A Writer’s Dance

I hate mornings. In fact, I hate sleeping. No that isn’t right. I hate trying to sleep and not being able to. Last night was the worst. Waking every hour or couple of hours and then by 5:30am I’ve had enough so I just get up. I don’t feel rested. I hate not feeling rested.

Then there is the pain. I can feel it. It settles into my wrists, making them and my hands feel swollen. I flex my fingers, curling them into the palms of my hands and then stretching them back out long and wide open. The ache in my wrists jumps from joint to joint like a snarling dog nipping at its master’s heels, and jerking back the moment that foot strikes out.

My mind wakes long before my body. Even in sleep it never stops thinking. This morning I clearly heard the ring of a bell. Just like it does when my dog wants to go out. Why I had ever taught that damn dog to ring the freakin’ bell is beyond me. Oh wait, I did it, so he wouldn’t poo or pee in the house.

I wanted to sleep this morning, at least until it was time to get up to get ready. But sleep eluded me. So now here I am awake, at 5:30am and trying to get my mind to settle down. To get it to just stop long enough to have just one day in which I’m not thinking. But that never happens. Or at least there is only one way to make that happen.

I woke hearing that bell. Did the bell really ring, or did I just dream it? I got up to go check. No dog at the door. No dog to be seen anywhere which means he is sound asleep in his favorite spot under the blankets in my daughter’s room. How do particular sounds become so clear and real in my dreams? I’ve done the same with the sound of my daughter’s voice calling for me only to go check on her and find her sound asleep.

After waking more than half a dozen times in the night, I finally decided to just get up. I keep thinking about a man I don’t know who has given me such encouraging words. I am driven to check my email in the off chance I’ll hear from him. And all I want to do is write some more so maybe he’ll read it and like it.

So here I sit writing, letting another story, letting the words flow one after another from my brain down through my fingers and onto the keyboard. I watch them appear on the white screen in front of me. I feel the tingle begin as the story begins to unfold. I don’t know where it will take me, only that it will take me, drawing on the emotions I feel, especially the loneliness, the yearning, the desires.

I am always the female character in my stories. I write her as if I am there within her skin and bones, experiencing everything she is experiencing. I can’t help but to become aroused as she does, or feel the fear which bubbles and dances inside her chest while her heart beats an erotic rhythm only she and I feel.

I can feel her excitement as she encounters the man of her dreams, finding him strong and capable, sure of his desire for her to somehow be freed from her demons by the sheer presence of his strength. We become humbled in his presence while feeling fearful of our own desires which we know will form cracks within our walls. Will he see them? Will he be patient enough, gentle enough, firm enough and powerful enough to chase her demons back into hell and widen the cracks so the deepest and darkest part of her will finally feel a tiny ray of sunshine?

The words pour forth. I feel her arousal build as the man of her dreams takes possession of her. Touching her, caressing her, letting his soft breath fan her desires with its whispered words of encouragement. It is as if he breathes life into her, and into the storyteller.

He flirts and dances with us both. This is my way of flaming my own desires, my own fantasies. Living close enough for them to touch me, to have them come to life. I’m safe this way. I can let myself feel. I can let myself burn and be consumed by my arousal as I write. As I bring these two characters together to see where they might take me.

I can feel it build within myself, as it builds upon the white screen before me. How his touch ignites the embers she once thought were nothing but cold ashes. His fingers leave tiny heated kisses along her skin everywhere he touches. She is drawn to him, pulled into him, like the very air he breathes.

Her desire to feel to once again experience what she had once thought long dead is as ingrained in her as it is in me. She doesn’t fear her arousal. Doesn’t fear his touch. She only fears falling in love and feeling that gut wrenching pain when it all falls apart. But she doesn’t think about that right now, and neither do I.

I think about how a man’s touch awakens my skin in ways a blanket or a shirt or a washcloth never does, how it flirts with my brain and my thoughts finally turn to mush. How each tiny little touch sends my thought scurrying into the nether regions of the vast darkness where I see my thoughts come to life.

Then somewhere in the midst of my brain finally giving up on all thought, I feel a gentle pulse beat. Each beat followed by a hint of creamy white liquid warmth between lips which have not been touched by another’s fingers in years.

His breath upon skin, heats the embers which thaws the frozen nether regions of my brain and god forbid between those lips which have not felt the feathery light touch of a warm and flicking tongue or the gentle nips of white teeth in many long years.

His kiss creates hot tendrils of searing flames licking and seething along long forgotten trails which no amount of time could ever obliterate.

