Thursday, August 29, 2013

I Want to See You Naked - Part Two

On the Line – Part Two
Read Part One Here

Please come check out the rest of this story in Sinful Press’s Sinful Pleasures: An Anthology of Erotic Tales to dive deep into all the awkward excitement of sexual exploration. When every encounter feels weighty and new. When you feel perpetually on the verge of either discovery or humiliation. It’s a wonder any of us survived it at all!

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I Want to See You Naked - Part One

On the Line – Part One

Chris Carey sat in front of his computer, trying like hell to take notes on the article he was reading. But his mind was on the phone—sitting silent—on his bed.

It was 9:13. 

Danielle usually called at 9:00.

She was probably busy. He knew that. She had a heavy class load this semester. And she was about half a year behind schedule at a school that cost more per semester than his entire four-year college education. Not to mention, she was also president of the kinky youth program for all the local colleges. She was busy. And he should leave her alone.

But she usually called at 9:00.

He snuck a look at his phone again, the blank screen dark.

Biting his lip, his shoulders slumped in on themselves. Should he call her? She always called him. But, if she was busy, it might have slipped her mind.

But, if she was so busy that it slipped her mind, did that mean that she was too busy for him?

Maybe he should just wait. He didn’t want to disturb her and she would call him when she was ready, he was sure. So he dragged his eyes back to his computer and the notes he wasn’t taking, trying not to mentally will his phone to ring.

But he could feel each minute tick by—fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen—each sixty-second increment making more of an impact than any of the words in front of him.

With a frustrated grunt, he set aside his laptop. 

This was ridiculous. 

Danielle was his girlfriend. 

If he wanted to call her, he could call her. 

He didn’t have to wait for her.

Decisively, he reached for his phone and began to dial.

She answered on the first ring. “Twenty minutes past nine,” Danielle tsked. “I always wondered how long it would take for you to call me.” Even over the phone, he could practically hear her shrug. “Twenty minutes sounds about right.”

“So this was a test?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, not sure he liked the idea of that.

“Not a test, per se,” she soothed, her throaty voice a purr that—despite his efforts—did calm his irritation. Which was kind of irritating in and of itself. “More of an experiment. To shake things up a bit.”

“Shake things up how?” he asked as he harrumphed back against his headboard.

“We’re in a rut, Christopher,” she sighed with an audible shake of her head. “We’ve got to Columbus our way out of this.”

A rut? They were in a rut? Chris frowned as he adjusted his glasses. He supposed that, sure, they’d both been a little tired lately. A little overworked and stressed. But a rut? “How are we supposed to do that?” he mumbled.

“Close your eyes,” she urged into the phone.

He huffed a bit, but did as she asked. It was, after all, a simple request. “Okay,” he muttered as he hunched over with a pout.

“Imagine us,” her voice whispered in his ear. “Imagine us in your room. On your bed.”

Chris let out a sigh and tried. His mind focused on her lips. Pictured that painted and so mobile mouth forming her words. He thought about her tongue, slick and sly, as it slid across those lips, leaving a sheen in its wake. Chris let his mind remember the taste of her kiss, an utterly illogical mix of heated want and cool mint.

He imagined the flush that swept over her cheeks when they kissed, that visible sign of her excitement that never failed to fuel his own. He knew that a blush like that could travel down her neck, her shoulder, her spine in a tickled shiver with the simplest touch.

And then there—in his room, on his bed, in his mind—like magic, she was laid seductive and stretched out before him. He imagined the dark fall of curls that clouded around her face and shoulders, framing bared, bronzed skin perfectly. 

His hands itched to grab the curves of her body. The swell of her sweeping hips. The pointed tips of her delectable breasts. The length of her long legs. The soft spread of sun-ripened skin, that always held the sweet scent of citrus, over the generous lushness of her body.

He could hear his own breath rasp as his mind transported her from her dorm room to the foot of his bed.

“Good,” he heard her coo in his ear. “Now that you have me there, whatever will you do with me?” she asked in that mockingly naïve voice that left him feeling provoked and promised.

“I want you naked.”

It’d just slipped out without him realizing it. To be honest, he hadn’t even noticed that he’d conjured Danielle still wearing those damned duck-covered panties that he’d first seen her in—one of her favorite pairs—those yellow quackers taunting him even in his fantasies.

He heard her laugh. “I’m not already naked?” Her chuckle lowered. “What am I wearing?” she asked in a husky tease.

“Silk stockings, stilettos, a lace thong,” he grumbled, not going to tell her what his mind had actually given her. 

