Shy and Retiring

pebbles [fictionlet]

Sat, 14 Jun 2008 08:46:34 GMT

His first time in Death Valley with me, and for once there's something I'm excited about the rocks.

We camp far up a wash, atop a plateau of desert pavement.

We make a tiny fire and then unroll our sleeping bags.

The coziness doesn't last long though, and soon we are rolling around on the cool stone of the desert.

We fuck like kit foxes, softly and quickly and over and over again.

In the morning, we unstick ourselves from each other and blink into the desert sunrise. I drink from the Nalgene and he picks pebbles out of my back.

The Tease [fiction]

Sat, 24 May 2008 19:39:06 GMT

My first long fiction piece in a while.

It may have some lingering tense errors and issues, and there are some spacing problems that are an artifact of transfering over from word. Still trying to fix those. Still. Please enjoy.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

She is a tease. The worst kind of tease - the one you’re constantly
frustrated with but can’t actually get mad at...yet. You see her
every day, her short skirts, the way she flips her thick hair over her
shoulder when she’s reading. Something about her is inscrutable,
making her teasing that much more unbearable; her true intentions
never known. She seems so sure and confident in herself, so smart, so
self-possessed. She appears to have more than a passing familiarity
with her sexuality, and never hesitates to let you know that she sees
you looking. Her power over you is obvious, and she glories in it.
Sly smiles at you over the cover of a book, long conversations over
lunch that end with a hand on your thigh and a kiss on your cheek.
Vague statements that could be read as invitations, and always manage
to leave you with a burning face and a stiffening cock. You know she
knows, and hate that she does that to you. Too many nights alone at
home you’ve dreamed of her, fantasized about having her alone in bed,
of her granting you the grace of her presence, of surrendering to her
kiss, the kiss that never comes - but you always do. Come, that is.

She is untouchable. And lately it’s been unbearable. Something’s
shifted in your fantasies. No longer content with imagining yourself
together, lately your thoughts have turned darker. After a year of
her teasing you’ve had enough. You never see her with a man, you
never see her out on dates. You’ve grown restless, hungry. You’ve
begun to suspect that she never intended on following through on
anything, that it was all a game for her pleasure, and that she
doesn’t see the man you really are - that your hands are perfectly
sized to encircle her wrist, that though her legs are tanned and
strong, you are much, much stronger. One night it is too much. With
your hand on your cock and black leather on your wrists you call her.
She is surprised to hear from you, but seems pleased. You talk for a
while, stroking yourself, feeling the beginnings of a sense of power
as you remember that it’s a Friday night, and she’s home alone too.
You make no effort to hide the lust in your voice as you ask her out
for the following evening, and she pauses for a long moment, and then
accepts. After a last snide comment from her about your lack of a
life, you move to hang up the phone. But before you can go, she stops
you. ”Is everything alright?” she says, with a slight note of
concern that you’ve never heard before. You rub your thumb over the
top of your cock and let your groan slide into a low laugh.
“Everything’s fine, honey. Everything’s juuuust fine. I’ll see you
at six tomorrow. Don’t make me wait.”

She is a brat. So of course she makes you wait. She lets you into
her small apartment, still wearing her bathrobe. She laughs in your
face as you stare at her breasts through the silk and then flounces
off. You make a note of that, and file it away for later, just more
fuel for the fire you are building to throw her innocent act upon.
After half an hour you have perused her book collection, drank from
the bottle of milk in the fridge, and petted the cat. Just as you are
about to tell her you’ve had enough, she appears in the doorway.
Looking even more painfully hot than usual, she smirks at you. Her
glossy hair is pulled back in a ponytail, unusual for her, and she is
wearing a short plaid skirt with little pleats all the way around. A
tight black buttondown completes the ensemble, matching perfectly her
little black boots. You stare at her for a moment, mouth agape
despite yourself. She laughs, that mocking laugh that never fails to
make you lose speech and fumble your words. Not this time. You
manage a reply, “You need a necklace to go with that outfit, I think,
something...shiny.” You let your voice drop on the last word. She
looks at you and laughs again. “Don’t get any ideas, buddy. You
can’t afford something for my neck.” You let the comment fall into
the air, and turn to go. “Well then, princess, is dinner good enough
for you?” She twines her fingers into her ponytail, then leans to
kiss you on the cheek. “”I suppose.” You grin. “I know just
where to go. Save room for desert.”

***

Dinner is a forgettable affair, largely due to the normalcy of your
interactions. She’s a little flirtier than usual, but you dismiss
it as a result of your offering to pay for the rather expensive dinner.
Naturally, you’re somewhat distracted, but find that the more you
envision your plans for later, the less of an affect she has on you.
She seems to sense that something is different in your manner. She
insists on sitting next to you at dinner, and gives you a petulant
pout when you gently steer her over to the other side of the table.
She keeps taking food off your plate and eating it while looking straight at you,
but you only stare back at her calmly, and proceed on with the conversation
been talking about. When the check comes, she laughs and pushes it
over to you. “This was your idea, remember?” she saya with a
smile. You look at her, emboldened. ”It was, in fact. But don’t
worry - we’ll split the check later.” She looks at you, clearly
confused, and then laughs. You notice a little bit of confusion in
her laugh, and savor the knowledge that before the night is over,
she’ll be so sure of your intentions that the confusion will be
completely replaced by certainty, and hopefully more than a little fear.

