I write erotica. Or at least try to. Once I write a story, the meticulous editing process never ends. It's all about the details. The where, who, how, why, which, when, whose, type, color, style, part, choice, mood, or the all important question, what if? When I'm completely satisfied, I never truly am.
One thing I've learned over the years is that the story matters. Without it, a lot of my stories are nothing but smut. But to be good, even smut deserves a story.
---------
A prudent, pleasantly attractive, older neighbor I'd gotten friendly with recently came over to borrow some coffee. Curious about what I was reading, I said, "You know me. I always write naughty, but extra nicely. That's why romantic erotica is my favorite genre. It feels good making women feel sexy. Especially when they don't feel like it. There's nothing like true appreciation or validation of a woman's self worth. Making women come more than just once is my gift to womanhood.
I write them all the time. But right now I'm both reading and editing this one. I find the best inspiration comes from people I've met. I'm never content. At some point, I just have to let it be.
Many of my stories are based on truth. From my own experiences. For instance, you could easily be the subject of a new story."
"Not boring me. Sexy is not my forte. Nor is the ever elusive orgasm."
"Yes, you. Naturally there might be a few embellishments. As attractive as you already are, I'll make you look even sexier. It helps if the author is a great lover too. Which I happen to be. You have to have a sense of what women want. Or don't want. It's all about the story behind the sex."
"Really? I highly doubt that. Not some racy story about me. Might be kinda' fun though. I fancy myself a fair writer. Mind if I have a look?"
"Be my guest. But be prepared."
I watched her expression as she thumbed through the pages. Her eyes went from widening in awe to blinking. Then her face crinkled in total disbelief.
"Two people don't act like that. Nor do I. It's unreal. Multiple orgasms? Each? Never. Those things don't happen. At least not to me. Only in fantasy land. My fantasy land.
Well, thanks for the coffee again."
"No problem. But yes, women do do those things with me. As I would do with them I would do with you as well. I always put my partner first. Their--your satisfaction is paramount. If I'm not sure, then I'll ask. Trust me, they'll be more than glad to tell me what I'm doing right, or even more importantly, what I'm doing wrong. If I do it right, the more likely they'll do the same for me. The same goes for them. Not a relationship goes by where I don't learn something new. Remember, wetter is better for everyone."
"Um, okay. Something to think about."
---------
A few days later, Stacy came over again to replace my coffee. This time, she looked different. A lot. She was hot. Really hot. She'd colored her hair to a classy auburn, and had let it down to play around supple shoulders. Her long, luscious lashes were to die for and perfectly framed her already crystalline, baby blue eyes. Her lips were a glossy red and she was wearing makeup in all the right places--not too much. Instead of a baggy blouse and loose fitting khakis, she had on high-cut, faded denim shorts, a braless, tight cotton tee-shirt and three inch, black heels. Casual personified. She looked at least ten years younger with her already dazzling smile and sweet ass that could have been right out of high school.
I had suspected, but now I knew for sure. Stacy was a bona fide fox. Top shelf. A hidden gem no longer in the rough. Far more than smitten, I was totally in love.
"Wow. Don't you look edibly fuckable. Gotta' love that. I'd eat you like cherry pie and beg for seconds. Would regardless. Makeup, heels or not, you're just flat out sexy.
Thanks for returning the coffee."
"Thanks. Really needed that. You sure know how to compliment. I had to feel sexy for once. You did that for me. My inspiration. Hope you like it. Cherry pie, huh? Makes my knees weak."
"Yes, a most tasty cherry pie. I do like it. Very, very much. My knees are worthless."
"I have a confession to make. It was never really about coffee. So sorry, but it was just a sneaky way to swipe one of your naughty, printed out, short stories, Bed Buds. So hot. Adrian sounds like someone I'd die to get with. I want to be like her. Getting fucked and being made love to right all night by a man who knows how to please a woman. It's obvious she does it to please him.
It's like tag team pleasure. Casual, but rampant, no strings attached sex with so many mind blowing orgasms. I was friggin' my poor clit the whole time. Yeah. That good."
"That's what I do."
"Now I know. And most importantly, what you've been saying about putting your partner first. It all got me to thinking. A lot."
"Listening. And excited. I love your transformation. It's actually all you. Sexiness to the max. And you're just in time because, frankly, I'm in a writing rut and your fantastic body is more than tempting enough to get me out."
"I'll be damned. That, is exciting. Guess I did do alright. God, this makes my pussy even more lonely. I want to fuck you so bad. Hope you'll let me. I bet you have an amazing dick and expert tongue. And crazy stamina with a gentle touch. But now, I'm being dead serious with you."
"I'm dead serious about making long, breathtaking love with you. To you."
"God, you're about to make me come as it is. But listen. My story is tragic. I've never been with a man except my ex-husband and his idea of sex was like a duty. A weekly chore. He was mean, really rough and his short, stump-like cock was massive. Fucking thick as my forearm. At least he was always quick. It was expected with no questions asked. In nine plus years I barely had an orgasm a couple times. Yeah. Even that was from myself. Trying not to see his face made it hard. He thought makeup was for whores. Ladies of the night. What a bastard. I wanted a baby. He made me go on the pill."
"So sorry. I'd love to help."
"Huh. Sure could use it. I'm not sorry though. I'm just glad it's over. I deserve to enjoy sex, not avoid it. I think I'm about to cry."
"We all do. Don't cry. Remember, I'm here now. Fuck him."
"Got that right. I want at least one orgasm. Like you write about. I think you're terribly a handsome man and would be perfect for my situation. Don't want to be dry fucked anymore. Ever. I desperately need to be made love to and with by someone who cares. And I do need your help."
I was surprised. But somehow not.
"I will. Believe me, I'm your man because I do care. And I want you just as bad. Like no other. Haven't seen a woman so needy. My speciality. But the magic doesn't just happen. You play a part too. Got it? Let's make it fun. Together."
"You mean like role play?"
"Bingo."
"Oh goodie. You are good. I love it! What do I do? Are we going to just fuck or make love?"
"Both. Just be yourself. You'll get your cues from me. Okay?"
"Got it. I love your role play. Both. Oh, making love sounds so sweet, but getting fucked good is what I really need right now. To think. Orgasms."
"Count 'em. Probably lose count."
"Losing count. That's beyond rapture land."
"That's where you'll be. I'm taking you there. Here's the setting. I come home from work late and rather than expecting a hot meal ready and on the table, I carry you away into our bedroom where my one goal is to please you. You're frisky. I've a burning desire for you. I'm making making you moist."
"Damn right. God, you make me feel so fucking good. I've never been so ready."
"I see that. Now I'm going to give you something you'll never forget."
