In my office, door locked, kids banned. Heart pounding. Envelope from Editions du Cherche Minou slit open. Words hit like lightning. ‘Your text approved. Surpasses your previous novels in literary quality and erotic intensity.’ My Christophe? Erotic author? Impossible. Him, who can’t write a proper email, who skips foreplay, who snores after two kisses.
I Google. Site screams sex: ‘Erotism to the skin.’ Authors list. Chris Prettywood. Boisjoly in English. Pretty wood. His books: ‘Mechanics of Bodily Fluids,’ ‘Edmond of Venus,’ ‘Isabelle Like the Day,’ ‘Et Plus Si Infinité.’ Since Thibault’s birth. Twelve years lying. Royalties hidden in our accounts. Genius in fluids, now pussy juices?
The Awakening
Phone rings. Him from Chicago. Voice shaky when I mention the post office letter. I tease. ‘Taxes. Undeclared income.’ Relief floods his tone. Guilty as fuck. I hang up, thighs clenching. Heat builds low. Forbidden. His imagination wild in pages, dead in our bed. What scenes? Cocks throbbing, cunts dripping?
Evening. Kids asleep. Bedroom sanctuary. Sheets cool on skin. Nightie hiked. Legs spread wide. Pussy already slick, lips parting. Finger traces slit. Wetness coats it. Dip inside, hot walls grip. Pull out, glide to clit. Swollen, begging.
Mind races. His words. Heroine on knees, mouth full of veiny cock. Tongue swirling purple head, pre-cum salty burst. Saliva drips. Gulp deep, throat bulging. Balls slap chin. Him grunting, fingers tangled in hair. Pull off, strings of spit connect.
The Secret Kept
My circle speeds. Nipples hard peaks. Other hand pinches. Pussy aches empty. Two fingers plunge. Squish sounds. Thumb on clit, frantic. Imagine his prose: her ass high, cheeks spread. Tongue rims puckered hole, then dives pussy. Laps folds, sucks clit like ripe berry. Juices flood his face.
Faster. Hips buck. Cock now, thick, ridged. Rams her. Stretches walls. Balls deep slap. G-spot hammered. She screams, squirts arc. He swells, pulses. Hot jets paint cervix. Cum leaks, mixes sweat.
Me? Fingers blur. Clit throbs fire. Build coils tight. Visions crash: gangbangs, lez licks, anal reamings from his books. Taboo floods. His secret mine now. Orgasm rips. Pussy spasms, gushes sheet. Waves crash, body arches. Scream muffled in pillow. Float in bliss, cunt twitching aftershocks.
Reality creeps. Breath steadies. No confrontation. Let him stew unknowing. Two months alone. His novels fuel my nights. Fantasies hotter unread. Transgression sweet. Keeping this? Pure ecstasy. Dared the unthinkable. Own thrill forever.