Tag: flash

Erotic Fiction: Slow Burn

“Come closer.”

I lie back on your bed, curled up in the nest of your rumpled, blue duvet.

I’m naked. I love being naked with you, in your bed, where my body feels soft and silky, like a celluloid princess in a silent film. But I’m not a princess. Nor am I silent…not that I can’t be quiet as a mouse. I just don’t want to be. Silent. There is too much joy in your weight between my legs; and in the way my body feels fitted into yours.

You come closer to the edge of the bed. There isn’t much room, but now you’re squarely in front of the window, which is where I want you to be.

“Strip for me.”

You flush. You’re still cold from your run to the store. I imagine dark heat spreading through your cells, and seeping into your skin. We’ve done this before—the stripping. But your sloping shoulders seem bashful. So does the curl of your hand, as if you’re surprised that I want this from you…. But you do strip, meeting my eyes the whole time once your shirt is off.

“Slower,” I say.

I’m teasing you now and you know it. You’re already going slow. But you comply and go slower as your lips pull up to one side. You’re going to tease me back. You slow down even more. But I love it. I love the frustration and the time it gives me to watch your body move. And all the while, your eyes stay on mine, focused, very precisely, on me, and on us, and on the game we’re playing now.

You’re already hard when you take your pants off. I knew you would be—we’ve been playing all day and you’ve already fucked me twice. Once, slow and sweet, like spoons in a drawer with your arms wrapped around me and my hands clutched in yours. The second was  hard and fast, up against the counter after breakfast and tea. I was still soaking wet after the first time. I’m soaking wet right now.

Being around you makes me wet—your quick solidity; how small and strong you make me feel; your scent; our skin. I love the way we fuck. I love the noises you make when you come. I love the noises you make when you don’t. Since we woke up, I’ve come, in great, hazy waves, more times than I can count. You have not. You haven’t come at all because we’re playing a game and you won’t until I say.

I open my legs, half snuggled into your bed. My cunt feels soft and warm when I slip my fingers in. You watch me. You know what we’re doing. I don’t have to say. But you wait for me anyway.

“Lick your palm and stroke your cock.”

You do, eyes still on mine. My fingers slide over my cunt without my having to try. My body wants to be filled. It’s sucking at my fingers as I drag them out and push them slowly in.

My legs drop open even more. You pause and take a step.

“No,” I say. “Don’t touch me. Slide your hand up and down your beautiful, fucking cock and think about how good it would feel to be fucking me instead.”

I think about us when I get myself off. I think about us so often that it’s natural, even now, despite the fact that you’re less than a foot away. And all the while, your eyes are on mine. Your eyes bring me closer in ways that my hand alone never does….

I lie back and arch my hips, bringing my cunt up to your cock, as close as I can without blocking our hands. I want to keep the hard, thick pull of wanting you this bad. But I come, and I cry out as I do, a guttural, not-beautiful sound. And then I come again.

You’re sweating and your face is flushed, not cold anymore; I smile up at you and you smiled down at me. We are co-conspirators. You know what we’re doing. I don’t have to say. But you wait for me all the same.

“Don’t you fucking come.”

It’s a slow, slow burn.

Thank you to Exhibit A for the use of the words-fail-me, (very) inspirational image.

And if you haven’t read Exhibit A’s work, you should. The man is much more than just a pretty…em…face. He’s brilliant and his erotic fiction and sex writing are some of the best I know. Find more of him here.

Fiction: Bluebeard’s Clever Wife

Gary Cooper & Claudette Colbert in Bluebeard's Eighth Wife (1938)

Gary Cooper & Claudette Colbert in Bluebeard’s Eighth Wife (1938)

A few week’s ago, I wrote a post called Death and the Maiden in which I mentioned Angela Carter’s story “The Bloody Chamber”. That story is an adaptation of the Bluebeard fairy tale, my favorite fairy tale in the entire world…which probably says a lot about me. 

