And I knew it was bound to happen sooner, rather than later. Sooner, rather than never. Sooner, rather than after the scent of Indian summer left the air, and the first snow overtook us. I knew it would probably happen on a day when the cum-flower trees were so thickly present that breathing felt like gagging on cock. A day where there was no respite to take. A day where outside (the body) was the same as inside (the body). And indifference aside, I was just a girl with three holes to be fucked.
She asked me what I dreamt of her. And I assume that people never really want the answers to their questions because that’s how I am. Because I’m more comfortable amidst the surges of curiosity than the hard-and-fast facts. And I took the misstep of using a euphemism where a euphemism wasn’t understood. Even though it wasn’t my euphemism, but hers. Even though it was hers, she couldn’t recognize it as such. “How do you play?” she asked. Eager.
We had gone for a walk after dinner, and the air was salty-sweet, and it rammed itself down my throat with nothing but force until I could think of only sex, and behind the library, beside the trickling creek, I dropped to my knees, and I begged to be taken. My arms around her legs, climbing the trees of them.
Wait. That was for another story. Ahem. Please strike the last paragraph from the record of reader memory.
“How do you play?” she asked. Eager.
I didn’t know what to call it. I didn’t know if play was the word that I could take between my teeth to stifle my screams, and twist until it was just perverted enough, but not overly so. Overtly, perhaps. But not overly.
She looked at me, expectantly, fluttery eyelashes and glitter eyeliner and all. The sun playing up the highlights in her brunette curls. Her mouth slightly agape, as she pondered the words I might fill her with.
Instead, I took her hand. I took her hand because she had confided in me that she had always wanted to watch. And she didn’t just want to watch anyone doing anything. But she wanted a glimpse. Into my world. And she knew that it would likely come at a price. And that was okay with her. After she glimpsed, she would do anything, she had said. She gave her word and the virginity of her expectations, too.
Her arm was locked in my left, as my right hand twisted the key in the doorknob and we sighed and pushed ourselves over the precipice, the mini-step, stumbling into the house, staggering and giggling at the excitement bubbling up in our bellies.
I went straight to the kitchen. She stayed-put. Eyes wandering up to trace the curves of the chandelier glistening in the foyer. I took out a single black wine glass, and filled it with red. With a hearty Shiraz. Earthy enough, but with that hint of spiciness. I sipped at it, my lipstick marking the place I had been, and then I wandered back to her, handing her the glass, pressing it against her chest, her fingers taking the moment to dance against my hand until she grabbed the Mikasa stemware.
Slipping out of my jeans, I glanced backward at her, tossing my shirt on the striped chaise lounge before traipsing upstairs.
I went up. And exchanged words.
And he came down to greet her. They hugged, bodies pressing together tightly, whispering salutations, and then they went up to the balcony overlooking the mountains, her wine in tow. The hot tub was already running, and the colored lights were on, flickering through the water, bouncing at the slightest wind. The fireplace was lit, too. And there were citronella torches every few feet blazing into the warm evening air.
She took a deep breath of it all, and he nodded to her. She floated through the French doors to my bathroom, on cue, to check on me.
She cradled me with her arms, as I blushed and trembled, and offered me another sip from her cup. The tears found me soon enough, and it wasn’t something that either of us could put into words or needed to put into words. We sat with each other, resting against the copper patina that lined the lower few feet of the wall. Her heartbeat soothed the landscape of my nude form, and though her denim was scratchy against me, I curled closer, grateful for her presence. And affection. And attention.
While we exchanged breaths, we heard the distinct noise of a car parking in the drive. We imagined headlights dimming to nothingness before we heard doors slamming shut. Footsteps to the door. The gasping of air as the door was opened. The shutting of it. And again. And again.
I cried into her cleavage, and she kissed my head through my auburn hair. “Remember,” she whispered, “a gangbang, in its purest form, is sex with yourself.”
“You will be the radiant vessel that you are, but it’s not about everyone else. You will give yourself, freely and gracefully. But it’s not about the details of how you’re used. You’ll be used, but you’ll be given the chance to revel in the pleasure sensations. The pain, too. You can let it all wash over you, and you have no obligation but to show up. You will be perfect, sweetheart. And I will be there, watching, holding your hand through it all, if only in symbol.”
She fastened a matching set of custom-designed extra-thick heavy-duty leather cuffs (with too many D-rings and tie-points) around my wrists and ankles. One at a time. She kissed my collar, and then my collar bones. She removed the porcelain mask from its velvet case, and secured it over my face, taking care to not get it tangled in my hair as she tied it taut. She rouged my lips, and my nipples and my sex. She perfumed me with juniper and grapefruit and sage. She held out her hand, and I stood to take it, and she led me out-of-doors.
a. eve
Pansexual sensate aesthete. Proponent of resources and eduction to help us each live our best lives. Kinky, quirky, sex-obsessed, sex toy-obsessed, sexpos critical theory slut with a passion for writing & def an acquired taste. Interests: The loveliness of everything being lovely. Wearing stars in the night sky. Buddhism. Critical Theory. Embodiment. Authentic Connection. Preparing happy, humming food. Baking bread from scratch. Thunderstorms. Storytelling. Sharing. Old typewriters. Dangly earrings.
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Hey Arabella Baby, Thanks for sharing your wonderful Erotica. My ears be telling me sexy things and make my pants grow when I read your luscious lascivious column.
- Garfunkle Bewder
The pleasure is all mine! Thanks for reading & commenting. :)
My recent post Ask Miss Geek- Dateless
This was exquisite. I love how the scene unfolded…
You have such a breathless gift Bella, to give out details like a trail of golden honey you have lovingly laid before us. We lick them up unquestioningly, seduced and blindfolded, and then when we arrive at the culminating word, we are stunned to discover that which is illuminated….revealing desires perhaps as yet unknown, untouched, un-sensed in ourselves, as in those characters who explore such destinies. xxx
Thanks so much, Slyce darling. So glad that you enjoyed it. xx
My recent post Ask Miss Geek- Dateless
I can but hope that one day my writing will be as amazing as yours, right here. I am in awe.
- Arthur
My recent post Lucky
Awww, Arthur… thank you so much for your comment. That means the world to me. I often don't post what I write because I get worried about how it might be received. When I take the plunge, you're always here to say something that encourages me to keep leaping. Mmmm. Grateful.
XOXO,
Bella