I channeled Sommer Marsden last night while I was cooking. Jalapeños. The house filled with pepper gas. I learned afterwards, from my friend who'd given me the recipe (when she could stop laughing long enough to explain that I had done wrong), that I should have diced the peppers post-sautéeing. Not before. But you all know about my cooking skills. Right?
And that is the perfect segue to dessert. Well, eavesdropping erotica crafts and desserts, which were the four themes to choose from for this week's contest. Without making you wait any longer (although I do like watching you lick your lips), here are the entries:
Entry #1: Her Favorite Things (To the tune of My Favorite Things)
List'ning to neighbors while knitting a mitten,
Reading hot tales that her blog mates have written,
Puny submissives all tied down with strings,
These are a few of her favorite things.
Whipped cream on nipples and crisp apple streudels,
Sounds that arise as a couple kanoodles,
Swatting with paddles so hard that it stings,
These are a few of her favorite things.
Girls in white panties on red satin bedsheets,
Dirty back alleys with rock stars that she meets,
Dishing the details of all of her flings,
These are a few of her favorite things.
When a hand slaps,
When that slip stings,
When she's feeling bad,
She simply remembers her favorite things
And that makes her feel so glad.
Entry #2: Rise and Shine
All night long I heard the sounds of the neighbors: squeaking bedsprings, a slamming headboard, flesh slapping against flesh, and then their blissful moans as they crested together.
As dawn broke, I counted the seconds until my man came in from working the night shift. I wanted what they'd had, and I pounced on him as soon as he entered the room.
Everything was at the ready, and he gladly gave in to my whims. I took strips of fabric that hadn't yet been woven into the unfinished rug and wrapped them around his wrists and ankles, binding him tight to the bedposts. I stroked his cock teasingly, and he raised his hips upward as he searched for more. I wanted to make it last, though—and I wanted an even sweeter treat. I picked up a bottle of chocolate syrup and drizzled the sticky liquid along his shaft. His laugh turned into a groan as I licked up the trail, dragging my tongue up and down his cock.
Before long, I was the one who couldn't wait. I swooped down, taking him all the way down my throat, my lips sticky and sweet. I lapped and sucked until I felt his shaft pulse against my tongue. He came with a groan, but that wasn't the end. The day had just begun.
Entry #3: Italian Silk Dessert
They crossed the Arno, his hand kneading her ass, and walked in darkness to the Via De’Vellutti, a street so narrow that the sound of each footstep echoed from straight-sided buildings. He, black hair, unshaven, with a promise of dessert, they climbed the stone steps to her 3rd-floor studio. August in Florence is hot, and tall shuttered windows facing the street were open.
The apartment was littered with bolts of cloth she would send to her Mother’s specialty fabric, craft and quilting business in Wisconsin. Unfurled bolts of silk lay on the bed. She lit a candle. He pushed her back onto swaths of silk and pulled her shirt over her head. She swiped the academic journal article(1) off her bed. His lips went to her mouth then her breasts, and, pulling her panties aside, his tongue lapped against her labia and stroked her clit.
Fields of silk — gamboge, cardinale rosso, d'argento grigio, adhering to damp bodies, she said, “I brought you home for dessert.”
He smiled. Her ass in his gaze, she went to the refrigerator and mixed ice cream, vodka, crushed pears and Tuscan raspberries.
She dribbled the mix on his erect cock — licked, inhaled, and sucked. Suddenly, cock in her hand, she whispered, “shhhhhhh.” Outside they heard Vespas, then silence, then voices through the windows and the rhythmic sound of metal mattress springs, squeeka-squeeka-squeeka. Squeeka-squeeka-squeeka – then silence.
Entry #4: Rest Rumors
It was a lucky break for Evan that the ambient noise level in the busy I-95 service area happened to ebb just at that moment. Otherwise, he would have been unlikely to overhear the tidbit of conversation that floated his way when the two cute college women glided past him at the road-map display, on their way from the restroom to the coffee stand.
“Fuck, that felt good,” was what the first silvery voice said, with a giggle. “I had, like, an orgasm, I was peeing so hard.”
“I *know*,” the other woman giggled in reply, just as they disappeared into the crowd of travelers. It was clear to Evan that “I know,” in this context, meant “me too.”
He would never see them again. But, oh, he’d remember them.
A fresh string of self-pleasure sessions now stretched to his horizon, like a densely plotted series of highway exits. He would imagine them in side-by-side stalls, their beauty synchronized, invisible to each other but within mutual earshot. “Yesssss!” one would hiss, in the ecstasy of release, while her traveling companion sighed an “Ahhhh” over her own squirming pleasure. From his imagined vantage point above—or facing them through magically transparent stall doors—he saw everything: the panties off their hips, the smiles on their faces.
