An interlude for an orgasm (from Rough Draft Confessions) #filthyfeaturefriday #hotexcerpt #nsfw

HOLIDAY Filthy Friday Feature aka Jane has Christmas issues and solves them with orgasms episode 2019-2! This is one of the first erotic shorts I wrote, and it just makes me really happy that it doesn’t utterly suck.

Also, it’s kind of hot.

It was inspired by a conversation I had with someone who … but, um, I can’t tell you anything about that.

Just read the story.

AN INTERLUDE FOR AN ORGASM
from ROUGH DRAFT CONFESSIONS
BY M. JANE COLETTE

So.

Bath.

The sexy thing about visualizing a lover in a bath is the intersection of exposed and covered. Naked, but sub-merged. The water covers and reveals. Distorts, teases, invites.

Your breasts are not submerged, and so, if I were there, sitting on the edge of that bath tub, I would see them. And want to touch them, want to find out if I could find evidence of the piercing in the right one? Could I? Could I see it with my eyes, feel it with my fingers? My tongue?

Tongue on, and then lips, and, of course, teeth. Nip. And then, look up. Was that ok? Allowed? No censure, no slap. Maybe, the hint of a moan. Nip. Lick. A full-face caress.

And because I always want what I cannot have, I look at that left one. The unbiteable one. Unreclaimed. Yours, and so, in no part mine. I trace around it with a finger. Then with my nose, cheek, mouth—explore all around the breast, but never near the nipple.

Then—to the right. Nip. Hard. And now, a moan, a reaction. Yes. Finally.

One of the most erotic experiences of my life: my arms above my head, bound to a hotel headboard with a scarf. My scarf. A breath on my nipples. First on this one, then on the other. Lips brushing, but never touching. A flicker of a tongue. Hands under, beside, over, but never on. I am driven mad, I am insane: I need that tongue, those lips, I need them chewing on my nipples, I. Need. Them.

“Suck,” I whisper. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Suck!”

“Beg,” the voice, hot, ragged, busy breathing, teasing. “Beg.”

I would. I want to. I want nothing more. But I am so mad, so mad, I cannot form the words. Never was a ‘p’ more clumsy. Never did an ‘l’ take so much effort.

Finally: “Pleeeez…”

I cum before the teeth touch me. Anticipation.

The hardness of the nipple, the softness of the breast. It is the most erotic combination; the only other body part that comes close is… the thigh. Cunt lips? Delicious and fascinating, of course, but there is something about the thigh…

I learn about the allure of thighs from someone else, in a text. “Today, I am all about the thigh. That is all I see. Every woman—she is thighs, two thighs, a body above and bones and flesh below… thighs. I would grasp each, fervently, and lose myself within them,” he writes.

“Between them?” I ask.

“Within them. It’s not… well, of course, ultimately, I suppose it is about what’s between them. But today, right now, I don’t need their cunts. I just want the thighs. They are… everything. Promise incarnate. Soft… yet so fucking sturdy. They need to carry all of each of you. And when they spread for me? Or are forced open? No other feeling compares.”

So. The next time I am with a woman’s thighs… I explore. I pretend the cunt isn’t there. I don’t touch, I don’t look, I don’t smell. Just the thighs. I trace. Knead… lick. Kiss. Look so very closely. Nip very gently. Bite.

Never come close to her cunt, never even graze her clit, tease a lip, approach a hole. Don’t cross the line towards the curve of the ass.

Just about the thigh.

She explodes and gushes me, rivers, rivulets of lust and desire, soaking her thighs, and my exploring hands.

It can be all about the thigh.

Yours are under the water, and water interferes with touch; it is its own element and experience, and it dislikes competition. The water ripples, and all is distorted, except the triangle—or is it a line?—of dark pubic hair. I want to yank it, hard, just so you yell no, and slap me, and yank mine.

Instead, I press, deliberately, on your button of a clit. And then move my hand away, and rest it on a sunken thigh.

I speak with my thighs, I know this, they respond to touch and word. And when they spread, when I open, I am wantonness defined. They don’t just invite. They beg.

“Come. Cum.”

When I am done—sated, exhausted, satisfied—I pull them closed, tight. Roll on my side, tuck knees almost to chin. Done, done… but, when they are forced apart at that moment, oh fuck yes, wanton again, and that is when I cum the hardest.

I don’t know the language or geography of your thighs yet.

So many things to learn.

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About mjanecolette

Writer. Reader. Angster. Reformed Bohemian (not). Author of the erotic romance TELL ME, the erotic tragedy (with a happy ending) CONSEQUENCES (of defensive adultery), the award-winning rom-com (she's versatile) CHERRY PIE CURE, and the just released TEXT ME, CUPID--a (slightly dirty) love story for 21st century adults who don't believe in love... but want it anyway. A sought-after speaker and presenter, Colette is also the author of the Dirty Writing Secrets Series, which includes the non-fiction collection of essays ROUGH DRAFT CONFESSIONS: not a guide to writing and selling erotica and romance but full of inside inside anyway, 101 FLIRTY WRITING PROMPTS TO SEDUCE YOUR MUSE, and ORGANIZED CREATIVE. She's also the curator of the fab YYC Queer Writers anthologies Queer Christmas in Cowtown, Screw Chocolate, and A Queer Summer Night's in Cowtown.

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