She stares out the window, sipping bitter black coffee while thinking about what to write. Sex scenes always feel more demanding. Not because she lacks imagination in that area – quite the opposite is true if last night is anything to say about it. But she will admit that this brand of sex is unknown to her. She also struggles with talking dirty, and now, writing dirty, it seems.
But that makes no sense. She writes about her and Adam’s lovemaking in her diary regularly. Has yet to miss an event, sexual or not. Maybe that’s the inspiration I need, she thinks, running up the stairs to fetch it from her nightstand.
At her desk, she thumbs through the pages of spiraling scribble. Immediately, she’s shocked to find numerous blank spaces between entries. Strange, she doesn’t remember them being there before. If she misses a day, she simply adds her thoughts to the next day.
Stopping on a random page, she checks the date. August 24.
Dear Diary,
Today is our anniversary, and it totally reminded me why I married Adam. He started the morning with breakfast in bed and called work- his and mine- in advance to book the day off. After breakfast, we had a bubble bath, complete with sweet smelling oils and candles.
He’d planned a carriage ride in the park, but after the bath, neither of us could resist temptation and we spent the afternoon in bed.
He tried this new thing where he
For dinner, he took us to the place we had our first date. The owner remembered us after all these years, much to both our delight.
August 25
She stops and goes back to the beginning. She reads the entry again, but the best part is missing. No smudge marks hint that the stolen memory was erased. No white, paint-like substance cakes the page. It’s as if the words have simply disappeared. But she knows she wrote something that night. Remembers the details so well her groin aches as if she’s back in the throes of passion, thighs wedged open beneath Adam’s measured thrusts.
She flips the pages frantically, but it doesn’t take her long to notice all the sex scenes are missing. Every single one. And only those. It’s like someone came and obliterated all her most erotic, intimate moments. She’s near tears when her word processing program opens with a ping. The book she’s working on pops onto the screen.
Hands shaking, she scrolls to the first scene she’d hoped to complete today. It’s a part in which the characters are making love for the first time. They don’t know each other very well yet, and she wants it to seem like they’re eager, yet still apprehensive. Not of the act itself, no. Of the discovery. The what-ifs and can-I’s still weighing heavily on their minds.
She reads the page before her hopeful fresh addition, although she’s read it every day for the past week and could recite it by heart.
He reaches his hand tentatively towards her. Anne smiles softly, then takes pity on him and meets him halfway. As his fingers caress her chin, slide benevolently over her jaw, she presses her cheek into his palm, silently begging him to continue. Ethan’s eyes fill with wonder. He leans forward and captures her lips with his, eyes fluttering shut as their warm breaths mingle and dance across his cheeks.
“I need you,” Anne whispers, and Ethan lifts her into his arms, walking a short distance, where he lays her on his bed.
He takes his time undressing Anne, savors this first moment as if it will be his last.
Yesterday and each day since she originally wrote this chapter, there was a blank page following. The chapter ended and she wrote nothing until the beginning of the next. She scrolls ahead, but all the empty spaces are replete with row upon row of text. She goes back and begins to read the words that have suffused the page.
As Ethan sinks into her wet heat, their moans echo throughout the darkened room, sounding far away, as if their passion has traveled a long distance to find them. Anne holds him to her as he thrusts rhythmically, pushes back against him, times their connection as if it were a dance. Ethan hisses when Anne’s nails sink into the flesh of his buttocks, pulling him deeper, demanding he give her more.
She arches her back, offering her breasts to him. Ethan takes them in hand, then mouth, devouring and savoring the cherry topped gifts. Grunts of pain, then hums of pleasure pour from Anne’s parted lips as Ethan’s teeth pierce her delicate flesh. Their joining becomes frantic as her moans speed up, and the lovers grow reckless in their abandon.
With the thought that she couldn’t have written the scene better herself–although she knows she did, or rather, she’d been the participant of a scene not quite like that- she moves on to the next. Things have changed between Anne and Ethan. Ethan is more domineering, and Anne has found she loves being the recipient of his new style.
The problem with writing these scenes is she has nothing to base them on. Adam is not a dominant man. He takes his aggression out on the squash or tennis court. It took him years to even fuck her without restraint. And that was only after she literally begged him to. She thinks about that for a moment, feels like she’s on the precipice of a monumental discovery. It’s right there, like she could reach out and touch it, but when she thinks a bit harder, absorbs the thought a bit more, it fades away like smoke in the wind. She shakes her head, then reads the next passage.
“On your knees,” Ethan growls, pupils dilating until blue irises all but disappear. Anne lowers meekly but doesn’t dare look away.
“Now, crawl to me, pet.”
Anne wastes no time. Like a predatory cat, she stalks towards Ethan, hips swaying with each touch of her knees to the plush carpet. Ethan’s eyes follow the swell of her round buttocks, the pendulum of her perky breasts. Once Anne is beside him, he strokes her head, then lifts her chin.
