In the bed I made

When Alison Tyler asked for bed photos, I knew which one I had to send. It was a couple years old, but still. What I didn't know was that she would use it to introduce a new contest. One in which we were to choose one of the bed photos that various folks had sent her and write a story involving it. I didn't choose mine of course, I chose this one. Here's my dive beneath the covers.

Moved by Art

They hoped something would rub off on them. Been checking them all out. They wanted to fuck in one of the writers’ beds. You know how it can be with people of their ilk. Writers. They can be so weird.

They were both very horny. All those sheets, all those erotic thoughts soaked into the thread counts.

“Back to the gallery” came the whisper.

They entered the space. In the center was a bed, as if onstage. Their bare footsteps echoed against the white walls.

“You sure you want to do this? I don’t know what time the gallery opens.”

“Nobody will ever know. It’s already messed up. Besides, the thought of fucking with art kinda turns me on.”

“Wear the slippers for me?”

“Whoa, that’s kinda kinky.”

Soon they were tangling in the sheets. Tied their hands together with the pantyhose they found – one leg for each set of hands. That made it hard to move, but that just made them hotter. No fingers into orifices, it was just mad grinding going on. At one point they almost fell off the bed.

“Oh baby that feels good don’t stop oh God I think I’m gonna come!”

Just then the lights flicked on. They froze, their legs jutting from under the sheets.

“Would you look at that? Seems every night the artist has to come in here and make changes to the piece.”

“Wow, those dolls do look real don’t they?”

And now for a rush of words

I've been negligent in posting the flashers I've written for Alison Tyler's contests - partly because I have to use a different browser than the one I regularly use in order to paste into posts. So, I just don't bother and then weeks go by. I can be lazy at times. ;-)

So here's one, I can't even remember what it was called, but the point of it was to write from a different point of view - if female write from male, etc. and it was still in the theme of touching yourself. And I'm too lazy to go back searcing through AT's blog to find what it was called. So here it is.

Watching Her Leglock the Pillow

She said it’s not pretty. I said I didn’t care. All I wanted to do was watch her get off. She said she wasn’t sure she’d be able to with me there. Once she’d described how she masturbated. It sounded so deliciously primitive. Ever since, I’d been wanting to watch her. Kept asking her. Pleading really. So she finally gave in, said she’d try.

One night we were in bed reading, typical husband and wife stuff. She had one of her erotica collections. Me, a news magazine. Eventually I noticed her squirming. Glanced sideways at her. Saw her face, intent, glass of merlot held close to her lips. She must be reading a good part I thought. Wondered what was turning her on. She took a sip of wine, turned the page, moved her ass again. I heard an indrawn breath, saw her close the book.

She glanced at me. Without exchanging words we knew. I imagined her pussy wet. Left my bedside lamp on. At first she kept the cover pulled up, but I could see her hand move between her legs. Her eyes closed, her breathing became heavier. She flipped onto her stomach, grabbed a pillow, placed it folded between her legs. I carefully pulled the sheet back. With her face buried in the mattress, she frantically humped the pillow, making low, animalistic noises. Suddenly she grunted, held still, trembled as she came. That was fast.

And I was hard.

Erotic Ketchup

Sorry - couldn't resist. I'm in a mood this morning - oh, wait, it's afternoon already.

So, I decided it was about time I tried to get caught up with posting my Alison Tyler contest flashers. This one I didn't post right away because it went visiting in Suite 69 over at Donna George Storey's blog for her hotel sex series. I was thrilled that Donna asked me to take part in the festivities and the comments I got on the story made me feel all warm and fuzzy.

But as is always the way with stuff that I don't do right away - it didn't get done - until now.

It's weird, I'm listening to Ani DiFranco's Living In Clip - an all time favorite CD - and feeling a bit of anger/loss - finally - I've been sorta numb since losing my friend last week. Maybe partly because my husband has been away and I need to hold it together when he's gone. He'll be back tonight and isn't going anywhere for a bit - so maybe it feels safer to let those feelings in. This human condition fascinates me.

And now for something completely different...

