I love writing erotica and I love writing from another point of view. Writing from the perspective of women, homosexuals, people of other races, backgrounds or from other cultures is a delightful challenge to my ability to explore empathic prose. I hope to perfect this skill but humbly realize that doing so is a writer’s hollandaise. If he does it well, he is skilled, and if he does not, it will make his writing clunky and unsavory, like a pustule on an otherwise remarkable areola. In this story I’m also challenging myself do do something that I’ve read in many of the books edited by Susie Bright. I’m writing a story where the primary emotion is not arousal, but sorrow. The stories that I’ve read that follow this vein have not been the most arousing to me but have nonetheless been the ones that stay with me, tossing and turning in my head like a fever rattles a victim of rabies in their sleep. So, with hopes of your reading and enjoyment, I present the story I conjured on my drive home today. Looking forward to your comments, be they kind or castrating - Kidder
I run my fingertips repeatedly up and down the lengths of my labia, brushing lightly on the hood of my clitoris on my way back down. I love the way I feel when I’m this aroused. The wetness is plentiful and covers my entire vulva and makes everything feel delightfully slippery. My pussy lips are engorged and smooth and I press my fingers deeply into them as I rub my slit. My clit is getting bigger and more sensitive and within a few strokes I’ll be ready to focus on it and begin to taste my pending orgasm. I think about my cunt, and how much I love calling it, “a cunt.” I get wetter as I recall the many adventures that my cunt and I have had together, fingers that have caressed it, the tongues that have tasted it, and the cocks that have pounded it and filled it with creamy-white spunk.
It feels so good to rub my clit, like scratching an itch that is connected to every cell in my body. I want and orgasm and I need relief from this overwhelming arousal. If only I could rock my hips a little I’d be there, but I can’t, because I’m not alone. My husband is sleeping next to me in bed, and I don’t want to disturb him. I’m not ashamed to masturbate in our bed, but if I move too much or make too much noise, he may wake up and say with utter contempt and annoyance, “Stop shaking the bed.” If that happens there’s no way I’ll be able to get off and I’m so close right now.
I draw my fingers lower to the opening of my vagina and replenish the lubrication to my clitoris and continue my assault on my primary sex organ. I’m so wet and so engorged. I wish he would wake up and feel me right now and feel how aroused and ready my cunt for his cock. He could so easily fuck me right now. I close my eyes and imagine him discovering me and taking advantage of the situation I’ve provided for him. But he won’t. It is way too late in the evening for him to even consider enjoying my pussy. Besides, when I asked if he wanted to make love after dinner, he let me know he wasn’t in the mood by looking away and sighing. God it hurts so much when he does that and it never makes me feel any better when he says, “We had sex last weekend.” I’ve never understood why telling me that we had sex three days ago is in some way a consolation for wanting to have him close to me and inside me now. He’s so good at making sex seem like a chore for him. I wish he wanted me as much as I wanted him.
FOCUS! Negative thoughts aren’t going to bring this orgasm to fruition. Think sexy thoughts and remember the times that I feel wanted and attracted. The cute undergrad girl who stares way too long at my tits when she serves my morning cappuccino. Oh how I’d love to give her an experience that would haunt her the next three-hundred times she rubbed one out. How I’d love for her first taste of pussy to be mine. I switch hands and bring my fingers to my mouth as I imagine leaning against a counter while she, still dressed in her green apron, kneels and presses her tongue to my wet pussy. Oh my God! I taste so good! My juice is like unrefined sex in liquid form. I nearly climax as I suck the lubrication from my fingers. I switch hands again and rub my lips in circles as though I was applying sex flavored lip balm.
I toy with the idea of slowly removing the covers from my husband and sucking his cock into my mouth with my pussy-lubricated lips. I think about how good it would feel in my mouth and how good his cum would taste especially with the essence of my juices in the mix. I love it when he lets me suck his cock after he’s fucked me. My cunt flexes as that last thought fills my mind. Fuck that is hot! I wish he liked the flavor of us mixed together too but he doesn’t even like kissing me after my mouth touches his cock muchless after he cums in it. I wish he loved the way that my pussy tastes, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even like it. He compares it to the taste and texture of other bodily secretions that are not even remotely sexy. My stomach turns as I recall him saying that to me so easily as though it were a perfectly reasonable excuse for not giving me oral sex. So often he says and does things without even so much as a moment of consideration as to how that may make me feel about myself.