As the two of you leave the restaurant, she walks slightly in front of you. You
watch her ass as she walks the short skirt twitching and swishing
around her lovely round hips. She gives a playful backwards glance at
you and asks what the plan for desert is. Something fun, maybe? You
laughed, and reach for her arm, tucking it into yours. She looks
slightly affronted and a little surprised, but laughs and squeezes
you arm, still clearly unaware of where you’re headed. “I know
something sweet and sharp we can have,” you say and she licks her
lips in reply. “Ginger ice cream!” she crows, “My favorite!”
You don’t correct her.

Now you’re the tease. You walk her around the neighborhood a few
times, first past the ice cream shop, then the grocery store.
Eventually you stop in front of your apartment building, and she turns to
you with dismay in her eyes. “I thought we were going for ice
cream.” There is a slight note of petulance in her voice, and you allow

simultaneous irritation and anticipation to wash over you. “I just
remembered I had some in the fridge. Plus you’ve never been to my
house. C’mon in for a little bit, and then I’ll take you home.” She
squeezes your arm once more and then hops up the steps in front of
you, no doubt to let you see her pretty ass once more, still thinking
of herself as the untouchable prize, happy with the good conversation and
the free dinner. When you arrive inside, though, she pauses on the
doorstep. Behind her in the hallway, you grinned to yourself. You
look over her shoulder at the living room, at the black corduroy
sofa, at the guitars and the big screen TV. You see her glance at the
bookshelves and ease into the doorway next to her. You look sideways
and watch as her eyes flick over the science fiction, the history
books, the reference manuals, and finally, at the bottom, your extensive
collection of fine art coffee table books, many of which feature some
type of exotic bondage.

Her eyes widen, and she looks at you. You laugh, and grasp her
wrist in your hand, wanting to catch her while you have the element of
surprise in your favor. You shut the door behind her in one smooth
motion, and she jumps when it latches loudly. You look down at her
and grin widely. Confusion flicker across her eyes and your stomach tingles.

“It’s time for you to pay for your dinner, sweetie,” you say, reaching out
to gently tug on the tip of her ponytail. “Don’t worry. I have only
your best interests at heart. You just don’t know what those are
yet.”

Real fear touches her face. You watch the muscles in her jaw tense

and are unsurprised when she laughs nervously. Her voice quavers when

she speaks. “This is a funny game, but your regular jokes are funnier.

I want to have ice cream now.”

You pull her arm toward you and use it to push her toward the couch.

“There will be time for ice cream later, and you’ll want refreshment by the

time we’re done.”

She looks at you with terrified eyes. “This can’t be happening to
me! You’re my friend! You can’t possibly be doing this to me!!”
Tears well in her eyes, and you feel her trembling. You pull her
close to you even as she struggles to get away. Cupping her chin in
you hand you look down into her eyes. “I am not going to do
anything you don’t already want me to do. It’s time for you to stop

lying to yourself about what you want - and time for you to make

good on all the things you’ve teased me with.” ”But, but...

you can’t do this!” she bursts out, and actually stamps her
booted foot. “No buts, my dear,” you laugh, “and I suggest you
lose that attitude, or else I’ll have to beat it out of you.” Her
eyes widen, and before she can stop you, you let go of her arm and
thrust her forward toward the couch. She trips on the rug and falls
with her arms on the cushions, crying out as she bangs her knees on the floor.

In one motion you pull out your pocketknife and tear a strip from her
skirt, quickly bringing it around her mouth. As you tie it gently
around the back of her head she begins to cry. “Don’t cry too much
yet, darling,” you say, “there will be plenty of chances to make
your makeup run later.”

She is trying to push herself off the couch, so you lean forward and
push her back down, holding her against the cushions. You reach
under the couch and bring out a pair of handcuffs and quickly bind
them around her wrists. Holding her hands behind her back you can
feel a change in her body, a tiny relaxing of her formerly stiffly
indignant spine. You push up her shirt and unsnap her bra, then
fondle her breasts roughly for a moment. Not wanting her to get distracted
yet, after a moment you pull her to her feet. As you turn her around
you see that she was still crying, but her eyes burned with defiance.
You can’t resist sliding the gag off her pretty lips and as your finger

grazes her teeth, she bites it, hard. ”Bitch!” you hiss, and without pause,
slap her once. Then before she can register what happened, you
leaned in and kiss her forcefully, then pull away and slap her
again.