“All right,” she conceded, seeming to approve his costume choice. “So take it off,” she told him. “With your teeth,” she added almost imperially.

Chris paused, his face heating.

He didn’t actually know what she looked like naked. 

Not completely. 

They hadn’t done that yet. 

He’d seen her topless. He’d seen her without her pants on. Once, during a matinee movie, he’d spent one-quarter of a film with the knuckle of his left index finger slowly stroking the cottony crotch of her panties covered only by the darkened theater, her knee-length skirt, and his coat.

“Am I naked yet?” she asked.

Oh, yeah. 

“Um,” he coughed as he ruffled his short, unrufflable, red hair. “No, not yet,” he hedged as he pushed his glasses further up his nose, feeling his face flush a shade close to his hair.

“Good,” she said breezily. “I want you to tell me when you do it. Tell me how you do it.”


He paled.

How was he supposed to tell her how he would strip her when he’d never actually done it? And wasn’t he supposed to be doing this with his teeth? He couldn’t talk, if his mouth was full of lace and silk, could he?

He swallowed hard. Uhhh. “I go up to you and I take off your clothes,” he stated, hating how it sounded almost like a question.

“Jeez, slow down, speedster,” she scolded. “Get in the game. Phone sex isn’t a wham-bam, thank you, ma’am sport. Go slower. Describe it to me.”

He sighed and squirmed. Jeez, he didn’t know how to do this. Talk dirty. It was one thing to read stuff like that. Much different to watch it in a video or imagine it in his head. But right now—with all this expectation there bearing down on him—he felt stupid, choking on all these unsaid words piling up at the back of his throat. 

“Okay, fine,” she sighed. “I’ll start us off. But,” she added, her tone haughty as a grade school teacher, “while I describe me getting naked, you have to get naked too. Like really. Right now. Okay?”

He bit his lip. He looked around his empty attic bedroom. He knew his parents and sister were somewhere downstairs. Probably watching TV or something. He had privacy. No one would know what he was doing. He sucked in a steadying breath. “Will you get naked too?” he asked.

She paused as if shrugging. “Sure, why not?”

He nodded. “Okay.” He’d do it. Like she’d said, why not?

“That’s the spirit,” she said. “Okay,” she continued, “so I’m sitting on your bed, kicking off my heels.”

Chris winced as he adjusted his initial image to fit the one she was describing. And, though a part of him ached at the loss of those snarky ducks, imagining Danielle slither and sway in silk and lace definitely held its own appeal. 

He fought a grin as the small swath of lace, that covered her mound, hugged her hips in bright, happy yellow. He did smile at the jaunty orange bow that stared daring back at him with fowl defiance.

“You climb over me with that look in your eye,” her breathy voice continued. “You know, that one you get right before you’re about to do something really naughty. That I’ve got an idea and you might not like it, but I sure will look. You start to reach for your belt to undo it.” She paused. “Are you doing it?”

Chris peeked down at himself a moment. He was wearing drawstring sweatpants. No belt. 

But he supposed, if he could re-dress his fantasy version of Danielle, he could do the same with the fantasy version of himself. He shrugged. “Yep,” he said as he reached for the drawstring of his sweats, struggling with the double-knotted bow.

“Good,” she said, sounding as if she were settling back on her bed, settling back into her story. “As you tug at your belt and pants, you lean down to grab the edge of my panties with your teeth, tugging them down my hips. I have to lift my hips and wiggle a bit while you pull, but you get them down my thighs and my knees and ankles before tossing them off to the side.” 

He heard rustling on her end and wondered if she too were taking off her clothes. But before he could ask, she continued, “By then, you have your pants kicked off, leaving you in just your shirt and boxers.”

He wore briefs, but—as he’d always kept his pants on—he didn’t expect her to know that. And, at the moment, as he lifted his own hips to slide his sweats off, he really didn’t care about the details.

“You grab my hips in your hands and forcefully flip me onto my stomach,” she said, her voice hitching a bit. “You run your hands over my back and ass before bending low to kiss and nip at the curve.”

Oh yeah. He could practically feel all that full, supple flesh in his hands and on his lips. “Then what?”

There was a pause that stretched into a smile. “Then,” she said smugly, “you lean over and bite the clasp of the garter belt open.”

His mind stalled for a moment. 

Could he even do that? 

Did people do that? 

That seemed to take an oral dexterity that he wouldn’t think he probably possessed. 

“Can I even do that?” It just seemed awkward and physically tricky. “Couldn’t I just take it off with my hands?”

“No,” she snapped at him. “You can’t use your hands because you’re stroking yourself with one hand and you’re holding me down on the bed with the other. So you have to bite it off.”

