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.
It had been a couple of weeks since our last encounter. Tonight, she was coming over to my place.
I’d set out what felt like a million candles in the bedroom. I wondered if it was cheesy, predictable to want the soft, flickering candlelight. But I decided that I didn’t care. I liked it, and the candle light made me feel sexy.
What Vicki couldn’t tell her was about Djet (part one & part two). She just couldn’t find a way to tell Julia about meeting a resurrected pharaoh. She wasn’t sure she could tell anyone, well other than her professor.
It was professor Edwards who’d suggested that she seek out a former colleague, Colin Bishara.
Bishara had left academia, and all Vicki’s research indicated a skyrocketing career in Egyptology, to study ancient Egyptian magic. Or maybe it was more accurate to say practice magic.
Professor Edwards suggested that if anyone could explain what happened with Djet, it would be Bishara.
So Vicki stood barefoot and naked under her long black robe, scanning the crowd for Bishara.
After our night at the club, I was desperate to see Her again. I wanted an evening with her, that wasn’t in a cramped backseat (read all about the backseat of the car here). So when she called and invited me over, I jumped at the chance.
Caroline fidgeted in her seat. She could feel her skirt rumbled and raised under her ass, which made her wonder if her sexy flights of fancy were more than just flights, but there was no way they could be real, could they? She wondered.
I love kissing him. The rasp of is beard against my face, the way he slowly claims my mouth. There’s something about the way he hold me when he kisses me. We touch each other a lot. I’d never noticed it, until someone else pointed it out. We hold hands a lot. When we pass by each other, we touch. Maybe a brief caress, or a quick squeeze of the hand. But when he holds me, that’s a connection on another level.
Throughout the day, and most often when we are alone, I’ll hug him – just to feel his arms around me. His strength as he tightens his arms around me, the wide, firm splay of his hands across my back. He holds me this way as he kisses me.
We continue to stand in the kitchen, I lean against the counter. Getting lost in how hungry his kisses are, how demanding. He continues to hold me and kisses my neck. Kissing and nipping at me. I wanted him so much.
I love the way he follows me down the hall, lightly holding my hand. I think in all the years we’ve been together, he has very often followed me down a hallway to our bed. I like knowing that he is behind me, that he follows me because he wants me.
I sit on the bed, and he tells me to lie down. He lies down next to me, and I feel like I can breathe again.
He’s touching me again, his hands sliding under my shirt, over my stomach. Stroking and lightly scratching me. Where his hands have touched me, he follows with his mouth. I clutch at him, my hands grasping his shoulders. He tries to untie my sarong, and it gets stuck. We both laugh. I love how often we laugh together. And it was real laughing, expressing honest joy at being together. And I want him so much. He’s running his hands over my legs, up to my pussy and stopping. He runs his fingers along the edge of my panties. I wanted so much to move, to lift my hips – but he tells me to be still, to enjoy the moment.
Eventually I’m naked. His mouth is teasing one nipple and his fingers are pinching the other one. I love the mismatched sensations. The hot, wetness of his mouth and sharpness of his teeth contrasting with the rolling and pinching of his fingers. I am lost in the feeling, the overwhelming sensations that fill me. Again, I want to move my hips. I know I’m so very wet, and I want him so very much.
When he finally slides his hand down to my pussy, through my wetness and begins to rub my clit, I can only moan.
He was on top of me. I love the weight of him on top of me, the feeling of him between my legs. His arms braced around me, not trapping me, protecting me. I reached between us, finding his cock, and rubbed it through my wetness. I love feeling of his cock rubbing against my clit.
Later, he’s lying next to me again. I want his fingers inside me. I want, and I’m trying to form the words. I start to ask, I want his fingers inside me. And he’s so fast, his fingers are buried inside me – sliding in and out and I’m drowning in the sensation.
We’re laying next to each other. I’m able to lay on my side and face him. There’s petting and talking and more laughing. I am so very tired, and warm, and safe, and happy. I want stay next to him – I want it to be less hot so I can cuddle up next to him. The weather is not going to cooperate. I know that I go to sleep smiling.