She is too shocked to sob. She simply stares at you, her face white,
legs shaking. You feel a stab of guilt and concern, but remind
yourself that it is too late now, the game had begun. You pull on
her wrists again, and lead her, stunned, into the bedroom. She sits down

on the bed without being told. You push her into her back and began to

tie her wrists to the headboard. This seems bring her back to her senses.

“Stop it!” ”You can’t do this to me!” ”Oh, I can, and I will, and look,

I am, right now!” you purr. Having her securely tied now, you reach

for her skirt, flipping it up to reveal cute black panties. “Very nice, but these
have to go. You can’t hide from me any longer.”

You slide the panties down over her hips, noting with pleasure the way
she press her hips into your hands, nearly against her will. Then with no
warning you plunge your fingers into her cunt. She is so wet, wetter
than you can believe, and hot against your fingers. She moans
loudly, and you can’t help but laugh. “Nothing you don’t want,
remember sweetheart?” “You’re an asshole!” she shouts. “And
you’re a brat and a tease, and now it’s time for your dessert.” She

writhes against her bonds, and you run your hands down her sides

with deliberate slowness. “I’m not going to blindfold you, because I

want you to see what’s going to happen, so you can fear it. I’m not

going to gag you because I have other plans for your mouth. All you

need to know that every time you get lippy, you get a smack, and I

get to decide where it lands.”

Your words have the desired effect, and she began to shout again. This
gets her two sharp slaps against her hips, and a threat to turn her
over and continue there. Undeterred and no longer thinking clearly,
she rails against you again. Loosening her bonds slightly, you roll
her over and tie her tightly once more. For good measure you tie her
ankles as well, and now she is fully your plaything, with only the
pillow to hear her cries. You reach under the bed and draw on a
pair of fine black leather gloves. You gently touch her face so she
can feel the leather, and then withdraw. You examine her fine ass
for one long moment, and then began to spank her. At first she cries
in pain and humiliation and tries to pull away, but then, suddenly,
she relaxes. She began to wiggle her ass in anticipation of the next
blow, and as her ass gets redder, she begins to drip wetness from
between her thighs. You smile in satisfaction, and pull one glove
off so you can finger her again. A long soft moan is your reward,
and as awareness of your own body returns, you find yourself

impossibly hard and wanting her, but knowing you aren’t nearly

finished with her yet. She insistently pushes herself onto your fingers,
and you let her, slipping two, three, then four fingers inside her, each
addition making her moan more than the last. When it seems she is

really getting into it, you withdraw your hand. She sighs angrily and

thrashes around. “You like that, princess? I thought you wanted to get away
from me?” She mumbles something into the pillow. You untie her feet
and turn her back over. “Say that again?” “You’re still an asshole!”

“No, no,” you chide, “can’t have any of that!” and slap her across the face.

“Remember that brats get punished around here.” Tears began to run

down her face, and she sobs out her words. ”I’m not a brat, I’m not.”

“Oh yes you are, and I’m going to fuck you until we’re in agreement.”

You stand up and pull off your clothes, leaving only the leather gloves on, and
then reach down and rip open her shirt. She squeaks in fear but you

only laugh and pull on her pretty ponytail. Grabbing her thick
hair in your hands, you shove your hard cock at her lips. She closes
her mouth and turns her head away. You grab her face and pry her
lips open, shoving your cock inside, praying she won’t bite you.
Instead, as soon as she has your cock in her mouth, she sighs around
it and begins to suck. Feeling power and lust surge through you, you
pulled her hair even harder, and began to fuck her mouth. When you
pulled out, she moans and strains against her cuffs. Kneeling over
her, you ask again, “Are you a brat?” “M..mmaybe,” she
stammers. ”Maybe’s not good enough. Let’s try again.” Swiftly
untying her wrists you pull her by her hair to a sitting position. You stand

over her and shove your cock into her wet slack mouth, then pull it

out and gently slap her face. “Are you a brat?” “No..mmmaybe...yes?”

You fuck her mouth again, then pull her head back roughly. Her eyes are

wide and two spots of red burn on her cheeks. “Are you a brat¨?”

“I...I´m a brat...” She sounds defeated but not broken. You laugh,
and then push her onto her stomach, still holding her hair. ”You
stay there, bratty girl, and think about what you’ve done.” You
watch her body quiver in fear and anticipation, no longer needing
physical bonds to keep her in place. You reach for a condom and a
big vibrator, putting the first on your cock and the second next to her
on the bed. You fumble for his pocketknife again and cut the shreds of
her skirt and shirt off her. She makes an incoherent noise.

