I found myself sucked into this story, and actively disappointed when it ended – Not because it was a bad ending, but because I wanted more. I loved hearing Marie’s interior monologue. Marie is realistic in her doubts about the supernatural events, but not so overwhelmed in doubt that it becomes to the focus. I’m looking forward to seeing more of this story.
The Professor had me naked faster than I’d expected, and there’s something deliciously disconcerting about being the only naked person. He was still fully clothed, still in his classroom suit. The only concession to being home he had made was to take off his coat. So we talked literature and academia, as if I wasn’t naked with nipples pointing at him. He invites me to bed before I finally give in and drag him into the bedroom.
I am not a fan of cold weather, even the mild winters I suffer where the temperatures rarely fall below mid-40s. But there are a few things about winter that I enjoy. I love snuggling up on the couch, reveling in the feeling of warm fleecy blanket, one of those soft, faux fur types. I wrap the blanket around my bare legs because, even though it’s winter, I still insist on being half naked at home. The blanket tickles my legs deliciously.
Julia lounged naked on the massive bed. It had taken her some time to acclimate to the electricity free existence. The cabin was heated by a wood stove and lit by candles. The ever present smell of wood smoke was shortly before replaced with the almost sweet scent of the candles, as Bjorn started lighting them.
She’d been staying in the cabin with Bjorn and Astrid for a couple of weeks. Tonight she knew the couple had something new planned for her, but for now, she enjoyed lying next to Astrid watching Bjorn light the candles.
I was bound, tied fast to the metal web. My arms extended over my head, and my legs were spread wide, ankles securely tied. My lace bra and panties, pink as he ordered, only served to make me feel more exposed. I waited in the spider’s parlor.
Natalie self-consciously smoothed her dress down, tugging at the hem. The dress, with its flared skirt, sat comfortably just above her knees, hardly immodestly short. Nevertheless, she felt immodest. She couldn’t believe that she’d agreed to this, but she admitted to herself that the daring of it had her already turned on.
The bar was loud and crowded for a weeknight. Des was already there. She wove her way through the crowded bar, dodging patrons and servers alike, to the booth where he waited. She slid into the booth next to him, carefully tugging her dress down. He noticed; she just knew that he noticed.
Names, titles, what we call each other. I find that these concepts are simultaneously unique and utterly culturally bound. I recently told KinkyandPerky (whose blog you should be reading) that I’m often intentionally vague about dirty talk in my stories because dirty talk is so unique to everyone. I’ve read otherwise hot stories, but the dirty talk (of a type that isn’t mine) just threw me out of the story. I believe that names work the same way.