At Least They're Committed

OK, so I was laying in bed reading my erotic collection of short stories (Ellen’s suggestion to offset boredom and depression) and it occurred to me that I can write like that! So, yeah, here goes:

She presses the fleshy, white tip to her lips, licking it softly before pushing it farther and farther into her mouth until she can feel it firm and soft pressed to the back of her throat. Salty and sweet. If only she could take the whole thing, if only she could push it all the way down there. But she can’t. It’s too big. She bites down. Gag. If she has to eat even one more hard boiled egg on this diet she’s going to puke.

OK, sorry. That wasn’t quite right, was it? I’ll try again:

Naked and wet, she curls in fetal position between the sheets. Waiting, waiting, wanting, raising her hand and looking again at the screen on her cell. No call. No message. No nothing. It’s been minutes, MINUTES!!!! “Dammit!” she whispers, abandoned, forgotten. Suddenly the door bursts open, the knob smacking hard against the wall, as a tall, slender silhoutte emerges: the padded shoulders of a well-fitted suit coat, the fedora slightly off kilter, backlit by the winter sunshine. “Hi baby!” she says, curling tighter between the sheets.

“Eh,” he says smoothly and leans against the wall.

“Still can’t get it up?” she says comfortingly.

“No,” he groans. “Can I borrow the minivan? I still can’t get the hood up to see what’s wrong with my car.”

“Sure,” she says and glances fruitlessly one more time at her cell phone. “You look nice by the way.”

“Thanks,” he says walking away. “It’s Frank Sinatra’s birthday.”

“Ah.” Another minute has ticked by on her cell. It’d been at least 13 minutes by then. MINUTES!!!!!

OK, stay with me, I’m trying, really . . .

She slowly slid the card into the tight, coded lock, pulling it back out more quickly. The door didn’t budge. She slid the card in and out, in out, again and again until the pin-sized light turned from red to green. She fondled the long handle and pushed open the hotel room door. He stood behind her, so close and yet not touching. She stepped in and turned, wondering if this would be goodnight of if he’d follow. He followed. The door clicked behind them. Before she could smile, before she could offer him a drink, his arms were around her slender waist, pushing her hard against the wall, his hands grasping her full, rounded ass. He slid his tongue down, then up her neck then, as she gasped, past her full lips and far into her mouth. She softly suckled it, tasting him and showing her willingness to take in more. His hips were pressed roughly up against her, spreading open her thighs ever so slightly. The stretched fabric left little to the imagination and she moaned softly, sliding her hands to his hips, to his ass and pulling him in even tighter. He was long, slender, throbbing, grinding into her, moaning, sighing, gasping and . . . oh, yes, wet. He twitched and whimpered as she held him tighter in her arms. “Oh God! Oh God!” he said. And, feeling the warmth seeping through her satin dress, through her lace panties, to her unfulfilled flesh, she smiled.

Ta-da!!! How was that!!! OK, sorry, I’m just not very erotic! What’s the saying? Those who can do, those who can’t, write erotic fiction? heh.