Reaching once more for her beautiful hair, you wound his fingers into
her ponytail and pulled her toward you, ass first. You shove the
vibrator against her clit and then, before she can say a word, slid
deep into her cunt. You both groan at the same time, and you feel
your body heat meeting, deliciously. You begin to fuck her without
ceremony, pausing at times to slap her ass, hard. Eventually you are
slapping and fucking and she is pushing back against you for all she
is worth, sweat running down her back in streams. *slap slap*”Are
you a brat, princess? ¨ “Oh god, I’m a brat.” *slap slap*”Are you
a tease?” ”Oh yes, I’m a tease.” *slap slap* “Are you very,
very contrite now, sweetheart?” ”Oh god, I’ll never test you again,
I swear, I’m reformed now, oh god.” *slap slap* ”Then I think you
get your reward now, princess. Do you want to come?” ”Ohgodyes.”
”´Then why don’t you let go, beautiful.” You reach out and pull
her hips against your, and lean into her, pushing her further against
the vibrator. She gives a great shudder and began to come, screaming
your name, and her name, and some words you can’t understand, and
then at last, you come too, digging your fingers into her hips with all
your strength, adding ten little bruises to the painfully sore redness
already adorning her ass.

Afterwards, you use her shirt to wipe the makeup and sweat from her
face, feeling tender towards her. You kiss her gently everywhere, and

stroke her hair. She coos softly at you and pulls you close.

As you draw the comforter over your cooling bodies, she turns on her

side and nuzzles your face. She nipped at your lips once, and laughs at your

surprised look. “You can’t take all the brat out of the girl, you know.”

You look into her eyes and smile. ”I know. But you’re *my* brat now.”

chilly!

Thu, 08 Dec 2005 00:48:58 GMT

In the winter, when I masturbate, I take my pants and my underwear off, but I leave on my boyfriend's sweater and my wool socks.

Sometimes, afterwards, my arms tremor from the effort, and the cold.

Tonight, my nose is freezing, but my face is burning hot. Next time, a hat.

-emma

the visitor

Thu, 06 Oct 2005 14:00:23 GMT

When he saw me waiting for him at the top of the stairs to baggage claim, his face broke into a smile. I ran up to him, trembling, and kissed him once, happily, and then again.

We embraced for a long moment away from the crowd, and I let two days' worth of nervous tension drain out of me. I sighed into his shoulder and let my legs relax against his, noticing the warmth of his body, the firmness of his arms around me. We kissed again, gently, chastely, and began to walk to the car. Down the glassed-in hallway of the terminal we kissed on the moving walkway. Nervous about missing the end of the walkway, I kept giggling against his lips, torn between practical concerns and my ebullient happiness at seeing him.

When we reached my car he stowed his bags in the back seat and then turned to me, expectant. I saw his eyes glitter under the sodium-yellow of the garage lights, and my stomach dropped a little. I carefully closed the back door of the car but before I could motion for him to get in the passenger seat he had grabbed my shoulder and shoved me back against the car. When I felt his fingers wrap over my shoulder I knew I was his. Bending foward he made a low noise in this throat and then possesed my mouth with his, kissing deeply, intensely. My focus narrowed and I dissolved into the kiss. I stopped thinking about anything except feeling his hands tugging at my hair, my purse digging into my back, the damp airport-ocean smell of the parking garage in my nose.

I drowned in that kiss for a little while, and when he pulled his lips off mine and dropped his hand from my hair I was a little bereft. I closed my eyes and nipped and sucked at his lips, gently. He laughed softly but I kept kissing him, needing to find my way back out of my sensual haze. Unsteady on my feet, I leaned into his strong body and took comfort from his scent. When I opened my eyes and stared up at him he looked into my eyes and grinned, eyes bright but his smile glowing darkly.

I raised my eyebrown tennatively and was answered with a sharp smack on the ass.

"Now drive." he hissed at me.

I skipped around to the other side of the car, buzzing with lust, wanting nothing more than to do exactly that.

-emma

noisy mind, quiet body

Sun, 25 Sep 2005 23:12:37 GMT

I came home today from a short weekend trip and found myself washed over with desire. A skimcoat of openness and lust seemed painted over all my thoughts. Usually I'd ignore this, or live with it, or journal about it, but since it's Sunday and I don't have anything to do except for chores, I have plenty of time for pleasure. It's pretty rare that I lie down and masturbate during the day. I have an internal battle going wherein I have to convince myself that it's not a waste of time or won't make me lonely. As such, when I do masturbate (which is usually fairly infrequently) it's right before bed, when I can wear myself out and then pull the comforters around me and drop into a deep, neurotransmitter-drugged sleep.

Anyway. I took off my underwear and lay down in my bed, ignoring the dishes in the sink and all the laundry that needs doing. I touched and listened to my body for a little while, then plugged in the vibrator and settled in.

I was trying to fantasize. I have trouble fantasizing when I get myself off. I want to be able to, always I feel that extra dimension of lust just out of reach. I don't remember I time where I didn't struggle with it. It's been a source of unhappiness ever since I found out that fantasy was supposed to heighten the experience of pleasure, and that a great many people use fantasy as a mental tool when they jerk off. Well. I remember being horrified when I learned this, since up until that point I'd always considered fantasy as something completely different and removed from masturbation. It was something I just didn't know how to do.

I have a recent ex-lover who for a while who encouraged me to work on fantaszing. He lent me Nancy Friday's book My Secret Garden, talked to me during sex per my request, and generally was very active in his attempts to get me to fantasize.

