The Literary Courtesan

An erotic salon where my pen will stroke your senses.

Monday, August 14, 2006

A Midsummer Dinner in the City

The restaurant was crowded, but the two of them barely noticed. All of her focus was on his face, watching his eyes as he watched her, mesmerized by the flash of blue that even in the semi-darkness she was locked upon. She kept her eyes open even as they wanted to close, but she wanted to see his face as he observed her reaction to where his fingers had wandered while they were lingering over coffee. She had worn a short skirt and was glad of it. Now, she could feel his fingers between her legs, one finger buried inside her, his thumb brushing her clit. She was sure that if anyone in the restaurant looked closely, they’d be able to see what they were about, but the darkness, the tablecloth, the corner table, all served to camouflage the passion. How could he look so calm? One hand on his coffee cup, the other at play inside of her. She could feel her nipples straining against the thin cloth of a summer shirt, saw him notice how erect they were, and felt herself grow even wetter in response to imagining that he was not in fact sipping the foam off his cappuccino, but was instead teasing the breast with his tongue, bringing her to orgasm by the pressure of mouth against tender flesh, pinching her hard, harder, until she almost cried with the pain of it. She shifted position to allow his fingers further access to her, feeling him stroke the smooth and the ridged and all of it wet and slippery. She wanted to come, could feel herself building to it, but kept pulling back from the sensation, afraid that that once she felt the beginning of the orgasm that she would lose control, begin to moan, draw attention to them. And part of the deliciousness of what was going on was the intimacy of it here in the midst of other people.

The return of the waiter broke her concentration. The waiter dropped the check on the table and gave them that look; someone knew what they were up to. She didn’t care. She turned her attention back to him, felt him withdraw his hand, the trail of his wet fingers across her thigh. She watched him put his finger in his mouth, taste her. She pulled his hand toward her, closed her mouth around his finger, tasting her desire, tracing the whorls of his finger with her tongue. She smiled at him.

After she had paid the bill, she suggested they take a walk down by the river. The moon hung over the city, a big fat lazy summer moon in competition with the illuminated city. She could feel the friction in her groin as she walked, the cool of the night air a shock against the heat he had created. They passed a narrow street full of small shops, all dark, all closed at this late hour, and she pulled him in the direction of the darkness. A few doorways in, she pushed him so that his back was up against the wall.

"My turn," she said.

While he watched, she lifted her skirt so that it was above her hips. She smiled. She wished she could read his mind, but she was pretty sure that his thoughts were not on anything other than her. She liked that. Having his attention. And she did have his attention. But what would she do with it?

"That's a lovely view you're offering," he said. "But what makes you think you get to be in charge tonight?"

She loved negotiations, knew exactly how she could get her own way. She thought to pull down his jeans, kneel before him, suck his cock, swallow him. She reached her hand out, began to unloop his belt from its buckle. But he was bigger than she was, and before she could finish loosening his belt, he had swung her around so that she was up against the wall. He pulled her skirt above her hips, grabbed her labia, rubbing the lips together. She could feel the rough brick against her bare ass, and she tried to put her hands behind her to protect the flesh. Instead, he grabbed her arms, pinned her hands above her head with one of his hands, while the other continued to squeeze and rub. He was not being gentle and she felt herself respond to the roughness of it even as she became aware of just how little she could do to stop him from whatever he had planned. And it was that awareness of her body’s weakness that caused her to rebel, to struggle to free her hands, to pull away from the other hand that was between her legs, rubbing her clit. She struggled harder, trying not to lose her balance on the stiletto heels but trying to pull away from the hand that was now tormenting her with pleasure

She forced her attention away from her groin, which was not an easy thing to do. He felt her attention shift in the way her body stopped moving in rhythm with his hand.

"You need to stop," she said.

"What if I don't want to?"

"Then I think you'll be bored."

She was sure they made quite a sight. Her skirt pushed up, his hand still between her legs, she on her tiptoes in the stilettoes. He relaxed his grip on her and she nudged her knee between his knees, pushed his legs slightly apart, and reached up her hand to cup his balls through his pants. He was as aroused as she was. The question was, what were they going to do about it?

With her other hand, she grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulled his face down, kissed him. He let his mouth go soft, and she explored the inside of it with her tongue as if she was seeking out a pearl in an oyster. She could hear the sounds from the street--cars passing, the occasional horn, a siren--but she didn't fear detection. She began to unbuckle his belt.

It was his turn to shift.
"What are you doing?"
She had unlatched the belt buckle and was now unbuttoning the top of his fly. She could feel how warm his skin was through his shirt, feel the strain of his erection against his pants. She unzipped the fly, watching his face for a reaction. He stared at her. "I asked you what you were doing," he said.
She slid the palm of her hand down underneath the waistband of his briefs, felt the hairs on his lower belly that were slick from him. "I'm not the only one who is wet," she said.
She pushed her finger against the head of his cock.
She knew there were people passing by not 20 feet away, and the thrill of getting caught was driving her on.
He was compliant, but she could sense his hesitancy, too. She pulled her hand out of his pants, put both hands on his hips, and began to push his pants down around his thighs.
"I don't think this is a good idea," he said.
She wasn't listening.

Sunday, August 13, 2006

Let Me Tell You a Story

I write erotica on commission. What this means is that I will write a story--just for you--that details some aspect of physical love. I work closely with clients, and the feedback I have received lets me know that my clients are ecstatic over the work I do for them.

I have written everything from personal fantasies to birthday/anniversary/wedding gifts. I have written letters to a potential lover, or offered paeon to 25 years of love-making. I can write short takes to novellas. It's up to you. All of these things are negotiated upfront, and I check in with my clients frequently to let them know how the writing process is unfolding.

Below, you will find samples. These are snack-bites. They are not representative of the longer pieces I write, but are, rather, little scenes that may inspire a desire for a more fleshed-out exploration of the activities.

Feel free to contact me privately at enyabouche at yahoo for more details.