An erotic and sensual sex scene told in ten paragraphs.
Awhile back, on a Facebook page I am a part of, there was a competition. Those entering had to watch a short video and then write five paragraphs about what came after. Now, silly me, I misread it and wrote five paragraphs describing the scene in the video. Luckily, before I could post it, I reread the instructions and realized my mistake. Thus, I then wrote five more paragraphs. If you’re wondering if I won, well, they cancelled the contest. I did, however, save my paragraphs.
Here they are. Enjoy!
The day has been long, its oppressive heaviness thick and dark as it presses me down. I’ve been waiting. Not long but it feels like a lifetime. Outside of here, of our home, I’m in control. I’ve so much to do I sometime wake up frightened, overwhelmed. Here, in this place, with him, I’m not me. Not the me they see. I’m not powerful, not in control, not the woman who makes things happen. I don’t stand tall, demanding and courageous. No, here I’m just me. More than I am out there. More human. More real.
He’s here. I hear him at the door, then walking towards me. I smile when I see him, the pain of living already shedding like a second skin. He’s what I need, what I must have. More than that he’s who I must give myself to in order to feel free. So I sit and wait for him to come to me. My body aches for his touch. My soul quivers. Nipples harden. Nether regions grow slick. I want to call out, to cry, to let him know I’m not alright. That I need him. But he already knows. So I sit and he comes to me. My other half, the missing part of me that exists outside of my body but who, when he uses me, becomes an extension of my own self. He completes me.
Lips touch my skin and the heat flares. My skin is alight, nerves struck by lightning with each and every connection he makes to me. At first I relish in it, letting him nibble me like I’m a dainty dessert. Then, when he begins to bite a little harder, his tongue piercing an added bonus with its trail of metal, my breath quickens and I move under his attentions. I keep my hands down though I want to claim him, grab him, handle him far rougher than he is with me. His attention is fuel. He’s in control. I’m his. I can feel the scratch of his facial hair, one of the manliest things I find attractive. That and his smell of sweat and bacon. It’s silly but the smell of him creates a storm in my belly. I’m hungry and it’s hard to wait, to let him do this his way. But I will.
When his hands move they grope my breasts and entangle in my hair. He pulls and tugs, gentle but not, knowing just how much tension I can take. There’s no rush but the pitch is fevered. He seems hungry, too, tasting me. It’s sensual and perfect. Finally we kiss, our lips meeting, and I can feel the soft skin bruising. A hand around my throat, his mouth sucking on my ear lobe. This is real. It’s not the false sensuality I’ve seen or read about. It’s a tease but fulfilling something we both must have. I want more but I know I can’t have it. So I cling to what he offers, knowing it’ll be enough.
My clothes stay on. So do his. This is about what’s there, right in front of us. It’s about two people. Him and me. Most of his body he keeps away from me, withholding until later. But I know he wants me. Even without looking I can feel the pressure in the air. His pants are tight in the crotch. They have to be. I’ve felt that bulge and the memory is enough to cause my breathing to stutter. It’s not for now but that doesn’t mean passion isn’t alive. This is passion. This is desire. It’s simple, perhaps foreplay, but it’s just as necessary to help cement the bond that keeps us together. When he pulls away there’s a smile, laughter, lightheartedness. Later there will be more. His touch is a promise. For now it’s enough to embrace the simple, the pure. It’s as if he gives me wings.
I’m still laughing when he walks away. He’s just refueled me after a long day. His touch, hands roaming over my body, and lips nipping are just the start of what he’s promised. My other half, he’s an extension of myself, and now that he’s home the two of us can complete the daily ritual of joining. It sounds so mystical and magical, so spiritual, when said that way. In away it is spiritual. There’s no god involved, just us, but it’s a communion. It’s revival, rejuvenation, a shared experience that brings us to the brink of insanity then pulls us back. Whatever it may be, we’re going to fuck.
My eyes watch him, my body still on fire from his initial foreplay. I can still feel it all. The tingle of his wet tongue trailing along my skin from shoulder to earlobe. His fingers threading through the strands of my hair before tugging me this way and that depending on where he might want to feast. My breast like dough or putty, shaped and molded by his strong hand. I’m wet and aching, on edge after having waited for over an hour for him to arrive. Standing, I walk over to him, grabbing the hem of his shirt as I pass by. I give the fabric a yank, not hard enough to rip it but with enough force he knows I mean business.
He doesn’t resist, just chuckles and lets me take the lead. For now. This is how it works between us. Out in the wide, big world I’m a monster. Strong, dominant, and in charge. Here I have my moments but it’s not the norm. For him, the creative soul, it’s the opposite. It’s here, safe in our own home, where he truly becomes a wild animal, a man among men, my lover. When we reach the bed I stop, dropping my hand. He’s free from my leadership. My eyes find his and I know I’m pleading. I don’t have to say a word. Instead of speaking I remove my clothing. Quickly. My need to be physically sated is thrumming throughout my entire body. He watches me then strips, himself.
We’ve had our start. His body is taut, ready to spring. Muscles flex, his chest rising and falling. His manhood twitches and I smile. I want to touch him. To taste him. To hear him moan as I play on his senses but there’s a time and place for that. This, right now, is neither. Two hands come forward and push me back. I tumble onto the bed and he follows. Within seconds I’m pinned beneath his weight. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be. Not ever. His hand caresses the side of my face and I turn into it, a thumb pulling at my lower lip. My tongue, not yet having had a chance to play, darts out. It gives his digit a lick, just one, before disappearing back into my mouth. He grins down at me and I know it’s about to begin.
He spreads my legs and I arch my hips up towards him. It’s time. With a primal growl his smile turns into something more menacing. Inhaling sharply, prepared, I watch his face as he enters me. We’re one. We’re connecting on that physical plane but reaching far deeper through our commitment to each other and our acceptance of the roles we’ve given ourselves in the relationship. My eyes widen as he turns his thrusts from mild to battering ram. We’re moving together, building momentum, still watching each other. The world around us disappears and we escape the mortal world. We’re something else. This is something else. Our grunts and groans, moans and cries, are the individual pieces to our song. Sweat beads on our skin, our bodies growing tense, until I can’t hold in the result of my pleasure any longer. Then it’s his turn, filling me with the evidence of our union. This, this is the way life should be. Always. As he collapses beside me I curl up into the crook of his arm with my body pressed against him. My hand rests above his heart, which I can feel beating within his chest. That, that belongs to me.