It didn't really work. I had one great fantasy while we were fucking once, and I wrote it into a story that was also pretty great. Occasionally would come across mind-movie clips of our play while I was masturbating, but that was about it. Fantasy remained, and remains, in the world outside the bedroom. It's totally maddening. I'll be sitting on the subway, or in traffic, fantasizing about strangers I see, or someone far away I'd like to fuck, or even what would happen if I took off my shirt and lay down by the side of the road. When I'm not having sex, when I don't have my hands on my body, when I'm anywhere but in the bedroom, I fantasize. I imagine grocery checkout girls naked, I wonder what that cyclist I see after work all the time looks like when he's concentrating like that but not on a bike. I imagine my coworkers jerking off. I see couples everwhere I go and wonder what kind of sex they have. I've met very few women who have as many daylight thoughts about sex as I do.

But I don't think about it when I'm getting off.

-emma

raspberries

Tue, 26 Jul 2005 20:20:57 GMT

"Look. Here."

She gazed up at him, holding her offering in her open palms, hands up in front of her chest, like a child guilelessly showing her mother a pretty rock she's found.

"What is this?" he asked. "Raspberries?"

"Yes," she said shyly, "I brought them for you, for us - to have."

He looked steadily at her, silent. Under the awning of his blue eyes the light from the hallway dimmed and she could feel a trapped heat creeping into her cheeks.

"I like bringing things for people, and you're inviting me over, and...um, yeah. They're for you," she finished lamely.

He smiled beatifically at her and gently took the small container from her hands. "Thank you. This is so great." He spoke quietly and the embarrassment she’d felt a moment before ebbed. Watching his smile, she thought that he looked dreamy and half-awake. Somehow he seemed taller than usual. Drawn into his mood, she very slowly rose onto tiptoes and stretched her arms around his neck, giving him the lightest of kisses as greeting and thanks. He inclined his body the tiniest fraction of a degree towards hers. She could feel his warm breath against her ear.

“Come upstairs. Eat raspberries with me.”

-emma

[pt 1]

Finding Nin

Sun, 17 Jul 2005 00:50:39 GMT

For many years I have closed my ears when any number of people have raved about Anais Nin to me.

Yesterday, at a friend's urging, I paged through a copy of Henry and June. I read about half of it last night and this morning.

At the moment, I am utterly obsessed with the book. Lines from it keep running through my head, images that formed while I was reading pass in and out of my thoughts. I am deeply moved and shockingly devasatated by what I've read. It was like reading about a different version of my own life, fifty years before I tried to live it.

I am filled with profound relief and a rosy despair. I have a long life ahead of me, a lot of loving and fighting and fucking to do - and my heart is pounding.

-emma

like the deserts miss the rain

Fri, 20 May 2005 03:15:20 GMT

I miss him, terribly, painfully.

It is the week before my period, and my nipples are swollen and aching. My cunt is dry but sore, burning to be rubbed raw and then smeared wet and filled up. I lie in bed and dream of his body, both naked and clothed. I dream of watching him, watching him walk, watching him work, watching him write, cook, read, eat. I dream of sitting on his bed, or on the floor, gazing up at him. I imagine sitting in the outdoor window of a cafe where I can watch him endlessly approach, him unaware of my eyes on him, unaware of the way I seek out the way his clothes fall and wrinkle across his chest as he walks, unaware of the way I look at him, a long, fine, steady look. I drink him in with purpose, the way one pulls at a cool glass of water in a dimly shaded room.

In my dreams I am lying next to him in the dark. Wordlessly, I am curled around his body. He may wake, or slumber, or simply doze. Nothing needs to be spoken. I am timelessly content to be still around his skin.

My heart is as sore and aching as my cunt.

-emma

Taking a Lover

Fri, 08 Apr 2005 01:17:26 GMT

I met him a week ago.

My heart leaps when I think of him.

I am so nervous that he has forgotten me.

When he calls, my nerves jangle along with the phone.

I can hardly catch my breath, I am joyful!

He catches my eye across the parking lot and I give him an excited half-wave. He slides easily underneath my arm for a small hug, and he feels warm and new. I brush my fingertips over the ribs of his shirt, thinking of the flesh and bone ribs underneath, wildly hoping to see him later, without the shirt.

We steal a kiss later, and flirt madly all night. We dance around each other as we leave, bumping shoulders playfully, kissing with lips only, his hands full of gear and fuel.

I follow him home, knees shaking as I see an accident on the highway, my chest squeezing as I sort through my motivations, and find myself glad we didn't stop to see if the driver was okay.

Later, I sit on his lap and we kiss, him smelling like soap and deodorant and white gas. I nip at his ear, slide my tounge over his, exhale breath gently against his ear. I want to find a way to crack his reserve. One mustard seed still burns against my cheek, caught in my last back tooth.

My body doesn't burn, but I flame a little, gently. My cunt softens, and I let him slide my shirt off.