I feel ugly and undesirable and my hand stops moving.
Fuck him! I rub myself harder and faster and think of the many partners I’ve had before and since that have loved licking my twat and have never tired of drinking whatever fluids they could suck from it. I loved kissing them afterward and tasting my cum on their lips and in their mouth. I love how aroused they were after tasting my sex and it made me feel sexy and beautiful to know that there are people who find my cunt delicious enough to come back for seconds. I allow my mind to drift back in memory to where I keep my naughtiest sexual triggers.
I think of old boyfriends and how they kissed me for hours upon hours. My husband rarely kisses me at any great length anymore, which is sad because he’s really good at it and makes out with other women with reckless abandon. I’ve watched him longingly nibble and suck on their lips. I watch his hips grind salaciously as his tongue passionately dances with her’s. I wish he’d do that with me again and invest so much time and energy into getting me turned on before thrusting his cock in me.
I refocus on sexy thoughts as I feel my arousal and wetness begin to wain. Feeling sorry for myself isn’t going to make me cum.
I remember being innocent and afraid when boys began to seek beneath my panties with nervous fumbling fingers. I recall my first orgasm with my first boyfriend and my first fuck. I remember the first time I had sex without a condom and how delicious it was to feel skin on skin and his cock explode into me. I remember having sex, quite literally all night long, as often as we could have it whenever we we’re lucky enough to sleep in the same bed. I remember the feelings of having his cock renter me for the second, third and fourth session, me still wet from his previous deposit of sperm. I remember trying every position we could think of, each one new and different and special. I remember the first time I heard someone say that they loved me right as his cock erupted in my cunt. I remember how he held me tight before, during, and after each fuck and feeling more wanted and loved than I ever had.
God, I want to feel special like that again. I want to feel wanted. Heck, I’d just settle for knowing that someone was thinking about me enough to want to do something nice for me. When’s the last time someone made me feel really special? Wait... Didn’t something happen today that made me feel special?
Yes! I got an email from his secretary telling me that I should clear my schedule and be available a few weeks from now because he had special plans for me. The message was so cryptic, as though there was some great secret he was planning for me. Maybe he was going to take me somewhere special. It wasn’t that far away from my birthday so the idea wasn’t completely implausible that he had some romantic plans that he’d spring on me. Giving in to my suspension of reality I fantasized about him making time to be with me in romantic and seductive ways, promising me that he’d make love to me however I’d like and that nothing was off limits. I smiled imagining him holding me tightly and telling me he was sorry that he doesn’t find the energy or time to treat me the way that I deserve to be treated enough. I’d give my left ovary just to read a card from him that said anything even remotely close to that.
I love him so much and I desire him so much. He’s so sexy. Even as he sleeps my skin cries for him to touch me, and my heart aches for him to want me. But it isn’t a romantic get away that requires me to clear my schedule and it isn’t my birthday that caused him to contact me with such an odd request. I suddenly remember that he was scheduled to have a vasectomy and he needed me to drive him to and from the clinic. I’m such a fool. I’m a silly girl with silly desires that will simply never be. He’s getting a vasectomy so that he doesn’t get his other partners pregnant. It is a good thing, that neither of us will need to worry about anymore, but I so wish it was something else. I feel like an idiot for allowing myself to believe that he’d do something so spontaneous for me. He’s not spontaneous and he’s not romantic.
He looks blurry in the darkness, sleeping peacefully on his back. I am no longer interested in touching myself or having an orgasm. My fingers are damp and I wipe them on my nightshirt, the tight pink one that I bought hoping he’d enjoy seeing me wear. My crotch feels messy and gross. I wish there was a towel within reach so I could get rid of the disgusting feeling between my legs. I turn my head on my pillow and I stare at the ceiling and tightly close my eyes. A tear runs down my cheek and I involuntarily inhale a stuttering gasp of air. I bite my lip to contain what is most likely the beginning of a deep sobbing. My lips still taste like pussy and right now it tastes like he’s described and I regret having touched my fingers to my lips. Despite being repulsed by the flavor, I bite my lip harder to contain the emotions building inside of me. My body wants to cry and wail but I cannot, because I’m not alone, but I need to because I am so very much alone.