Given that it’s been a bit serious around here lately, I decided to lighten things up with my own adaptation of the Bluebeard story. I wrote “Bluebeard’s Clever Wife” a couple of years ago and it’s been languishing in a file ever since. It’s not erotic, sexy or even remotely hot, but I do think it’s kind of romantic…in an Addam’s Family kind of way. At the very least, writing it made me smile. Hopefully, reading it will do the same.  

Bluebeard’s Clever Wife

Once upon a time, a girl married a man. He had a shady reputation, but he gave her flowers and she thought that was nice. Plus, he was rich – not that she noticed, of course. So they married, and went to live at his castle, which was large and very isolated because he liked his alone time.

One day, shortly after they married, he told her that he was going on a business trip. He gave her the keys to every lock in the house and said that she could open them all, except for one.

“Don’t, under any circumstances, open that door,” he said, pointing to a large, black door with a big iron lock and a No Trespassing sign. “If you do, I’ll have to kill you. Fair warning.”

Then he left.

The bride was an obedient and dutiful soul, so she waited until he’d left to go to the forbidden room. What she found shocked her. Bits and pieces of his former wives were scattered about like puzzle pieces. Hands, torsos, heads… the place was a wreck. Unable to stand the mess, she went to work reassembling the ladies until they were all lined up, neat as pins.

She was just congratulating herself on a job well done when her husband came back home. Apparently, the whole thing had been a test! When he discovered her in his secret room, he was understandably upset, but she impressed upon him importance of keeping things tidy. Then she showed him her improvements, which included a clever little bucket for miscellanious parts.

Bluebeard was so struck by her logic, and by the convenience of having everything close to hand, that he quickly forgave her with a hearty laugh. From that day forward, he left the door unlocked, while she, inspired by her husband’s hobby, took up the study of anatomy. They lived happily ever after.

Erotic Fiction: Mourning Sun

Morning Sun by Edward Hopper (1952)

Morning Sun by Edward Hopper (1952)

His heart beats so hard she’s afraid it will shatter. It’s such a fragile thing. A hunk of meat and tenacity. It will stop one day, she knows. It will stop and he will leave her.

She is young and strong. He is not so young. The men in his family thrive until they don’t. They stop, without warning, when the machinery gives out. She wants to reach in and cradle his heart. She wants hold it in her hands and hide it from the day that he will leave.

They have talked about children. They’ve talked for years. Some day, they’ve said. When the time is right. She is still young, after all. But he is getting older. There is silver in his hair. Not much, but enough—enough for her to imagine his father dying at his age.

She hadn’t known him then. She’d been in college, drinking too much and playing too hard, while he’d been deep in his career. She hadn’t known he existed to be lost. She hadn’t known that, when they’d buried his father, this man, her man, would be next in line.

He shifts in his sleep, restless in the thick, yellow sun where they nap. Beyond the open window, the city hums like locusts, feeding off the heat. There is nothing to do. No child to tend. No errands to run. He gets tired sometimes, so they sleep. They are sleeping away his life. She feels a muted, desperate panic as she strokes his chest.

She sits up and unbuckles his belt. Her hands are nimble and quiet, as if she’s trying to wake him up without disturbing his sleep. He opens his eyes and smiles, sweet like a boy. It makes her ache in places she can’t name. The ache spreads through her. It passes through nerve and tissue and bone until she becomes that ache; the aching, inevitable loss of him, anticipatory and sharp.

He touches her face. His bright eyes are framed by a fan of lines that make him look “distinguished”. A man of a certain age. She wishes she were of a certain age too. She wishes she would die first. It’s a selfish wish and it shames her, but she would happily give him the ache of her loss to avoid the loss of him. She feels small and tight for wishing it, but fear is leaking out of her, red and raw, too swollen for her chest.

“Hey love,” he murmurs, but she shakes her head.

