The Literary Courtesan

An erotic salon where my pen will stroke your senses.

Monday, June 20, 2005

Drivin' (Part I)

We are in your truck; it’s unimportant where we are going, you simply seem to be driving in order to have something to do with your hands, a place to focus your eyes. There’s a current in the car; a throbbing that I suspect is coming from your erection—you can’t hide it from me, I know you’re hard, know that if I were to reach my hand across the space between us, place my hand in your lap, that I’d be able to rub your cock through your jeans. And I toy with that idea, imagine the possibility of leaning over, rubbing my mouth against the bulge imprisoned in your pants. How uncomfortable you must be. But apparently, you’re not ready to surrender yet. If you were, you’d have pulled this truck over to the side of the road and let me straddle you. Instead, we’re on a road to nowhere.

Are you ready to give in? How much easier this would be in a bed, silk stockings looped around your wrists and ankles, binding you so that I could lower myself down on to you. I’d start with your mouth, I think, holding on to the headboard as I brushed your mouth with my wetness—enough to give you a taste, let you feel how aroused I am—but not enough to give either one of us any satisfaction. How easy it would be to stay there, pressed up against your mouth, and let you fuck me with your tongue, stroking my clit until you felt me shudder against you.

I look over at you. Can you read my mind? Do you know what I’m thinking about? I wonder if you can guess—maybe you can smell my desire, feel my want throb back toward you through the seat. You intimidate me sometimes. I want you, and I think you want me, but I also feel your hesitation. Do I push past that? Insist that you give to me what I want? I want nothing more than to have you inside me—nothing between us, skin inside skin, slick at the point of contact, the increasing friction as you thrust, driving yourself deeper into me. I want to feel you come inside me, want to hold you there. I can feel how wet these thoughts have made me. I want you to touch me, but I fear your resistance. And so we sit, making small talk, ignoring the dripping tension that clings to both of our skins. I turn my head and I catch your scent—warm and comforting and sexy—and I feel a spasm in my groin. My hands long for contact, and I allow myself to reach over, brush back the hair from your eyes—just a moment of touch between us. My hands want to wander your body, to stroke you, claim you.

You turn to look at me. What is it I see in your eyes? There is not much traffic, just a long stretch of road, forest on both sides of us. It’s a spring day—viridescent, moist, new life all about us. The air is heavy with the sex of flowers thrusting themselves up, drawing to them the droning insects that will pollinate them. There is a flower between my legs that I want to draw you to. My whole being seems centered in my groin, my breasts. I wish you would touch me. I’m not wearing much—a sleeveless shirt with no bra underneath, a short skirt, no stockings, no panties, a pair of sandals. I turn my body so that I’m leaning against the door, bring one of my feet up so that it’s on the seat. If you look over, you’ll see my nakedness. I slip a hand beneath my shirt, begin to stroke my belly, feel the softness there. You turn your head and I make eye contact, watch you as you watch me stroke my hand upward, touch my breast. You can see my hand moving beneath the thin fabric of the shirt. My nipple hardens beneath my fingertips. You turn your eyes back toward the road and then back toward me. My other hand is moving up my thigh, up, up, until it makes contact with the silky wetness there. I pass my fingers lightly over my labia.

You are watching. “I suggest you pull over,” I say. And you do. We’re on the side of the highway, everything silent now except for the sound of my fingers at play against my clit. I am so wet that we can both hear it, the slickness. You unbuckle your seatbelt, reach out your hand to touch me, but I push you away with my foot. Uh uh. You don’t get to touch. Not until I say so. I am getting so turned on by this, watching you watch me as I bring myself closer to orgasm, and yet, I feel so vulnerable, too. This is something I only do in privacy, furtively. But here we are—bright sunshine streaming through the windows and I am so open here before you. I feel my thighs begin to tense, feel the high note in my groin start to build. I want to close my eyes but I keep them open—the coming orgasm heightened by watching your face. I stop.

Saturday, June 18, 2005

The Personal Touch

I've recently completed some personal commissions--private stories requested by clients. The things I post here are not-so-personal; they're sort of snippets of larger pieces, condensed, hurried versions of long, lingering moments I spend with my clients. These are quickies. Snacks.

Full banquets are available. I'll serve your favorite things, prepared exactly the way you like them.

Some recent examples of work that I've done have included several gifts--special stories for a love interest make a unique present. Anyone can give a piece of jewelry or flowers, new clothes, even a car, but a story written about a particularly memorable love-making experience, or an erotic paeon to the person you love, well, that's special.

If you'd like to hear more about the private stuff, please contact me at

My services are confidential, which is why you'll never even hear me describe the kinds of things I write for other people. But if those people could talk, they'd tell you that I do unforgettable work.