He is so breathtakingly beautiful to watch as he tounges my nipples. I am not usually so visually oriented, but just the sweet and concentrated way he closes his eyes and slides his small, sweet tounge over my nipples - I have to catch my breath.

We walk to the bedroom after a while, just a few short steps across the carpted floor. I grin and tease him about the pirated flag above his bed. Then I grin again remembering how I'd growled softly at him after he kissed me when no-one was looking, and he'd smiled and made a pirate joke.

We fall easily onto the bed, a squishy mattress on the floor, just where I feel most comfortable. Clothes come off quickly, but he pauses to take my socks off and rub each foot, just for a moment. My heart melts.

We grope softly, in the very dark dark of his room. We kiss, slidingly, subdued heat between us. The specters of my early morning and our mutual tiredness hang in the air behind us, keeping the passion tamped down. My throat scratches a little, too, slowing my reflexes, making me cuddly and slow. Eventually I roll him onto his back and begin to kiss his skin, avoiding his nipples, kissing his sides, his chest, chewing gently on the gorgeous path of hair just below his navel. Eventually, I give in to my growing desire and sweetly take his cock in my mouth. I moan a little, almost sub-verbally, as the warm smooth newness of his skin touches my lips, my tounge. I work him with my mouth, gently, slowly, easily. He squirms a little, then a little more, and makes the first sound of abandon I've heard from him, little escaping groans and whimpers. My cunt twitches, and I want to fuck him, suck him off, ravish him. When he digs his nails into my arm I groan appreciatively around his cock, and I feel him get a little harder. Soon, though, he pulls me up towards him, and we kiss, deeply.

"I love that your mouth tastes like me."

Swoon. I'm yours, beautiful.

We do fuck, gently and for a little while, and the first push of his cock into my warm cunt is as pleasant and as thrilling as when I'd fantasised about it. Oddly, he pulls out after a little while, and we cuddle. I am distracted too, tired and wanting sleep. I don't ask him why he stopped, I don't feel the lack, and anyway, there is his warm new presence at my back. We kiss once, and slide into sleep.

In the morning, he hands me my socks and underwear, still naked and half-asleep. Pulling on boxers, he walks me to the door as I get ready to leave. I catch sight of our undrunk tea from the night before, sitting cold and forgotten next to the computer.

I sigh, a little happy and a little tired, a little sick and a little twingey. I kiss him goodbye, and wish him good luck for the weekend, and take faith that as last time, he'll call again when I need to hear his voice most.

-emma

The REAL Emma B. Sweet!

Wed, 30 Mar 2005 05:24:18 GMT

http://winningthevote.org/EBSweet.html

Suffragette, women's rights activist, and secretary to one Susan B. Anthony.

Right on!

Coincidence is NEAT!

and I swear...I can feel the slash coming on any minute now... !

-emma

winter in the adirondacks [fiction]

Mon, 03 Jan 2005 08:01:10 GMT

I lie here, and he's fucking me - this is real. I'm smelling his musky animal scent and reveling in the rasp of his beard against my smooth face - this is real.

I live in this cabin, I am a woodswoman. I make my living off the land, and I have built this cabin with my own hands. Here in the woods, the snows come fast and early, and it is nearly Christmas. The pines are grown thickly around my little house, keeping me sheltered from the worst of the wind and drifting snow.

My cabin is really only two large rooms. One room has the kitchen, the old icebox that I bargained for with my old snowmobile, down in town. There is the long, granite-topped counter that is cold to the touch, always; no matter how hot the woodstove is fired. There are two wooden cupboards on the wall; they hold my dishes and my food. I usually eat at the small table against the wall, though recently I have been eating on the couch, watching the snow fall. I have a fireplace, more from comfort than for heat, and sitting watching the flame is a source of peace and comfort for me. I have been feeling more cuddly lately, curving against the pillows on the couch while spooning hearty soup, knowing he will visit soon.

The bedroom is where I really let my mind wander to him, though. It is a simple room, there is no door. A heavy painted canvas hangs in the doorway, trapping heat. I have a large bed, simply made and very solid. My basic yet technologically complex clothes hang in the wardrobe, and there is a single lamp on the bedside table. I have no curtains, and sometimes I imagine that the animals watch us as we fuck, content that my presence in their woods is as natural as I can manage.

My one indulgence is my feather bed, a huge white puff of fabric that cradles my body during the long, harsh winters. When he visits he frowns at it, sometimes sweeping it off the bed in mock anger. I shudder with anticipation, knowing the only reason he doesn't want the feather bed there is because he cannot get as good a purchase on my hips when I am sinking into the bed. He loves to fuck me hard.

