Important stuff. Including but not limited to my own writing and things that inspire or speak to me. Thirst and dark academia. She/Her. Regularly NSFW and 18+. Asks and requests are most welcome.
Pairing: Female POV x no man in particular
Warnings: 18+. I call it etherial smut. What will you call it?
Masterlist
Last night when suffering from a headache, I longed for a strong, sturdy man’s body. I longed for someone to hold me gently, someone to lean against and who would kiss me tenderly, until I fell asleep. Maybe he'd tickle me softly between my legs, ever so faintly, barely touching me, so that when I reached that moment of liminal space, it wouldn’t be entirely clear if I were having sexy dreams or if it really was happening. Well, both would be happening.
Another little fantasy I had was simply of… grinding.
I desired the sensual picture of a man sitting in my baroque sofa, perhaps candles ablaze, delicate music playing and I’m wearing… practically nothing, if anything, and I go to sit on his lap, grinding.
My back against his bare chest, he instantly holds me there, making me relax entirely against and on top of him. One hand reaches to caress my throat, the other to my little bud. Gently, quietly, so incredibly smoothly, I am at peace. I can give up, let go and I can let him, guided by my body’s senses and intuitive wanting, take control.
Sometimes I would tell him to go slower, slower, slower still, and he would try for a few seconds, grow impatient, frustrated, and I would soothe him and caress his stubbly jaw saying, “slower, ease into it baby, so slow that you almost think you’re stopping,” and he’d laugh at me, incredulous, but I’d hold my peace. I’d hold the peace for both of us, until he finally understands, until he sees that the slower he goes, the more delicately controlling he becomes. Reigning himself in, the deeper my breath becomes, the more weight my body will press upon him, the more my hips will roll in waves of beckoning and pleasure – “keep going slow, my love, resist the temptation…” – the more my back arches and my own breath becomes impatient.
At this point he has understood the game, his place, his position in the seance. He is caressing me agonizingly slowly. I can sense the smirk on his lips. I clench my lower lips and his hand around my throat tightens, restricting me. “Yes,” I exhale.
I know that I must truly let go now. He has taken it upon him to keep this tension, to be the structure, to be the pillars, the cool concrete walls, perfectly raw, subtly stimulating, setting the frame for me to rupture into fantastical flourishes.
My body bends and contorts and squirms in his grasp. He holds his pace and he holds me as I unfold, tightly enough to not let me escape and thus sabotage my ascent. I climb. I climb higher within this concrete structure that is him. I see myself as a tree, or simply vines, honeysuckle, climbing upwards toward the bright, blue sky, flowers bursting, blooming with vivid pink and white. He is a tower that keeps me confined, yet I grasp at every inch of wall to spread my limbs upon, to unfold and unravel further, infinitely…
I don’t know how long this lasts, I don’t know exactly how it changes, but it all becomes dark, as if I am sheltered from the sky above. I go still, quiet, and I become aware that he has entered me. The scene has changed. My eyes adjust. What were concrete walls are now clouds of dark purples, pinks and blues within dark grays, sparkling with streaks of gold and silver stars, first dim, but increasingly bright for each time he penetrates further after a retreat. The brightness of the stars grow with his cadence, the clouds begin to move faster too, changing from fog-like bodies to thunderous clouds. I anticipate the lightning as the storm carries me away.
I lose myself entirely. Swallowed by the thunderstorm, it is unclear where I end and he begins. I have dissolved. Pace, passion, breath, everything climbs again. Upwards, onwards, rolling across land and oceans alike, we are the Elder Gods: Ancient, almighty, we are Source incarnate, the ultimate creative force. Lightning finally strikes. Again, again, again.
The final lightning strikes. Death and rebirth.
We lay desolate, self-soothing before we turn attention toward each other. I can tell in his eyes it is a matter of time before fresh winds of passion will sweep us along again. He smiles and I know my eyes are telling him the same.
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