She doesn’t want to talk. His smile is sad now as he lifts up his hips so she can slide the denim down. His Levi’s are ancient, from before they met, broken in just right. She will remember him wearing them when he is gone…when she rocks a baby and kisses a scraped knee. The memories are stacked like tiles in her brain. She feels them, waiting to be used.

She unbuttons her dress and tosses it aside with unnecessary force. She’s fractious and keen. She feels the absence of his touch. She wants every barrier gone.

He watches her, stroking her thighs, her flat belly, her soft, heavy breasts. She lets him work a finger between her too-hot skin and the thin cotton band that holds her panties up. He tugs a little, playful, but she doesn’t smile back. She is too full of purpose as she rests her hand on his, and pushes her panties down.

She straddles him, hovering over his cock with no pretense at play. Normally, she would want to taste him, salty with Sunday laziness and sunshine sweat, but she is driven now. She wants a part of him, whole and holdable. Somewhere to put her love in the days when he is gone.

It’s a dangerous want. She knows it, even as she sinks down.

Her cunt is wet with the tears she knows she will cry. She closes her eyes and focuses on him beneath her, their rightness, his pulse, the feathery beat of his heart. He rolls her over and presses her into the bed. She is crying and he lets her. He will ask her why after, when they are sated, when his come is safe between her legs, when there’s hope that something will grow in the sunlight of their bed, in the city that sounds like locusts.

Erotic Fiction: Should You Stay Or Should You Go

Oil painting by Serge Marshennikov.

Oil painting by Serge Marshennikov.

She can’t sleep. She isn’t used to having someone else in her bed, but there he is beside her, hand draped over her hip.

The gray area they occupy is not at all safe. She wants to fit her body around him so badly she nearly rolls away, turns her back, curls up into a ball at the edge of her own bed. She stares at the ceiling, paralyzed, afraid his hand will move. She wants him to stay. She wants him to leave. She wishes she knew if he’d meant to fall asleep. He never has before. He always goes. They had agreed he would.

But she loves that he is there, sleeping in her bed…it would all be so much simpler if he hadn’t drifted off in her pretty, white room.

She stares at the ceiling, feeling anxious and sick. She wants one or the other – mean to stay or mean to go. She does not like the question mark hanging over her bed. He could wake up embarrassed. Brittle, bright and false. Oh, fuck. I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant…. Or he could smile and hold her. They could see where this will go.

She doesn’t know how to play this and she can’t sleep, not with his hand burning heavy on her hip. She wants him. She wants to sleep. She wants to be safe. She doesn’t want to play the fool. She doesn’t know which way to go.

The clock on her nightstand sheds a soft red light over her tortoise shell glasses, her journal, and her books, her usual companions in her pretty, wrought iron bed. She listens to his breathing, times hers to his, calms herself, lulls herself, pulls herself back. There is time for her journal and time for her books. This is now. He is here. For now, he is here. Her hand drifts over her stomach, past his hand on her hip, a soft feather-light touch.

Her body is tender and restless, despite having spent the better part of the evening with his head between her legs.  She wants him. She knows that. It’s why she isn’t safe. But her body wants him too, and that’s simple enough. She makes a decision and shifts, gently moving his heavy hand before pulling back the sheets.

He mumbles, annoyed by the chill, but not enough to wake up as she moves down the bed. She doesn’t touch him. She just looks, soaking him in, so out of place among the shams and pillows, the empty mug, the small box of tissues besides her bed. This is her room and her life. He is surrounded by her minutia. That means he is her guest.

She hovers over him, still watching as he dreams, struggling through some imaginary place. Then she moves lower, fingers skimming, barely touching the hair on his chest, his stomach, the tops of his thighs, as she settles between his legs. He shifts, as if he can sense her, and she smiles. His cock begins to stir, though it remains soft for the moment, limp against his leg. She inhales, catching the scent of him combined with a hint of her own. Then, very delicately, she takes it between her lips.

