The Literary Courtesan

2011-11-22T06:33:00.001-08:00

Welcome listeners of In Bed With Susie.
As you can see, I haven't posted in a while, but if there is a new audience, I'm happy to start posting again. Leave a comment, and let the games begin.

A Midsummer Dinner in the City

2006-08-14T07:42:00.000-07:00

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.

Let Me Tell You a Story

2006-08-13T06:51:00.000-07:00

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.

Welcome

2006-08-13T06:48:00.000-07:00

Office Politics

2006-04-11T07:45:00.001-07:00

a snippet of memory

He paid the check. They got into his car, and she asked him to take her someplace she’d never been before. He took her to his house. Introduced her to his dogs. Drove her on some back street on Queen Anne. The whole time, she wanted to reach over and kiss him. It was killing her. She wanted to slide over and straddle him. Was he that oblivious?

He said he was driving her back to her car, and she must have sighed because he asked her what was wrong. And she told him. She told him she thought there was sexual tension and didn’t he feel it too? Yes. He said. He did. And technically, he was a free man because he was no longer in a relationship, but she was married. And she didn’t care. And she remembered, she remembers it now even years later, that he parked the car. And he asked her if she liked to kiss. “Yes.” She said. And he kissed her. Jesus. He kissed her and it was like no other kiss, ever. His lips were soft, and his tongue played around in her mouth as if he was making love to her. He was making love to her, and the only parts of their bodies that were touching were their mouths. Her world was shifting, right there in that car, and she wanted to crawl inside him, feel his skin from inside him, wanted to feel what he was feeling right then. She could feel herself turning into liquid. She was dripping wet and she wanted to grab his hand, shove it up against her. She was not wearing a bra or panties, and she wanted nothing more than to lift the dress and fuck him right there. Wanton.

She tried to touch him. “uhuh” he said. As if he was scolding her. And then he went back to kissing her. They needed to talk, and he decided that making out on a downtown street wasn’t such a great idea, so he said they should go park somewhere else. She wasn’t sure where they wound up. They were still on a street somewhere, it was still light, but there they were still kissing. She remembered that at some point she took his finger into her mouth, began fellating it, sucking it in, stroking it with her tongue. “You’re giving my finger an erection,” he said. But he didn’t seem to mind. At another point, they were both in the driver’s seat, pushed back, and he had her breast in his mouth. They would laugh sometimes, because it would be too funny if they were to get caught being indecent in the car.

She doesn’t remember the exact sequence of events. There was a lot of touching, some discussion, some wrestling, testing of boundaries. It was like being teenagers. He had no-touch zones, and all she wanted to do was to touch the forbidden. She knew he was hard. She was as wet as she could remember being in a long, long time. She wanted him inside her. Wanted to feel him drive into her while she straddled him there in the driver’s seat. She didn’t care if the whole world watched.

At some point, they decided to drive back to the offices. She went to the bathroom and laughed. He had marked her. There was a huge hickie on her breast, which was going to be difficult to hide from her husband, who was arriving in four days. But she didn’t care. She liked that he had marked her.

They were back in his office. It was dark, the door was closed, and she was standing before him. She put her hands on his belt and tugged at it. She figured she would keep going until he told her to stop, and she hadn’t heard a “no” yet. She unbuttoned his jeans, unzipped them, and reached her hand into his underwear. He was unbelievably hard and he was soaked with precome. She kneeled, began to kiss and lick at the head of him. He groaned. She could feel something give in him, maybe just a giving up of the resistance, and she loved this. She loved that after all these years, she was doing something to him that she was sure she had never done before with him. She took him into her mouth, sucking and stroking him simultaneously. She had a little mouth, and she wanted to get as much of him into her as she could, so she stroked up from his balls as she pushed down with her mouth. She could feel his knees begin to buckle. He must be enjoying this. But then he stopped her. He told her something about her deserving a bed, and he pushed her back on the folded futon in his office. He pushed up her dress, and then, Oh God, his mouth was on her cunt. Licking, Stroking, She could feel herself pressed up against him, could feel the orgasm beginning to build. She wanted him in everywhere. She wanted to be sucking him, too, to be stroking him, to be returning to him the sweet sensation of his mouth on her clitoris, awash in her fluids, which she could feel seeping into the futon below her.

And then. Damn it. There was a noise in the building and he stopped. Goddamn it. He stopped. Told her that they couldn’t continue, there were people in the building. That they had to go.

Drivin' (Part I)

2005-06-20T11:57:00.000-07:00

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.

The Personal Touch

2005-06-18T14:52:00.000-07:00

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 enyabouche@yahoo.com.

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.

--Enya

I'm sorry I've been such a tease

2005-05-17T15:51:00.000-07:00

I've been doing work for clients, writing stories for their eyes only. It's kept me busy. Feel free to contact me privately if I may do the same for you.

Mesopotamia

2005-04-18T07:17:00.000-07:00

Mesopotamia

"I want to taste your history," he said,
his tongue at the entrance to me.
"You taste like salted honey,"
I thought of ancient lands,
of honey offered to
goddesses.
I felt myself begin
to flow toward him,
Offering myself to him,
wanting his tongue there,
just there,
the nugget of me
being suckled.
Honeysuckle.
I began to open then,
to feel my secrets
seep from me,
into his mouth,
his gentle mouth that felt
like the legs of the bee
upon my flesh.
I felt the buzz then within me,
a hum of a thousand bees beneath my mons,
louder, louder,
so I thought he
might hear it,
this thing that was moving like a swarm
through me.
I felt myself rise under his mouth, felt
myself push against his lips and tongue and chin,
myself the offering,
myself the goddess.