Last time he left, he left behind his large red checkered flannel, the one with the quilted lining. I wore it over my overalls and turtleneck when I dragged my Christmas tree in, and I wore it over my white nightgown as I sat up all night on Solstice, watching the candles burn down to stubs. When dawn came, I slipped out of my nightgown and spread the flannel on the floor in front of the fire. I lay my tired body down and slowly stroked my skin, hot from sitting near the flames all night. I imagined his face, the way it would look hanging above mine, just before he kissed me. I imagined the dusky flare of his gaze when he would watch me undress. I imagined the velvet heat of his gorgeous cock. As I rubbed my clit gently, I tipped into a sweet, amber-colored climax, and I murmured his name, wishing him blessings for the year.

Now I am lying in my bed, wearing nothing but his red flannel, and my legs have fallen open in repose. I am twinning my fingers in the dark curls of my pubic hair, and thinking of how long it has been since he has come to visit.

I settle my head deeper into the pillows and dig my feet under the comforter, getting ready to masturbate for a nice, long time.

Then the door to the cabin bangs open. "Emma!" He shouts, "Are you at home, you gorgeous little mountain slut of mine?"

I cannot breathe I am so happy, and instead I exhale noisily and squeak his name. I hear him stamping the snow off his boots and then I hear him close the door, firmly. I can hear his heavy wool coat drop to the floor, and then, there he is, striding through the doorway to my room. He pauses, just for a moment, in the doorway, pushing aside the canvas and poking his head around the doorjamb, as if at the last moment, he is unsure that I would welcome him in my bed.

It is heartbreakingly endearing, and part of why I love him so. He is a caring and deeply considerate lover, and yet, pleasingly, excitingly forceful and strong.

In this moment of hesitation, I untangle one hand from my curls and wave him in, gently smiling, eyes crinkling in delight.

It is all the confirmation he needs. He comes all the way into my bedroom, rapidly, and pounces on me, knocking my newly regained breath away. We embrace wildly, and I am thrilled to find he's left his boots at the front door. His eyes widen as he runs his chilly hands over my breasts, feeling the deep heat contained in my chest. He tugs at the collars of my shirt, his shirt, and growls a satisfyingly playful laugh as he realizes it's his.

Grinning hugely, he paws at my breasts again, and I moan, wanting him to hold me, squeeze me, put his cold face against my burning one. His eyes soften, and he looks at me longingly. "Ah, Emma. It's been so long. Do you still want this crazy traveling man in your bed?"

I throw my arms around him, and nearly shout, "Of course I do! I think about you all the time, you nutty bastard! I've been waiting all winter for you."

They are exactly the words he needs to hear. He shucks his sweater and shirt and reaches down for me, hungrily. I clasp my hands behind his neck and pull him towards me, and we kiss, deeply, searchingly, tongues passing over lips and over tongues and this is the best most heady kind of kissing, a hot, sliding kind of fascination. I cannot get enough of his mouth. I arch upwards against him, and he slides strong arms under the shirt and around my back. We sink into the featherbed, his weight nearly crushing me, a heavy, wonderful pressure.

Suddenly, he shoves me backwards, and I am jammed up against the headboard, pillows all around me. He slides down my body, tongue dragging along my skin, hands following close behind. And then, oh, his mouth seems to be everywhere. All over my belly, and thighs, and waist, I feel hot, wet kisses, and little bites, and then bigger bites, and he is squeezing my flesh in a fabulous way. I feel as though I am a fine lump of bread dough, and I am being shaped and loved by his hot, hungry fingers. Then he withdraws his touch, and because I am not bread, I do not begin to rise, but the heat in my cunt is palpable nonetheless. I am now consumed with an awareness of my cunt, all my attention going between my legs.

His hand comes to rest on my thigh. I moan, and squint my eyes at him in annoyance, and move his hand onto my mound. He laughs, gently, and digs the heel of his hand into my flesh. I rock my hips, joyfully, and groan at him. He sucks in breath and gazes at me.

"Hungry girl."

"Oh yes."

"Let me feed you, then."

He settles in at my feet and rests his weight on the hand over my mound. My hips press hard against the bed and I can feel my whole body relaxing. As he lets up on my hips he takes his free hand and runs his index finger down the length of my cunt. He is exquisitely gentle and maddeningly precise. He does not part the folds of my labia, and I am suddenly aware of the hot liquid pooling just beyond the pressure of his finger.

"Please", I gasp, but he shakes his head no. He wants to force me to feel, force me to luxuriate in feeling. He knows how many nights I have laid in this bed of mine and fingered myself to a fast and familiar climax. He wants me to feel, with one single stroke of his finger, that he is willing to sit at my feet and adore my cunt for as long as I could possibly want.

He runs his finger down my cunt again, and I growl softly in my throat, relaxing into the touch. He smiles at me, and on the next stroke, he parts the lips of my pussy. As his finger begins to open me, I feel a hot spill of juice trickle down into the crack of my ass, and I shudder, pressing my hips toward his hand. He slides one long, large-knuckled finger into my cunt, and I cry out, grabbing at his leg. He rises up onto his knees and leans over me, and we kiss. My stomach flips with my lust, and I dig my hands into his long, dark hair, lose around his face.

