Category: Crimson Writ

Admission is a quiet prayer of sorts, a question, a plea, a moment of desire that you can feel in your erratic pulse, in the heat of your own skin, in the growing need to have more.

And sometimes it only takes a single word to get under your skin, to leave you tight inside, hungry and wanting, waiting for the next word, the next command that sends you to your knees. One word to bend you over, to expose you.

It was the day after Christmas and I had spent the night at NE and Bear’s house. After cleaning from the previous night’s festivities, Bear headed to the grocery store to pick up a few things for dinner that evening.

I played a quick board game with NE in which she thoroughly kicked my ass. After basking in her victory (rubbing it in), she stood to head upstairs and change out of her comfy clothes.

“Going to let me watch you dress?” I asked.

“No! My room is messy. No way.”

I shook my head and smiled. “Alright.”

She turned to head upstairs.

“Wait.”

She paused.

“If I can’t watch you dress… Come here.” She stared at me. I waited until she slowly walked over. “If I can’t watch you dress, I’ll watch you undress. Hands over your head.” My fingers drew her large white shirt over her freshly washed skin. It was just chilly enough to raise tiny goosebumps along her breasts. My teeth caught her nipples, dragging them to hardness.

Her sweatpants followed her shirt, and then her panties, leaving her naked in the middle of her kitchen. She shivered. I felt the rhythm of her breathing catch, falter, the anticipation tight in the exposed lines of her body.

I gave her bare ass a nice solid smack. “Now, go.”

She glared at me and ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs. At the top of them, I heard her yell, “I hate you!”

It was turning out to be quite a nice holiday week.

It is an act both intimate and calculated. An act of attention. Concentrated focus on that space just above the back of her knees and below the small of her back.

Is there anything more Christmas than a bared ass painted red?

***

Fingers hook on panties, drawing them over hips, thighs, letting them slip down to pool at your ankles. Hands guide you to lean up against the desk, drawing your hips back – a move that presses your ass outward, making of it a tempting target.

First, a light tease – fingers caressing the curve of each cheek, taking time to enjoy the simple lines, and just as you begin to relax, a *slap* as hand meets skin. Awakening nerve endings, reminding you of just how exposed you are. Moments pass and then another, on the other cheek, bringing the prettiest flush of red to the surface.

It is the intake of breath, the rhythm of slapping, the discordance of hands on naked skin that pulls you in. The hand becomes more than just an instrument leaving red patterns across your cheeks, it becomes a burning brand.

For a moment there is a calm, a moment of silence while your skin, sensitive to everything, is left alone. Then the gentle touch of fingers – almost surprising, as they trace lightly over your skin. One finger starts at the small of your back, tracing a line slowly along the edge between your cheeks, dipping inward. It reaches the apex of your thighs – and doesn’t stop.

There is a light slow brush of two fingers against you, teasing outer lips as they slip to the hard throbbing nub a bit further up. Agonizing in its deliberate slowness, in the obvious pleasure in holding you there…and then the calm is over, for even as those fingers part to run along either side of your clit, the other hand awakens your ass again to the pleasures of skin meeting skin with an impact sharp enough to make you cry out.

Ah, I do love women. Sex or chocolate? Why not both?

From an e-mail written by a female friend:

—

“My boss bought me chocolate for my first day back at work. But all i could think about was getting fucked. Been overly aroused all day. Still ate the chocolate, of course.”

The path of seduction is laid out in the promise. It starts with a simple idea, a story that captures your attention long enough to bring color to your skin. You’re curious, you want to know what comes next. You read on and now you’re more than curious. You’re hungry. You ask for more.

Now you are truly caught, because the next moment is written just for you, catering to desires you only half-understand, desires unintentionally revealed in the few short words you shared. You are instilled with a need, now, a need not only for the words themselves, but the idea of them. You live with the knowledge that you have somehow given over some small part of yourself to this stranger, exchanging a sliver of self for the presence of his words. Need becomes its own aphrodisiac. You are fed morsels of potential. You are trapped by the proximity of ideas in truth. The act of salvation through experience. Bite-sized liquid heat that leaves you vulnerable.

You are fed, and yet, it is never quite enough.

You are always left wanting more.

—

I closed the study door behind you. My fingers never left your wrist as I turned to face you. My fingers curled around your hand and I lifted your wrist to my lips. I tasted the heat from your skin. I bruised your pulse with teeth and lips.

In silence, I worked. Hands drew your shirt over your head, leaving you in jeans and bra. Then your waist. Fingers unsnapped buttons and drew jeans over hips. I knelt, lifted one leg. I felt your trembling return as I guided your feet free. Calmly, but without hesitation, I moved. I left you little time to think.

You were stripped.

My breath was warm against your stomache, a calculated reminder of your current state of undress. Fingers curled around your calves, and slowly, quietly, moved up the back of your legs. I took my time. I wanted you to feel the strong warm touch of my hands on your skin, I wanted your body to understand it, to become at ease with the way I touch you.

I found the back of your thighs and paused. My face cradled close to your skin, I looked up, met your gaze.

I wasn’t done teasing yet. Not done making you witness how far I could make you go. My fingers caught on your panties and dragged one side of your panties low.

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.