In his mind, they stayed there as long as he needed them to, pissing and pissing, wiggling and laughing ... their fun lasting and lasting, as long as he could last.
Entry #5: Silky Smooth Icing
She can’t help herself. Glancing around to make sure no one is looking, she reaches under her apron and gives her nipple a pinch. Presses her thighs together, aching for something to rub against.
The long glass case filled with elaborately decorated cakes separates her from them. Allows her to listen in while working. They come in twice a month to partake of the treats and sip coffee. To talk shop.
She’s been told they’re erotica authors. Eavesdrops on their conversations, littered with words that make her blush, make her sense the creaminess between her legs.
She works. Cake layers are prepared, laid out waiting. Two fillings. One is tart, thick lemon with flecks of zest. The other a blood-red raspberry, seeds strained out and sweetened just so.
She takes up her spatula, begins spreading the lemon first. The authors talk about sucking cock. She yearns to dip her finger in the filling, taste the sharp flavor, but doesn’t dare.
She spreads the raspberry filling, adds the last cake layer, presses down so the red oozes out gently. The authors talk. Bondage. Spankings. Sex toys. The usual.
As she prepares the glossy chocolate ganache that will cover the cake, she thinks of the baker in the back room, his apron dusty with flour, his hair held by a net. His aroma. Sweet, sweaty, earthy.
The authors will leave, she’ll pull the shades, lock the door, take off her apron. In the back, they’ll slice the cake, share it. Before.
Entry #6: Crafty Girl
“Don’t touch that!” My fingers flew over the brooch I was hot gluing. I burned myself. “God!”
“You need to calm down.” Bill moved to hug me.
“Do not touch. Anything.” I was kind of growling.
“Shelbey.”
“Don’t Shelbey me. I am a one woman company and I am fifty brooches behind. The show is tomorrow! And…” I was shaking a bit.
“Look at you,” Bill frowned.
“No. Don’t. I haven’t combed my hair since yesterday.”
“You’re a nervous wreck.”
“All my fingers are burnt.”
“Poor baby.” He kissed me.
“Mmm.”
“Poor crafty girl.” His hands breached my sweats.
“And I’ve poked a hole in my thumb.”
“Let me help you.”
I shimmied my hips when he tugged my pants. “I’m high from the liquid glue, too.”
“Bend over.”
He parted my thighs, ran his cock along my wet entry. “No breaks,” I sighed
“Everyone needs breaks.” He thrust with long even strokes. My head touched down in a pile of antique buttons. His finger found my clit, stroked.
“I’m behind.”
“Right now you’re in front.” He swatted my ass. Three times. My lucky number.
“I can’t” I said, lying. His ministrations had me a kiss away from coming.
Bill twisted my nipples, licked my neck. I shivered, came. Warm and long and slow. Just what I needed. Bill came, his forehead between my shoulder blades.
“Better?”
“You know you’re right.”
“What?”
“Everyone needs breaks.”
“Almost ready for another?”
I handed him a brooch. “Help me and it’s a deal.”
Entry #7: The Good Humor Man
That was the summer with the heat wave. That was the summer when it was so hot for so long that we ran outside with the neighborhood kids every time the ice cream truck went by. I tried everything that year - Toasted Almond and Bomb Pops and Push-ups and Hoodsie Cups with the flat wooden spoons that tasted like my childhood.
That was the summer we both got a crush on the towheaded college kid that drove the thing around. I'd never seen you like that around another man before. It was like you wanted to flirt but couldn't quite figure out how, so you just got tongue-tied and goofy. I could see you blushing even through the heat.
And late one night we found him parked at the ballfield long after everyone had gone home. All he had left were boring old popsicles, and I got so distracted by the prospect of you going down on a guy that I practically started fellating that neon monstrosity without realizing it. Which certainly got both of your attention, and I leaned in and kissed you, and then him, multicolored tongues mixing crazy new concoctions. And you and I knelt together in front of our Mr. Softee (who was, in fact, not at all soft), and we licked and sucked him until he melted with pleasure, his come sweeter than any ice cream I've ever tasted. And then we brought him home, all three of us sticky and dripping and grinning.
I'm keeping the poll open only until midnight tomorrow. So vote early. And remember to slip on over to Cora Zane's pad for day 5 of the Blow Hard Tour 09! You could win this! Oh, and stop by here later on if you've got nothing else on your plate—I have a new contest brewing.
XXX,
Alison
1 comments:
Oh no! How to choose!!
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