I've been writing erotica for a few years now. How did I start? Is that what you whispered? Sorry - the lips nibbling my lobe and the hand inching beneath my hem were a little distracting. No, please, don't stop. Nibble away. Inch away. I like it. Indeed, allow me to reciprocate, that we may entwine ourselves - both emotionally and intellectually - ever closer.
Ah, the question. Yes, well, there's a thing. I actually wrote down my first sexual experience straight after the event, from the first glance to the first touch. It was cathartic. I needed to see it in black and white (more blue and yellow, to be honest), to try to make sense of it. Afterwards, I read it over and over, always adding details, adjectives, adverbs, changing a word here and there. Honing, I believe they call it. Refining. Well, I refined it till my heart raced, till my blood pumped, till my skin ached for another, similar touch. The original document is sadly lost. It only remains - up here - in grainy fragments, and - down there - in barely discernible connections: grass; pink; bees; sun.
I was lying on my back, eyes closed, limbs relaxed, simply soaking up the summer sun. My denim skirt was short, my cotton shirt sheer enough to show the world my new pink bra. I loved that bra. The grass was cool; the breeze, such as it was, was heavy with pollen and the slow buzzing of lazy insects. I was not alone, and yet somehow I was; he never spoke, yet I knew who he was. The stalk of grass he wielded had barely any substance, yet it cut away all propriety, despatched all resistance. It tickled my cheek one moment, lightly brushed my tight teenage belly the next, absently - surely accidentally - flicked a nipple on its journey north to explore my chin, nose and eyelids. Then, for long painful seconds, there was no touch, and I almost opened my eyes, though somehow resisted, knowing the spell would be irreparably broken. I could hear him breathing, could smell, could almost taste, his need. A need to strip me, mount me, penetrate and break me. And, though I feared it with all my being, I needed it too.
The seeded stem returned to its travels, became bolder, more insistent. I wished it were his fingers, his tongue, his his his... cock, but I knew it could never be so. Throughout his playful teasing, I longed to touch myself, ached for release, and still the stalk stalked my gentle curves. It crossed my collar bone, ambled through the shallow valley between my tiny tits, pausing on every rib before delving deftly into my belly button. I giggled. He sighed. The grass brushed my naked thighs. I drew up my knees, rested my soles on the earth and felt it move. Tilt. Spin. The stem tickled. Knees parted. Another tickle. I tensed. Relaxed. Tensed again. He was up my skirt now, inching ever closer. My fingers clawed the ground. My toes curled. I held my breath.
A touch. The touch. Within the moist pinkness of my tiny cotton knickers, my slippery clit cried out in disbelief. I echoed its cries with a breathy whisper. Oh, fuck.
My sister's voice.
'So that's where...'
Shock stole her words. Disbelief took her breath. I screwed up my eyes, unable to meet her undoubtedly incredulous gaze. She giggled. She ran. My grassy-green lover did the same. Their departing footsteps thudded against my head in contrary stereophonic motion and quickly faded to nothing. Indolent insects buzzed. The breeze rustled the trees. I sat up. Opened my eyes. Squinted around. No one. I plucked a stalk and attempted to reconstruct his ministrations, but the subtlety was somehow absent. It prickled. Scraped. Annoyed. I stood, smoothed down my skirt and slowly wandered home.
Fuck. I've never told anyone that before. Innocent, yes, in many ways, but it's just made me wetter than many a porn movie ever did. How strange...
Of course, I masturbated when I got home. And then wrote it all down. Afterwards, that pink knickers and bra combo always got me going. Pink still has that effect on me today. In fact, if you lift that hem a little higher, you may even see just how much...
Back to the reason for this post. I was going to tell you how I started writing erotica. Well, that singular event was undoubtedly the catalyst, but there's much more to it than that. So much more so that, to be honest, it will have to wait for another day. I suddenly have things to do. Maybe you do too. Till next time. Oh, I'll be the one in pink knickers and bra and you'll be the one in... whatever turns you on. Turn up turned on. We'll have so much more fun.
Take care,
Alexandra x
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