He shifts again, still dreaming, but not so deeply now. Gathering her long hair off to one side, she cradles his cock with her tongue and starts to suck. She feels his fingers in her hair as he hardens, nudging the back of her throat. She moans. He moans. It thrills her. The raw, unguarded sound of him makes her wet.

She stops thinking about the alarm she’d forgotten to set, or how she’ll get her hair washed, or catch the train to work. His hips rise up to meet her. The question mark is gone. He’s balanced right on the edge where she holds him, saying her name in his pleasure-thick voice.

She cups his balls with one hand and slides the other between her legs. She wants to come from sucking him off, but her clit is so hard and slippery that she can’t get the friction she needs as her mouth continues to move, guided by instinct more than art. She becomes her tongue, her skin, her cunt and her mouth, straddling his leg and rubbing herself while she works his cock.

He pushes up to meet her coiled frame, and she moves with him, barely aware. She is bent on the way he fills her mouth, his taste, the hitch of his breath. His balls tighten as she drags her lips over his length, suckling his head, teasing his slit, before sliding her tongue back down. It’s enough. She wants him to come. He groans and jerks as she swallows, sucking hard as she rubs her orgasm out.

Her crisp, fresh covers are everywhere; her soft, scarlet blanket has fallen to the floor, but she’s feels peaceful and good, resting her head on his thigh as he softens in her mouth.

“It’s late,” she murmurs, looking up at his face, which is lit by the numbers on her bedside clock. “Do you want to stay?”

A pause and she feels something in him relax.

“Yeah,” he says. “I would…if you don’t mind.”

She sets the alarm and pulls up the covers.

“No. I’d like you to stay.”

 

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The Second Letter

I have sent you the letter that I want to you to see. It is practical and wise, full of smooth, measured lines and things that are best for us both.

I am now writing you the letter that I wanted to write. It is not smooth. It is not measured. I am writing on my skin, down the length of my leg and up again, higher and higher, to my warm, wet cunt and the hollow places that you kissed. I will start at my hip and scrawl, “To my Love,” on that curved, hard bone. I will write of the silence my tongue couldn’t fill; of the ugliness and  envy I swallowed just to keep your taste in my mouth. I understood your responsibilities, your conditions, your life. I embraced my confinement in a small, lush room.

I was your escape you said as you kissed my thigh. It was creamy and white when you did—not smeared with ink, but clean and sweet, a tactile expanse of improbable trust. Your words poured into my skin and diffused, filling my cells with your precise, exacting love. Alchemy. Magic. I became an extension of you.

You cast a spell with every lick and bite. Every time your fingers drifted between my thighs, in bars and restaurants and cafes and streets; every time you found me wet; every time you sucked my breast through my thin, cotton blouse, I lost an inch of myself. More ink on my skin.

You love me, you love me.

Your words seeped, slow and profound, until I lived for your teeth and the thrust of your cock. I became an arching back, a curving neck, a gaping, needy cunt. I was a response to the words you scrawled on my skin with your rich, invisible ink—a room, a haven, the bottle and the djinn, a pretty little box….

I have sent you the letter I want you to see, one written by a woman who no longer exists. Now, in the quiet of my lush, little room, I cover my skin in my very own ink, thick and black, from my pen. Once every kiss is covered and every lick and bite obscured, I will wash the ink away in a claw foot tub—the one we shared last Spring in a hotel I won’t name, because the distance between then and now hurts.

You are in me and on me. Your name is in my bones. I will soak and scrub until it dissolves, and the water and ink go cold. I will write until I am calm. Because I am not calm. I am not calm. I am not calm, my Love. I am the product of your words.

Want to hear me read it? Click on HERE for the audio version.

And lastly, thank you to Happy Come Lucky, whose image inspired this story, and to Exhibit A for hosting the Sinful Stories Competition and for selecting this story as the winner.

© 2017 Malin James

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