, my body arching to seek the contact. I run my hands up your back, pull you against me. Your hand slips into my wetness, and your fingers against my clit sends a bolt through me. I can feel my legs growing weak beneath me.
I stop us, push you toward the altar. I unbutton your shirt, run my hands over your chest, take one of your nipples into my mouth, bite a little harder than I should just to hear you gasp. My hands are at your belt, tugging at your pants. I pull them down, help you lower yourself so that you’re sitting down on the step of the altar. I kneel between your legs. I’m stroking your penis. I wipe the drop of precum off the tip with my finger, put that finger in my mouth to suck. You’re trying to touch me, but I push your hands away. I’m feeling assertive, want you to be the complete focus of my attention, and if you touch me now, I’ll come. I stroke you gently with my tongue, just a flick of tongue around the head. My hand slides down the shaft and I cup your balls. I draw you further into my mouth, my tongue sliding around you, my hand rising up to meet my mouth, a rhythm of mouth and hand that I know you like. The only sound is our breathing. I hear your breathing change. I want you to come in my mouth, but I also want you inside me, and my greediness wins out. I pull up my dress so that it’s around my waist, crawl up onto your lap. I am so wet. I touch myself, paint your lips with my slippery finger. Slowly, I position you so that you’re right at the entrance to me, and then, when we’re both crazy with want, I lower myself. We are a rocking chair now, and while the moon continues to shine, we rock back and forth, and send our cries out into the lunar silence.

Monday, February 07, 2005

In the dressing room

This is not a continuation of the dinner story. That's going to have to wait. This is something a little different. And, no, we're not talking Victoria's Secret here. It's so much more interesting over at Agent Provocateur.

I’m in lingerie. Black. Simple, sheer. A bra that cups my breasts, but through which you can see my nipples. You can see how aroused I am, see how my nipples are erect, strain against the fabric. I’m wearing a garter belt and silk stockings; high stiletto heels; a thong that you can see narrows to a thin band of fabric that is pressed up against my labia. I know you know how wet I am. We’re in the lingerie store, back in the dressing room, and there are mirrors on all four sides of the tiny room. I’ve been watching the effect of each outfit I’ve tried on. Some of the outfits have simply caused us to laugh. It is not sexy to look like an ostrich or a licorice humbug. But this. Well this is working, for both of us. I turn in front of you, watching you in the mirror as you watch me. I can see how turned on you are. I can see the bulge of your cock against your pants. I walk toward you, put my foot on the back of your chair, my ankle up against your neck, ask you to look to make sure that I’ve put on the thong correctly. I know what you see. I know that you see the fabric, that tiny bit of fabric covering my mound, the band of fabric that divides my labia, covering only my clit, the entrance to my sex, and then the way it snakes up my ass to meet the the two bands that cross my hips and meet in the back. I pull my leg back down, turn away from you, let you watch my ass sway away from you. I walk up to the mirror, put my hands on the glass, sway out my back, push my ass toward you. You get up, come up behind me. I can see you behind me. I watch as you wrap your hands around the front of me, both of them on my stomach. I push myself backward into you, can feel your cock against my ass through the fabric of your pants. “I think you should fuck me,” I say. “Not yet.” One of your hands comes up. You begin to tease my nipple, slow, circular strokes. I start to close my eyes and you stop. “You have to watch,” you say. “You have to keep your eyes open and watch or I’ll stop.” In the mirror, I watch you begin to stroke me again, watch my own face as I feel the friction of the fabric and your fingers against my nipple. Your stroking becomes harder, a pinching that is close to pain but which causes a flood between my legs. I can feel a rhythm between my breasts and my groin, can feel my womb begin to vibrate. You’re about to make me come just from the pressure on my breasts and I watch my face as I start to lose myself. I’m pushing myself against you, grinding my ass against your cock. Your other hand has found its way inside my thong, your fingers stroking my clit and I come … and then I come again. There’s no doubt we have to buy the lingerie now. It’s marked by my scent, by your fingers. I whip around, kiss you, my tongue in your mouth, my breath against you. I loosen your belt, push your pants and your underwear down past your hips. You pick me up, hold me against the glass. Over your shoulder I can see our reflection, my legs wrapped around you, your bare ass, as I simultaneously feel your cock enter me. I am flying, held up by your arms and your cock. You are driving into me and I warn you that we’re about to bring seven years of bad luck down on our heads if we crack the glass. As much as the feeling of you filling my pussy is driving me wild, I know what I really want. I want to taste you. I ask you to put me down, and I feel you slide out of me as you do. God you’re gorgeous. I kneel down in front of you. My hand slides between your legs, under your balls, and I begin to stroke between your ass and your scrotum, a light scritching with my fingernail. I watch your cock bob in front of my face. I can smell you, smell me on you. Your pubic hair is slick with me. I cup your balls in my hand. Your hands are on my head, in my hair. I know that you want to pull my mouth toward you, but I resist. I just want to look at you, to stroke you lightly. I want to hear you say please. You are glistening and hard and I am so hungry for you. I pull myself a little closer to you, kiss the tip of your cock, a little kiss, a feather kiss. I look up at you. You are looking at me, but you are watching me in the mirror, too. Watching me on my knees, before you, my hand on your balls, my mouth so close to your cock you can feel my breath. “Please” I hear you say, and then I begin. Slow tongue strokes on the head. I can taste me on you. I can taste the traces of my orgasm. I begin longer tongue strokes, down one side of you, up the other. My hand reaches back, and I begin to stroke the crack of your ass, with each stroke, pulling you in closer. I open my lips, take the head of your cock into my mouth, begin to suck, pulling at you and swirling my tongue around. I insert the tip of my tongue into the slit. Your hands are pulling at my hair and I look up, smile at you with your cock in my mouth. My hand has begun to stroke up the shaft. You’re too big for me to get all of you in my mouth, but that doesn’t mean I won’t try. I’m sucking you in, making room for you, as my slick hand strokes you from the bottom up. You reach out one of your hands, brace yourself against the mirror to counterbalance your legs, which are beginning to buckle. It would be easier to lay you on your back, suck you while you’re lying down, but I am so turned on by the image we make in the mirror that I don’t want to break the rhythm. Your breath is becoming more ragged now, and I can tell by the tensing of your penis inside my mouth that you are building toward climax. The closer you get, the more aroused I become. I want you to come in my mouth. “Please” I mumble against you. “Please.” You don’t disappoint me. I feel your cock begin to spasm inside my mouth, feel the pumping of fluid against the roof of my mouth. I swallow you. I pull myself up, wrap my arms around your back, kiss you, let you taste yourself inside my mouth.