Chris shrugged. All right. He still didn’t quite understand why he couldn’t just take the two seconds to strip her with his hands, but why not? If this was her fantasy, who was he to question it? So he adjusted the image in his head as he tried to figure out whether her garter would have a taste—maybe salty with her sweat or rubbery from the elastic—or not.

“Now stop talking, pay attention, and start stroking yourself,” she added, her tone demanding and a little breathy. 

He wondered if she were doing it too. Touching herself. He wanted to ask, but didn’t know if he should and didn’t want to risk ruining the mood. 

So instead he reached down and palmed his half-hard prick through his briefs. It was oddly arousing, this strange bedtime-story game. It was as if two distinct images of Danielle existed in his head. The one he’d conjured, lying helpless and hot beneath him. And the one he knew to still be lounging in her dorm room, controlling the scene and its players like a puppeteer. 

His hips jerked involuntarily into his hands. “Now what?” he asked, his voice rougher, touched with a little impatience.

“As you pull down one stocking with your hand, you take the other one off with your teeth, tonguing and nipping at my leg,” Danielle told him as he pictured her thick thighs, dimpled knees, and strong calves in his hands, against his lips. 

Cheating, he reached inside his briefs, gripping his cock surely in his hands before stroking himself. He moaned. “Then what?” he asked, getting lost in her voice and the images it evoked.


“You tell me,” Danielle Atali murmured into the phone as she lounged back in her bed, naked as she plucked at her nipples. “I got me naked, just as you asked. What do you want to do to me now?” 

Maybe it was mean—it really kind of was—but she wanted to know what he’d say. She knew that Carey wasn’t terribly experienced.  Not that she was either, but she had more experience than he did. She hadn’t had all that many partners, but she hadn’t been a virgin in quite some time.

And she honestly wondered what he would say. Was more than a little curious if he would even say anything at all. Carey had problems expressing himself sometimes. 

Most of the time, really. 

Whenever they would talk about sex or kink or their relationship or where to freakin’ eat lunch, he would mumble and stutter before looking to her for answers. And, while she didn’t necessarily mind making the decisions, a part of her could never really tell if he didn’t know how to say what he wanted or if he just didn’t quite know what that might even be.

“Tell me,” she purred into the phone, lowering her voice into a coax. “I want to know what you want.”

“I,” he muttered into the phone hesitantly, “I don’t know.” 

There was a pause. 

A long one. 

She opened her mouth to say something—anything—if just to fill the silence. She didn’t even know what she would say, but that pause was nearly unbearable. 

“I,” he hedged, “I want to see you. To look at you. I guess.” She could hear him swallow hard. “Send me a pic. So—so I can see.”

Danielle’s breath caught. 

He wanted a picture? 

Like, a nude shot? 

She’d never really sent one of those before. 

Never taken one. 

Never really even thought about it. 

It wasn’t like she was ashamed of her body—she wasn’t a hag or anything—but there were definitely bits that she was never quite content with. And they all hovered roughly in the vicinity of her naughty bits. Thighs that wobbled and rubbed together when she walked. Hips that jutted awkwardly and never seemed to fit the rest of her. A tummy that seemed pudgy and pooched further out than she’d like. 

Even her boobs were weird, cone-ish and small, reminding her too much of a rodent for her liking, rather than round and full. She guessed, in her bra, in her clothes, she looked all right. Maybe even reasonably attractive—hey, after all, she did catch Carey in the first place, right? But that was different than naked. 

Naked, all the tricks she’d learned over the years—padded bras and chunky tops to add more balance to her bottom-heavy body—would be gone. 

Typically, when she did finally get stripped down with a guy, it tended to happen in the dark with rushed hands and a flurry of lust. They were too busy getting off to notice much of anything.

But, with a naked picture, Carey would see everything. She could hide nothing.

She bit and worried her lip.

“Danielle?” she heard him ask over the other end.

She sighed. 

But this was what he wanted. And she had wanted to know that. Wanted to give him what he wanted. Didn’t she? Hadn’t that been the whole point of this game?

Read Part Two Here

Thursday, August 15, 2013

Study Now Says More Sex, More Money

If you ever needed another reason to have more sex, a study done at the  Institute for the Study of Labor states that people who have sex at least four times a week make more money. Shouldn't this mean that I ought to be able to schedule noon-time nookie on the clock? You know, for productivity’s sake…

Friday, August 9, 2013

Thursday, August 8, 2013

Blew Myself

I just realized that "edit" and "diet" are anagrams.



So much of my life makes so much sense right now.

Is this the literary equivalent of seeing God?