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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.

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.

Welcome

Office Politics

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)

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

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

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.