This was for AT's "Touch" contest back in the very beginning of March.


Pulsating Jets

As the sun crept around the heavy hotel drapes, we snuggled. Sleeping clothed is unusual for us. Though sometimes we wear something to bed just to have something to take off. But thanks to a screw up in reservations we had to share a room with your business partner and his wife. They weren’t happy about it. Neither were we.

While our roommates snore, you caress my arm, slide over my tummy, brush my upper thigh. I can feel your arousal nestled against my butt. We rub feet together, wordlessly communicating the longing we both feel. What I wouldn’t give for a wall and a door right now. But you break away and get up to shower. I don’t dare join you.

I lay touching myself as I listen to you turn on the water and adjust the spray. The sounds emanating from the shower are subtle at first. Could easily be mistaken for washing hair or soaping arms. But soon they become more regular, last longer than it should take to wash any single body part.

Listening, I see you in my mind’s eye, water coursing over your body, your hand moving faster and faster. I wonder what images are jumping your synapses. I hardly breathe, straining to hear. Part of me is sad, wanting to be your fist, be the water. The sound is insistent now.

Then, just the steady sound of the shower, the gurgle of the drain.

Fact vs. fiction

Way back in February, the following story was in Alison Tyler's Mustache Sex flasher contest. It tied for 3rd place. This was one where I used a writing prompt from Rachel Kramer Bussel's Erotica 101 class that I'd taken earlier in the month. Take something that really happened and rewrite it. So I did. In a way. Kinda sorta. Ain't telling what parts are true and what parts are fiction.

His Lady Tickler 

Teresa couldn't believe her ears. Trying hard not to blush, or even let on she was hearing what he was saying, she kept her head down, engrossed in her lab report. Jay stood there, reveling in the attention of the other guys and their laughter. The jerk.

She'd dated him briefly. She was pretty sure only one of the other guys even knew about that. And that guy wasn't laughing.

Jay had been so erotic in the beginning. He'd gently lift her long hair from her neck, bend in, inhale, then kiss her skin. Gently at first, then nibbling and sucking. Her nipples hardened under her t-shirt just thinking of it.

Teresa remembered his mustache on her clit, the delightful prickliness of it. He'd asked if it bothered her. She'd said "no" and meant it.

He was good. His tongue was a serpent, coiling around her cunt, transporting her.

It had not worked out. Now, hearing Jay go on, she was glad. She wondered though, was he talking about her or someone else?

Now he stood here, smoothing his dark mustache with his fingers, being all wink wink nudge nudge, talking about his "lady tickler."

"My girl likes my mustache."

He then inhaled in an extremely exaggerated manner.

"Which is good - it helps me remember her when she's not around."

She was sitting right there. He wasn't talking about her. But she knew something about him.

He couldn't fuck worth anything.

Yeah, wink wink nudge nudge. Say no more.

Caught up

Well, I'm now caught up with posting my itty bitty stories. This was the one inspired by the seven words. You know - Saint George - Carlin that is.


Hmmm. I guess Firefox and Safari have different opinions on font size. Oh well. I'm going to bed.


Medium Drip, For Here

Whenever I write those words, I get a tingly chill. Fuck. Makes me want to look over my shoulder, see who’s watching. Cocksucker I don’t use often. Not sure why. Doesn’t do much for me. But, if I write the word cunt, I can feel it right there.

As I spell it out – c-u-n-t – it crawls up into me, makes me squirm a bit.

He wants to watch me write a dirty story. We go to the little coffee shop, bring our laptops, arrive separately, pretend not to know each other. Order drip. He sits across the room, facing me.

This is hard. I’m too aware of him there, seeming to ignore me. Aware, too, of the other people in the shop. I angle myself so that my back is towards the wall and start typing. Soon I forget where I am, that he is watching. Now he is in my brain.

You pull me into the curtained area where the supplies are kept. Reach your hand under my skirt, brush lightly, teasingly, between my legs. I’m crazy with need and knowing this, you sink gathered fingers into my wet cunt…

Later he tells me that he could see me get excited as I wrote. Saw the flush in my cheeks, saw me press myself into my seat, saw me breathe faster.