Roughly, he breaks free of my grip, and returns all of his attention to my pussy, and now he is intense and urgent. He starts to rub his hand against my cunt, sliding two and then three fingers into me. His hand is slippery with my juices, and the sweet sliding of his rough skin against my smooth is making me crazy. I shove my cunt against his hand, bucking my hips and moaning his name.

"Emma," he grits, through clenched teeth, "I can't resist you."

He pulls his hand away from me and tears at his belt, not even noticing the smear of cuntjuice he is getting on his jeans. I notice, and my pussy clenches at the intimacy of it. He struggles with the button of his pants, and then shoves them down around his knees. I am expecting him to take them all the way off, but he instead turns and grabs me, kissing my breasts frantically, and then he presses the long plane of his body against mine, and we both moan, the first real skin contact since he arrived.

"Please", I try a second time, my voice a ragged whisper. This time he cannot hold himself back, and he wriggles out of his pants and without ceremony or fanfare, plunges his cock deep into me. I scream. It is so good, so fucking good, he is so hot and hard and I have been waiting so long to feel him inside me again.

We begin to fuck, slowly at first, but we can't wait, don't want to wait, there isn't any reason to be slow when we have all night to be slow. He grinds his delicious hips against mine, and I spread my legs as wide as they will go. He pulls his hands under my shoulders and the whole of our chests are touching, heat trapped between our bodies, sweat beginning to trickle between my breasts. He is fucking my hard, and my body presses against the pillows, and the flannel of his shirt rasps on my skin. I clutch and claw at his back, remembering all the nights alone in this bed, all the fantasies. I drag his face to mine for a crazy wet kiss, and he pounds into me harder, gnawing at my neck. My whole consciousness is filled with the smell of his hot skin, the musky sweat of our bodies, the sound of our flesh smacking wetly together. I cannot stop myself from circling my hips upward, grinding my aching, hungry cunt against him. I hear him start to groan in my ear, and I know that I am making him crazy. I don't want to stop, I can't stop, I want to make him come, to feel his body shake and sweat. I dig my strong fingers into the muscles of his ass, clutching his body as close against mine as I can pull it. He thrusts into me deep and hard and then as I wrap my legs around his waist, he lets out a long, growling moan. "Fuck, Emma! I can't stop, ohhh fuck, fuck! You beautiful thing, you, ohhh, oh goddd..."

I bite his shoulder and he comes, and he comes for a long time, pulling me close and shuddering against me. When he is finally still, I laugh softly and pull his face up for a kiss. He makes a low, happy noise and slides out of me, molding his body against mine. I slip out of his shirt and as he settles in with his mouth on my breast and his hand resting on my hip, I drape his flannel over his shoulders, and pull the puffy comforter over our legs. He gnaws once at my nipple and I shiver, anticipating the next round. Our sweat cools and our breathing slows, and through the window, I watch the snow fall - this is real.

(c) 2005 Emma B. Sweet

in which I quote myself

Fri, 24 Dec 2004 00:45:22 GMT

From a conversation today with another well-endowed curvy woman, on why it's possible to convert men over to loving curvy bodies.

"It's tough to tit-fuck an A Cup."

-emma

roommates [fiction]

Thu, 18 Nov 2004 17:30:57 GMT

"You know," she says, "you look quite fetching in that t-shirt."

She doesn't tell him that is not the first time she's had that thought. She doesn't tell him that last night she crouched in the corner of the attic hallway after he went into the bathroom to take a shower. How she rested the top of her head against the sloped ceiling and pressed her knees together, pussy aching. How she waited on her haunches, feral and wet, for thirteen minutes until he emerged, damp and backlit by the yellow glow of the overhead light. He was wearing the same grey t-shirt he has on this morning. Without the blue jeans.

She doesn't say that last night she couldn't take her eyes off his muscular ass, hanging out from just under the hem of the shirt. She doesn't mention the way she swept her gaze across his body, eyes following the line of grey cotton that fell softly over his skin. She doesn't say anything about the way she breathlessly admired the way his lean muscles wrap around diagonally from the tops of his hips to that sweet crease where his legs and ass meet.

She doesn't say out loud that she loves the thin fur of hair that covers his ass, the way it curls just a bit around the bottom of his t-shirt. She thinks he might even be a bit self-conscious about this, having mentioned something the other day about wanting to shave it, this after he'd shorn his face clean of its usual short fuzz.

She really doesn't let herself mention anything about how after she watched him go into his room and close the door she fell forward onto the the rug and pressed her crotch against the floor, pulling up her skirt to feel the roughness of the rug against her swollen skin.

She doesn't tell him that most nights she slowly rubs her clit and thinks of his sweet face, but last night she fucked herself with her fingers and bit at her pillow, but never came. It would have hurt too much.

"Looks nice with those jeans," she comments further.

"Thanks!" he says brightly, "You always have something nice to say about my clothes."

"No problem," she murmurs, as he leaves the room. "Anything for a friend."

-emma