As she stares into Ethan’s eyes, he lowers his zipper. Anne hears each tooth disengage from its counterpart; each tick, creating a renewed yearning inside her. She licks her lip. Anne’s core tingles, her mouth waters. Ethan holds his bare cock before her, traces her lips with the smooth tip. Pre-come leaks onto the rouged perimeter, and he smears it around and around, painting them glossy.
“Open, pet.”
That is all the warning Anne has before Ethan presses into her warm entrance. His shaft rasps over Anne’s tongue, the bulbous tip massaging the back of her throat. Anne swallows around Ethan’s length and is rewarded with an extended groan.
Anne raises her hand to aid in her quest, but Ethan makes a tsk-ing noise deep in his chest and tells her to place both arms behind her back. He pumps furiously into Anne’s mouth, the pace almost desperate. Anne swirls her tongue around his swollen member, a feeling of satisfaction pervading her very soul as the first spurt of cum coats her throat.
She licks the remnants of his seed away before he pulls her close, kisses her gently and whispers how much of a marvel she is.
Well, damn. That certainly isn’t from her diary. But she wishes it was. Reading that scene has made her more aroused than anything she’s ever written. A familiar tingle burns in her core. She wonders what Adam would do if she were to crawl and take him between her lips? To fuck him with only her mouth. She squirms in her seat, hoping the lubricious ache away. There’s a lot to get done today.
She scrolls to the next chapter. The characters are testing the bounds of pain. This scene has been the most arduous to write yet, as pain has never entered her bedroom, not deliberately. She’s elated to see it completed and can’t resist the desire to read what it says.
“I’m nervous.” Anne whispers, her voice sounding unsure to her own ears.
“This is an erotic spanking, pet. Yes, sometimes the smacks can hurt, but it’s supposed to be something you enjoy. And you have your safeword if needed.”
Anne nods, but her frown tells Ethan she’s still not convinced.
“Up on the bed, pet. Head down, ass up, as they say. Get comfortable.”
Anne gets into position and Ethan takes a moment to correct her form, pulling her hips back, and pushing her chest towards the mattress. In the nude, Anne’s core is delightfully on display. Cool air caresses her feminine bits, effectively reinforcing her vulnerability.
Ethan places his hand on the swell of Anne’s ass. She startles under his touch, but her giggle tells him to continue. He soothes his hand down the expanse of her skin, then back up over her sit bones to the small of her back. With each stroke, Anne softens into Ethan’s touch. He watches her head drop, her eyes close, then pulls his hand back and lands it squarely on Anne’s backside.
He had expected a gasp, a shriek, perhaps a groan, but the sigh that follows a moan as he rubs the heat of his slap into Anne’s flesh is a welcome surprise. Ethan cocks his arm back a second time, hits the other cheek a fraction harder than the last. Again, he rubs the warmth into Anne’s skin, and once more, she rewards him with a euphoric moan.
After the third smack, Anne pushes her hips back, silently asking for what her body wants, even if her mind hasn’t come to agree yet. After the fourth, Ethan runs his fingers through her core to finding her drenched, his digits sliding easily through her folds. He presses two into her roughly, and Anne cries out, then pushes back forcefully against them.
Brusquely pulling his hand away, Ethan inundates Anne with slap after slap. After every five lashes, give or take, he stops momentarily to pump his fingers into Anne’s wet heat. Her fragrance is intoxicating and has his head feeling fuzzy, heavy. Her moans have his cock raising to full mast.
“Fuck me, please!” Anne yells between aroused whimpers and groans, and Ethan knows he shouldn’t, but he can not resist such an offer.
Nipples hard, breath panting, she stands from her chair. If that’s what that brand of sex is like, she wants, no, needs to experience it. But how? How does she get Adam to see things her way? She picks up her diary, again thumbs through the pages, eyes the empty spaces. Apparently, all those moments will need to be recreated. What better place than her book to get inspiration? It’s sure to be better than fiction.
She races up the stairs to change into a black lace teddy and stockings; a gift from Adam on their first anniversary, not worn since.
When Adam arrives home, he stands at the door for a moment, taking her in. Slowly he removes his shoes, then his tie. Appraising his kneeling wife, Adam grasps her chin, then asks her, “To what do I owe the honor?”
With a smile she replies, “I’m writing a book.”
For more about diaries, whether dear or dreadful, hit the bullseye.
Better Than Fiction was originally started for the Erotic Fiction Deluxe prompt: Books, but wasn’t completed before the prompt closed (sorry Liz!). There were some really great entries though, so be sure to check it out by clicking the crown.
You can find more Erotic Fiction here.
For some inspiration of your own, check this out!
An extraordinary story, of an exquisite erotic luxury.
Loved this. Made my day. Thank you!
Gorgeous story, MrsK. Love the way her writings disappeared from her diary… and love the end too. Lots of promise there 🙂
~ Marie xox
“Apparently, all those moments will need to be recreated. What better place than her book to get inspiration?”
Very good –
Some of the true life sex on my blog is defo better than some fiction i have read lol…
May xx
Incredible!
Great story!!!!