I pull your cock out – bend over – you push into me – I bite my lip – gotta be quiet.

And another one

Okay, now I can't figure out why blogger insists that the type in the previous post must be small - I keep telling it to make it "normal" and it won't listen. Just like my cats.

So here is my Take a Picture entry.

Tearing Down the Darkroom

“Seems such a shame.” Kathy said.

“Yeah, but I never use it anymore. I just plug the digital into my computer. Photoshop does the rest.”

They stood in the doorway of the little room Mark had built in the basement years ago. He thought of the time he’d spent there, agitating trays, watching the magic happen. He missed the smell of developer and fixer. He stepped inside. Switched on the safelight.

Kathy followed him. Let the door close behind them.

“We never got to fool around in here what with the kids and everything.”

She slid her hand over his butt. Gave it a little squeeze. Mark turned, pulled her to him. Eyes not yet adjusted to the dark, their lips missed, then met. In a sudden flash of passion, they groped like teenagers, fumbling at each other’s zippers. His hand slipped between her legs, found her already saturated. She pushed his jeans down and slid fingers through the opening of his briefs. He groaned as she stroked.

“Better late than never.”

Mark kicked their jeans aside and lifted Kathy onto the scrap of counter he’d installed.
“Oh! It’s cold!”

“My butt’s making a contact print”

“Gotta make sure I use the right aperture.”

Both laughing, she grabbed his hair, kissed him hard as he pushed into her. Wrapping her legs around him, she reached behind to brace herself and bumped the enlarger. In the dim light, glossy with sweat, silver glinting in their hair, their orgasms solarized them, left them clinging to each other, breathing heavily.

A knock came.

“Mom? Dad?”

Finally! Some more stories

Yeah, I haven't posted the last couple of stories I did for Alison Tyler's contests. For various different reasons.

I hadn't figured out why I couldn't copy and paste into my blog posts (because I was using silly Safari) and I was too lazy to type them in. (Stop Snickering - sometimes I can be dense). Okay, solved that one by googling my problem and now I'll do the pasting in Firefox.

Another reason is that ... well ... they didn't do too well (not that any of mine have done great) - and yeah, I know I know. But somebody (actually more than one) liked mine enough to vote for it. Plus, as Alison pointed out a lot of people read but don't vote. So yeah, this is MY problem and I had to get over it.

One other reason is that I'd had to edit these down, both in my head and typing to keep them to the 250 word limit. And I may want to rewrite them as longer pieces. So I was kinda "saving" them.

Oh, but what the hell, they're mine, right? And maybe somebody might want to read them. So I guess I'll post them. This one was for the Vote For Change contest in January.


A Changeover

My body has been humming all day. Anticipating tonight. As I drive to work - the darkened room. As I stare at my monitor - candles flicker on the dresser. As I sit bored in meeting after meeting - him on his back, his hands behind his head. Waiting for me. Like always.

That was the problem. Like always. Time for a change.

We start off the same. That’s part of my plan - him on his back on the bed. Me taking my clothes off. Straddling his legs, undoing his jeans. I slide my hands over his chest to his shoulders, bend and kiss his neck.

“You seem tight – why don’t you turn over and let me rub your back?” I whisper in his ear. “I’ll try this new oil.”

I massage his shoulders. Move down his back. Soon he’s making those getting turned on sounds. Kiss his neck again. Nibble. Scoot to pull down his jeans. He starts to turn over. I press him back down.

My hands get brazen as I begin kneading his tender buns, smoothing the backs of his thighs. He shifts, needing room underneath for his growing erection – yup, he’s liking this. But I’d never done more – until now.

I dribble more oil onto the small of his back. He mumbles something into his pillow. Trembling with excitement, I shush him. Slick, my fingers move into new territory. Sink into warmth. Change is coming.