I don’t forget about what life has taught me or shown me. I write some of it within the story. Her dream man becomes my dream man, and together we touch him, energized by the feeling of power and control we can feel gnawing to be let loose just lying beneath his surface.

We both crave his confidence, his desire to control us. Our bodies burn as one as he takes our wrists and lifts them above our head, pinning them to the wall behind us, as his other hand slides up our bodies to fondle and grasp our breast, not with gentle hands which are afraid we might bruise or break but with firm knowing hands which learn as quickly as his eyes discern the power his touch has over us with each moan and each flicker of desire in our eyes.

We both feel the surge of wetness we can no longer deny when held and touched in such a way. Just writing what it does to us makes me burn hotter and I cannot contain the story. It flows from me, like the warm cream between my legs, in a slow journey towards completion for both she and I and him.

I resist the urge to touch, to feel the wetness. I know it is there, just as I know it pools and flows as well between her thighs. His touch drives us crazy. We want more and so I slowly give them more as their story and mine unfolds. He grows hard and she feels him press against her and I remember what that feels like. The knowledge he wants her, wants us both, takes us beyond the page and into a realm where we no longer think but just feel.

I can’t resist, and she touches him. He still has our hands pinned above our heads so she presses her body forward against him, and rubs against his erection, letting him know of her awareness and that she wants him.

“Be still.” He commands her and we both feel a shiver slake down our spines which blasts a trail that ignites our root chakra.

She stills immediately, and he continues his exploration, unbuttoning her blouse, leaving it hanging open, he unhooks the front clasp of her bra, letting her breasts spill out and graze his knuckles as he pushes the material out of the way.

He wastes no time. Leaning down he grasps one nipple in his mouth while his free hand grasps her other nipple between firm fingertips and squeezes. We both feel the sharp shooting pain follow the same pathways to our root chakra, making our pulse beat jump and a surge of creamy liquid heat and slicken our lips.

Her hips thrust forward in need, and his hand immediately stops. Reaches down and presses his hand to the front of her hips, his fingers lying still upon her throbbing need, he pushes back making her hips still and our minds flutter and convulse in a need we had both thought had dried up into a mummified carcass.

My hips want to move as much as hers do, just as her fingers curl in a need to touch him, mine curl into a need to touch myself, instead they curl upon the keys as the story continues igniting my mind with hers and the keyboard becomes my playground.

I know at the end of our story what I will do. The waiting stirs and fires up my mind and heats her body and toys with his determination to take things slow, to make us both mad with need. He lets his finger graze feather light across the juncture between her thighs until he feels her head bow towards him and he hears a whimper escape from her lips.

He doesn’t stop though until he hears “please” which, eeks out long and slow in a desperation wrenched from her desire. He lifts his lips and teeth from her nipple bringing his mouth so close she can feel them brush across her parched lips as he whispers low and sultry, “What do you want? Tell me what you want.” The last carried with a firm gentle command.

“Please.” She says again as she looks into his smoldering dark eyes feeling his hot moist breath upon her lips as she flicks her tongue out to catch just a tiny morsel of his taste. “Please, kiss me.” The sound of her voice begging…. And…. He does… with a power so contained she can taste it on his tongue as he claims her mouth as his and his fingers touch her with only a fraction of a fraction more pressure while keeping her pinned against the wall with the palm of his hand and the hard grasp of her wrists.

I feel my hips clench wishing I had his physical presence but knew the mental dance with the story would have to suffice. While he played with her, his firm hot sultry kiss giving her no doubt of his claim on her body and the slightest feathery touch of his fingers claimed her soul.

He claimed her mouth, then with gentle kisses, claimed her neck, working his way down into the hollow where her neck joined her shoulders, to trail downwards even further until his mouth once again claimed her breast. Then switching to her other breast as he removed his hand and began to unfasten her jeans.

Her mind went blank except for the sparks his teeth created with their gentle nips interspersed with firm tug sending shockwaves through her body. It wasn’t until he lifted his head for a brief respite that she noticed her pants and panties were gathered around her ankles and his fingers were slowly traveling their way upwards along her inner thigh.

She tried but was unable to dislodge her feet from her jeans which had her ankles trapped close together making it impossible for her to spread her thighs open to welcome his touch.

Oh god she thought, I need him to touch me. Touch me there, just there, she thought while his fingers slowed and seemed to savor her like a nice tasty treat.

He would never stop, she thought, he would keep her here wanting, needing, quivering in her need until the end of her days. She loved this feeling. Loved it beyond reason. Beyond thought. Beyond anything else in the world. He could drive her insane and yet she would never stop wanting it, wanting him to make her feel this way.