Virginity can Kill You

2005-04-18T07:09:00.000-07:00

The Divas over at CultureKitchen are stirring it up today. Between claiming ownership of their bodies, and talking about losing virginity, it's a great day to go pay them a visit.

And yes. I'm working on another little morsel for this site. But hey. If you want to know what I can really do, contact me directly and let me write you a private story.

Enya's tired of winter

2005-02-27T06:30:00.000-08:00

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.

In the dressing room

2005-02-07T13:18:00.000-08:00

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.

The negotiations continue

2005-01-30T13:01:00.000-08:00

I know, I've been such a tease. But I've been ... busy.
Here's some more of this story.

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.

Further negotiations

2005-01-15T09:57:00.000-08:00

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.

For those of you who are waiting

2005-01-12T09:47:00.000-08:00

I haven't posted anything more to the story of dinner because I haven't decided in which direction it should go. There are clearly negotiations at hand, but who will hold the power and who will cede ground here?

Postprandial negotiations

2005-01-09T08:48:00.000-08:00

"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

Neruda

2005-01-07T19:05:00.000-08:00

No one writes erotic poetry like Pablo Neruda. Here's one of my favorites.

‘Carnal apple, Woman filled, burning moon,’
XII From: ‘Cien sonetos de amor’

Carnal apple, Woman filled, burning moon,
dark smell of seaweed, crush of mud and light,
what secret knowledge is clasped between your pillars?
What primal night does Man touch with his senses?

Ay, Love is a journey through waters and stars,
through suffocating air, sharp tempests of grain:
Love is a war of lightning,
and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness.

Kiss by kiss I cover your tiny infinity,
your margins, your rivers, your diminutive villages,
and a genital fire, transformed by delight,

slips through the narrow channels of blood
to precipitate a nocturnal carnation,
to be, and be nothing but light in the dark.

Dinner part three

2005-01-07T18:55:00.000-08:00

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?

Dinner continued...

2005-01-06T17:56:00.000-08:00

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.

Remembrance of Spring Sex on a Winter's Day

2005-01-05T05:39:00.000-08:00

Sex. There's no escaping it, especially at this time of year. I'm in my garden, watching the ants marching up the stalks of the peonies in search of the buds. How must the flower within the bud feel? Tiny feet skittering across the bud cover, like fingers, the nibble of tiny mouths, chewing away at the outside, seeking to free the soft petals within. And then to be liberated! To burst forth in all their fecund, sexual glory--the big blowsy blooms thrusting themselves into the heat of the sun, the caress of the air, sending out a smell so intoxicating that bees flock to carry out the work of pollination, procreation, fucking. Peonies are gigantic cunts, looking to be serviced by hundreds of little bees.

A Rose by any other name

2005-01-04T07:13:00.000-08:00

Vagina. Labia. Clitoris. Yoni. Cunt. Pussy. Twat. Quim. Pootang. Box.

Let me tell you a story...

2005-01-04T01:38:00.000-08:00

I am going to begin a story here, just the beginning of an encounter. With your suggestions, we'll see what becomes of our two characters.
So, shall we begin?

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 stroke of a pen on flesh

2005-01-03T09:53:00.000-08:00

I write stories. I write stories on commission,
custom-written and designed for a single end. My tales
are meant to provoke a visceral response, a sexual
response, and having done that, I assume that the
reader touches him or herself until orgasm has been
achieved. I sell orgasms, and I do it without laying a
hand upon you.

My pen is a sexual organ. I use it to stroke your
imagination, to swell your most sensitive parts with
blood, to make you slick with desire, elevate your
heartbeat, escalate the rhythm of an ancient drum
under your skin. You read my stories and I fill you
with a desire to fuck and suck, to penetrate and be
pierced, to tickle, and lick, and slap, and thrust.

You’re curious, aren’t you? You’re hoping that I
will soon show you a sample of my work. It’s okay.
Nothing to be ashamed of. I would imagine that your
curiosity is driven by a couple of different
motivations. One one hand, you wonder if reading my
stories will arouse you. Let’s face it. Most of the
porn out there is garbage—poorly written, told as if
one is eavesdropping on a teenage boy’s bravado, full
of dirty words and clinical detail and no sense of the
feelings provoked by the contact of flesh on flesh.

But I don’t write pornography. Pornography comes to
us from Greek; it means to watch prostitutes. Commerce
and sex, it seems to me, is a conundrum. The basics of
life, food, shelter, come at a cost. Or at least they
do in a capitalist system in which everything is for
sale. But sex. Well sex is like breathing, and so far,
we haven’t slapped a price on air. And, there’s not
getting around that I’m part of the system in which
desire costs money. I could give my words away for
free. Many writers do, enamored of the activity
itself, but I decided a long time ago that I came into
this world with a few specific talents, and if I’m
going to survive as a single woman, then selling what
I’m good at is how I take care of myself.

I write erotica.

Erotica is another Greek word. Erotica refers to eros,
to love, to the emotions surrounding sex. But don’t
worry. I write about the acts in enough detail.

Maybe your second motivation is to read to see if you
identify with the expressions of desire. We all worry,
I think, whether our desires, our fantasies, fall
within the rubric of normal. Tender stuff, that,
worrying that what we want, what brings us closer to
our primordial self, is something perverted, abnormal,
sick. I don't believe in those words, of course,
although I know that many do.

If you would like to contact me regarding my services, I'm at
enyabouche@yahoo.com

Welcome to my erotic salon

2005-01-03T09:38:00.000-08:00

I am a literary courtesan. What does that mean, exactly? Check back here on a regular basis to find out.