Foreplay with pencil

This was my entry in last week's contest over at Trollop with a Laptop - the topic was "writing." It's not quite a story, not quite a poem, not really sure what it is. I did enjoy writing it though. I started it in my little notebook I carry with me everywhere with the following idea - start slow with pencil and then ...  

sort of equating writing with sex. Not sure how well it worked. But it did okay - 3 votes. I seem to be consistent with 3 votes (sometimes I wonder if they're the same 3 people all the time - haha). My husband gave me a bad time for using "exegesis" -  oh well, I've been wanting to use that word for a long time.  ;-)

At least I didn't "peg the umbrella" in this one (see previous post).

Losing Her Composure

"I need your words," he'd said, "write to me."

And she did.

She pulled a small notebook from her back pocket, warm after being

nestled close to her ass, turned to a blank page. Began. 

First she used pencil, tip freshly sharpened and ready. Firm, pink

nubbin held tightly by a metal collar. 

Graphite, slick as black ice, curved sensuously

S - across the fibers

extended itself - E

X - reaching to touch in all directions.

Tentative, then bolder, pressing harder

to elicit a response,

make him

want

to read more.

Something snapped.

She grabbed a ballpoint pen from the jar on her desk. Scribbled

frantic circles at the edge and pushed on. Blue permeated page after

page. Her hands moved fast, formed blotted words, blurted words 

that made her blush. Too soon her pen was out of ink.

Moving to her computer, her fingers frothed over the keyboard. She

used each symbol in this, her exegesis of desire. Oblivious to the red

building before her eyes, all she was aware of was her breath coming

fast, her heart pumping faster, her wetness, her need to keep words

speeding across the screen toward the precipice where she knew she

wouldn't be able to stop she wouldn't be able to see she wouldn't be

able to know anything but this...

this teetering, this excruciating, unbearable moment just before she

hit 

send.

Heartbroken...

...that I haven't had any time to blog that is. I've been so busy that I've not even gotten the last story up - and that was what? ... more than a week ago. That old Guess Who song is going through my head "ain't got got got no time"  - umm, is my age showing? 

So before I move on - speaking of age - to talk about my fun NYC day (with pictures if I can manage that) - let me post my entry for Alison Tyler's "Heartbreaker" contest. Sommer Marsden penned my favorite - "She Deserved It" and reading mine you can figure out why. 

Dreamer

"He's fucked up, you don't want that," my friend said.

"Yes I do." I told her.

I want you. Have for a long time. We've never even kissed - and I oh so want to. I've dreamt of your tongue. I want to feel your hands on my skin, your lips on my throat. I want to explore your body, touch you in ways that no other woman has. Just thinking about what might be ... if we ... oh ... hell ... now I'm wet.

Just then Heartbreaker came on the radio. "That damn song is gonna be stuck in my head now." I said.

"Yeah, it does kinda have that sticky quality to it." she replied.

"But I want to release my inner fantasy. " I quipped.

I like sticky. I like messy. I want it. Want our saliva and sweat to mingle. Want to lick that drop of salty nectar from the tip of your excited cock. Want you to taste me before and after we fuck ourselves silly.

"Don't dare tell him," she advised, "it's better he never knows."

"Stop being my conscience. Maybe I'm sick and tired of being miss goodie two shoes. I know all about the arguments against and I still want him. And yeah, I know I'm married."

"Don't go there." she warned.

I smiled. Oh, I've gone there. In my dreams it's quite nice. Both of them. With me. Hands. Fingers. Lips. Cocks. Makes me dizzy just thinking ...  

Fit to be tied

Here's the story I entered in Alison Tyler's latest story contest. I didn't place but I did get 3 votes. I voted for Renae's "You Decide" and my husband voted for tygre's "Bound to be Patient." I don't tell him which of the stories is mine. One of these days he'll guess, but he hasn't so far. Is that good? Not sure I want to think too hard about that one. ;-)

Strands of Imagination

© Robin Elizabeth

I lay still. Quiet. On my side. Arms over my head, wrists held together by strands. Waiting for his first touch. Where will he start? My shoulder? Elbow? Maybe the back of the neck, lifting my hair to gently kiss the nape. Or he might trace my spine down to it's tip, then return. The thought made me shiver. He might start with my lips, parting them with his thumb, testing my tongue. Or he might stroke along the side of my body, from wrist, down the arm, brushing past breast, over waist, hip, all the way down my leg to stroke my foot. Maybe he'd just give my nipple a quick twist and make me jerk at the sudden intensity. He could spiral a finger around and around my navel. Or gently brush his fingers through the thick curly brown hairs till he finds wetness. Because I will be wet. And I'll not be able to return his touch, just receive. He'll keep at it till I tremble and pant, crazed with lust. Wanting more than  just his hands, his mouth, his cock. I'll want to fuck his mind. Make his imagination come.

