Author: D'jaevle

If words are enough, then you will have them.

If words are enough, you are already mine.

When I think of sex, the kind of sex I want to write about, I think of moments. A situation or particular need. I don’t build lives in my head, I don’t give my characters names or families. I don’t craft a home life for them. They are wordy substitutes for the person I want at that moment. My sexual vignettes are almost always done with a very specific inspiration in mind.

I write them as an act of seduction.

—

Trembling. It started with your trembling, an uncontrolled shivering felt through the thick fabric of your coat when I gently gripped your shoulders and guided you inside.

The trembling stopped when my lips met yours. The sudden pressure of warm lips parting against your own was enough to startle you out of your nervousness. You tried to pull away.

My hands held you still. I pulled your lower lip between my teeth, biting lightly, and felt you relax into the kiss, lips parting more fully to share the slow taste of heat passing between us.

I drew the coat over your shoulders, letting it slip to your feet. Without pausing, my tongue quietly pressed along the edge of your lips, my hands slid under your shirt, cool hands on the warm skin of your back.

I could feel the hesitation, the vestiges of uncertainty in the lines of your body. My hands drifted lower, fingers pressed against your skin, fingers close enough to move between skin and jeans, between skin and panties. Fingertips rested on the top of your lower curves, rested on a place intimate and not quite safe.

I was enjoying this. Testing the lines of tension, knowing which way to touch you to leave you uncertain but hungry for more. Like a pendulum set in motion, your motives unclear even to yourself, I drew you forward an inch at a time, never quite leaving your desires at rest. A kiss, a bite, a light finger along your spine.

My hand found your wrist and drew you up the stairs and into my study.

Never underestimate the power of new, snug, socks.

For the first time in four years, I bought myself some new socks.

And I love them.

You know what gets me off?

The sound of a woman who is being thoroughly fucked.

A woman who has been driven past the point of caring. A woman reduced to grunts and moans as a means of communication. Where every sound is elicited through a pounding need, a need so unrelenting it builds into a crescendo of cries that leaves her voice ragged. I get hard just thinking of it.

But I’ll take a woman in heat too, a woman whose seduction is deliberate, a woman who wants an audience as she strips herself bare. A woman with an intent to inspire who knows the husky promise of her words when the tangible weight of her desire makes her voice drowsy and hungry. The way her breath catches in surprise when she’s touched just right. The pause, the pause that tells me she’s reached the point of no return.

I love breathy moans and squeals of pleasure. I love shouts muffled by pillows and the sounds of fingers clawing at sheets. I love the sharp slapping echo of my hand meeting her ass and the low thump of a paddle on her thighs.

I want to hear the wet sounds of her when I press inside.

I want to hear her ass hitting my thighs when I take her from behind.

Yes.

That gets me off.

You will have your way, my eyes closed and head back, leaning forward to rest warm hands on your breasts, the thin fabric of your shirt, a tease, a layer that promises rather than protects your naked skin. Fingers find nipples, twist lightly, feel them harden against my palms.

You are fucked, taking me all the way into your mouth and throat as I press closer to the edge of the bed.

You are fucked, my body shivering against your touch. My hair falling across my face as I breath deeply.

You are fucked, and I grip your shoulders to steady myself as I slide between your warm lips.

You are fucked, and I am embraced.

Close your eyes, find yourself at my front door. I open it for you, our eyes meet, a flash of recognition between strangers. Upstairs, you follow to my study.

A closed door, and strong hands settle around your waist. Warm breath tickles the back of your neck, hands follow the lines of your thighs down as they reach for the edge of your skirt, drawing them up over skin.

Can you see it? Are your hands with mine, sliding along the front of your thighs?

Exposed, vulnerable, you press back against the shelter of my arms, back against me hard enough to feel me resting against your ass. My knee parts the back of thighs, spreading them just far enough for my hands to delve deeper, a flat palm pressing down with deliberate patience, feeling your heat against my fingers. The other is on your blouse, under it, fingers finding the curve of breasts, enjoying their weight, their promise.

Fingers circle nipples slowly, tugging gently to remind you of the tension, plucking lightly at the lines between nipples and clit. “Such a good girl.” My words are so close, they are inside of you. With urgency, I draw your blouse off, quickly, letting it slip to the floor at your feet.

Can you feel it? Your hands on breasts, knowing my touch, knowing my need?

Not enough.

I slip fingers between panties and bared lips, smooth and slick, “Yes.” Inside, two deep, feeling you well against them, sucking greedily as I slip them in and out. Fingers wet, I turn to face you, running them across the top of your breast. Leaning over, my words pressed into glistening skin, “I want to paint you with this…”