I am happily immersed in the naughty, and have made my own pulse race several times as I’ve worked on my current piece, The Nymphomaniac’s Pillow Book. I’m about halfway through it now. I’m hopeful that it will be finished by the end of the day Saturday, or maybe on Sunday. It’s not easy to write consistently when you have to keep leaving the keyboard to find a fan to stand in front of!
Here’s an excerpt for everyone to enjoy before it goes up on Smashwords:
I can list every lover I’ve had. Their names are my poetry, my prayers. I can taste them on my tongue again when I whisper them in sequence. Jay, who tasted like Christmas and every birthday I’ve ever had, like rum and sugar. Thomas, who tasted like 3AM on a spring night when the streetlights had all gone out and the shadows kept their secrets. Joanna, sharp as honed metal and sour as the sea, but so very sweet when she came in a rush against my lips. Eddie, Safiyah, Christian and Miguel. Steve. Timothy. Jackson. Marie. Shelby. All of them and so many more, not all of them with names, but every one of them remembered by my senses.
Jay was my first.
He was as shy and quiet in school as I was. Because of that we were often paired together in our classes whenever group work was required. We’d talked, though only awkwardly. I knew he was an only child and that we almost shared a birthday. He knew my parents were strict and that I shared his taste in poetry.
I also knew that he had the nicest hands I’d ever seen. At eighteen, he had a man’s large hands and a piano player’s long, elegant fingers. He had callouses but I never asked why, just admired them quietly whenever I had opportunity to do so. His hands looked capable to me. They looked strong but also careful as Jay seemed to be both shy and sweet.
After my experience in my shower, I wanted very badly to see if a real person’s hands could feel as good on my body as the dream ones had. As the water ones had. And when I thought of hands, it was Jay who came to mind.
It wasn’t difficult to get him alone. At lunch, we would sometimes withdraw to the library; neither of us liked the cafeteria with its noise and the constant threat of some popular student targeting the less popular.
That day, the library seemed deserted at lunchtime. The librarian had disappeared into her office and we were left to our own devices. I asked him if he wanted to see something, something I’d found, something incredible. He agreed that he did. So I had him follow me into the deepest corner of the library, where the high shelves rose up all around us and the only witnesses would be the books we both enjoyed so much.
“What is it?” he asked me, smiling. He was as curious as I was excited and it made me bold.
I took his hand, as much to keep him from running away as to guide him to my sweet spot. My parents insisted I swear skirts every day, long and frumpy looking things. I don’t think they realized how convenient I would find this. With my other hand I pulled up my skirt just enough that I could slide Jay’s hand beneath the bunched fabric.
I’d already taken the precaution of removing my panties in a stall in the bathroom; they were tucked safely away in my backpack.
So there was no obstruction, no barrier to his fingers brushing against my sex. I had been anticipating this moment and could feel the steaminess already there between my legs, as if I’d become a human version of a tropical rain forest. That humidity only increased when I felt the tips of his fingers, guided by mine as they stroked through the fuzz of down that dappled my nether lips. The angle was bad, my aim poor, but I thrilled to feel that touch all the same.
“Here,” I whispered, looking up at him.
I’d never seen someone looking so shocked as he did in that moment. I could feel the way his arm locked, the muscles in it twisting like steel cables, and see the way his eyes had gone round, the way his mouth had opened in a circle of surprise. He stared at me, too stunned to pull away.
And then I felt his fingers twitch against me, compressing the softness of the flesh between my thighs and beneath his hand, and I knew it would be all right.
I let him go but he kept his hand against my sex. By backing into the corner, I was able to get my foot up against the edge of the shelf, the way I’d lifted it in the shower. I had the shelves to hang onto for balance and Jay’s support, besides. He was frozen there, leaning towards me with my skirt ruffled up and draped over his forearm and my pussy coating his fingers in thick, slippery oil.
It felt like my chest was going to burst and I realized I’d been holding my breath. I gasped for air and then spent it immediately in another whisper.
“Rub me there, Jay. Right at the top. It feels so good when I’m touched there. Please.”