© Robin Elizabeth. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission of the author.

These quick little exercises have sure been fun. Good for getting the creative juices flowing, so to speak. Life's been a bit crazy these last few days, but once the New Year has come and gone, things generally quiet down and I plan on really getting a good bit of writing done. And I can't wait for more of these "writing prompts" from Alison. 

Spanked

My latest entry in Alison Tyler's blog contest was an interesting writing exercise because spanking holds no erotic anything for me. Oh, I've read plenty of spanking stories that have gotten me hot, but it's not because of the smack, but other elements. I almost passed this contest by - glad I didn't. Not only did I write one, but I decided to write it from the male perspective and I have to say I liked it. And I guess other people did too, it got 4 votes! So here it is:

Brand Spanking New

© Robin Elizabeth

Hard to believe I was about to do this. Slowly, she lifted her skirt, turned and bent herself over my anxious lap. her bare ass mesmerized me. Spanking had never held any attraction for me before. My parents had only raised their hands at us in anger and it seemed rather odd to me that anybody would find it erotic. But Janie, my new girlfriend was about to change all that. For her it was a turn-on like no other.

Her: "You need to know - umm - I like to be spanked - yes, spanked - I love the sting of a bare-handed smack on my ass - hard enough to heat the skin - then have fingernails gently trail across the redness before sliding between my legs."

Me: Speechless. Not really shocked, but disconcerted. Mouth gone dry. Unexpectedly getting hard. Wow.

When I admitted my ambivalence, she'd lent me on of her collections of stories. Obviously in hopes of sparking my interest. I did find them arousing. More so than I cared to admit. But she could tell. So here we were, her luscious rump waiting, her breath quickening, my heart beating faster. I raised my hand.

 © Robin Elizabeth. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author. 

One of the many topics I intend on musing on in this blog is how and why my mind conjures these erotic images that I then feel compelled to put  into words. The whole "why write it" thing - why not? Why is writing sex  - not "about" sex - but actually writing sex (it turns you on, right?) not taken as seriously? I'm quite interested in improving my erotic writing, just as I am in my other writing. Well, I'd muse more right now, but I need to go work on my next entry in Alison's blog contest. 

Motel Sex

This was my entry in Alison Tyler's Motel Sex contest - and my first entry ever!  Years and years ago we stayed in a really scuzzy motel - that room stuck in my head and showed up in this story. As always, reality was not nearly as fun as fiction.

Hole in the Wall

© Robin Elizabeth

Sunday night, it was late, we were both tired of driving. The fog had been dense along the highway. Now we hit town looking for someplace to get off the road to rest ... or not. Tom had tried to sound harsh telling me to stop as I'd let my hand stray over the gear shift to his thigh, 

but I could tell he liked it. Up ahead there was a hazy glow.

MOTEL. We pulled in, rented a $19 room.

We opened the door and could hardly believe our eyes. What had happened here? Crooked

lampshade, obvious stains on the rug, torn upholstered chair and there in the wall over the

bed was a hole in the drywall, six inches in diameter. Tom and I looked at each other, laughed, and he said, "well, as long as we're being classy we might as well do it right." He fell back on

the bed, folded his arms under his head and said "show me what cha got." Then he giggled.

Yeah, he giggled and I stripped.

With the television tuned loudly to the local cable access channel - some help us pray for our

school administrators wacko group - we fucked like our souls depended on it. As we were

flipping over so that he was on top, one of the bed legs collapse and Tom's head smacked

into the wall and left another hole. Yeah, wonder what happened here. 

© Robin Elizabeth. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.