She craved him, his touch, this feeling, this need, like she craved the air she breathed and the food she ate. Without it, she could not live, would not want to live.

We both quivered on that edge of arousal he coaxed from us both with his incessant nips both light and firm which shot hot liquid darts of pain down rarely-worn pathways and from fingers which savored the touch of her skin with every lick.

He dropped to his knees, letting go of her wrists, using both hands to open her upper thighs to his probing tongue. Her hands grasped his head to keep from falling over at his sudden onslaught and the overwhelming surge of need which blasted her mind into a billion tiny pieces.

Her head slammed back against the wall in her gasp of pleasure, as his soft chuckle slowly seeped into the churning well of desire which was flooding her consciousness as her knees buckled slightly. The press of his mouth and hands upon her hips kept her upright while he forced his tongue between and into the folds of her hot moist lips.

Oh god, she could die of this pleasure. She never wanted him to stop, at least not until the need to have him fill her with his hard arousal became so addicting it consumed her to the point she would do anything to have him buried deep inside her.

She grasped his hair and tugged, trying to pull him up, but he resisted, staying firmly in position, devouring her, making her juices flow upon his tongue. He wanted more so he pushed a finger inside of her and began pumping her.

Oh god, how did he find that spot so quickly? She knew it would make her juices flow even faster. With legs trembling, and hands holding fast in his hair, she moaned and cried, ‘oh god! Oh god yes.’ As his fingers and tongue worked her to a frenzy but never took her over the top.

“Oh god, oh god, please…” she begged. He didn’t stop. He continued. He seemed to be just as consumed as she was as if he had been starving and couldn’t get enough of her sustenance. He licked and flicked and drove his fingers deep, then returned to curl up and rub firmly upon that one spot that never failed to make her juices flow and take her swiftly to the pinnacle of an orgasm. Except he always seemed to know when she was about to take that leap off. He would shift just slightly to one place or another giving her a bit of a reprieve until she had come down just barely enough, then back again he would go to devouring her and driving her back up.

Each time she soared higher and faster than the time before. And each time she begged him to stop, to fuck her, to take her, to let her cum, but he was on his own timetable. He was not letting her take control or tell him what to do. He took what he had come to take, and he knew in his taking he was causing cracks. Cracks in the firm walls she had built around herself. Those walls which begged for him to destroy them.

He licked and consumed every drop she gave him, and he gave her more in his taking of her. He took her to the pinnacle over and over again, until he knew he had taken her to that edge where it was a fine line between pleasure and pain.

He stood, picked her up, her pants finally releasing her ankles, and her blouse falling from her limp shoulders. He carried her to his bed. Lying her down on her stomach, he placed her hands above her head and told her to keep them there. He laid her out straight, her legs long and together. Lying over her, he lifted her hips up just high enough to thrust his long hard throbbing cock inside of her. He thrilled to her gasp of pleasure, then let her hips fall back down to the mattress.

He started off with deep slow thrusts which coated him and her in her hot liquid. She could take his weight so he let himself lie down upon her as his thrusts became more firm and demanding. He was long enough to go deep and when he discovered if he ground hard against her she would moan in pleasure and her hips would push back against him even harder.

She got wetter and wetter as he pumped and ground against her, sometimes rising up upon his knees so he would hit her g-spot. But he discovered going deep gave her even more pleasure. Several times he saw her hands start to move downwards but she would suddenly remember his command to keep them there.

He worked her until they were both soaked in her juices and it was spilling out upon his blanket and she began to whimper and beg again to let her cum. He waited while he continued to push her and drive her even higher and higher. When he was sure she was again at that place where pleasure became pain, he reached beneath her. All it took was a couple flicks of his finger across her clit and she was thrust over the edge into orgasmic release.

He didn’t think she was even aware of the scream which followed the moan which first slipped from between her lips. She came so hard he could feel her muscles clenching and unclenching him as he continued to drive into her, over and over again and his fingers took her over the edge in another overwhelming orgasm. He came hard then collapsing on top of her, he rolled them both onto their sides, letting the cool air swirl around them from the fan overhead.

There was nothing more I could do at this point other than to close the story and seek my own pleasure just as the two characters had sought theirs. The only difference being I am alone and seek a solitary release that will never satisfy my craving for another’s touch, another’s command, another’s pleasure.

© Kate Spyder


About Kate Spyder

I'm a creative individual finding her way in her writing. I enjoy expressing my deep thoughts through poetry and stories. I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoy writing them.
This entry was posted in Erotic Fiction and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to A Writer’s Dance

  1. BallsyBilly says:

    Fabulous! Excuse me now, while I go and take a cold shower 😉 🙂

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