Relationship Sexy

Sexy Excerpt: Seduced By A River Chapter 32

Posted by on Jun 2, 2018

The aspen leaves are just starting to unfurl at 9,000 feet here in Colorado. In the following sexy excerpt from my book, Seduced By A River: Adventures In Love Sex and Whitewater, my man wasn’t here to share them with me. He had to miss them again this year. Longing, my muse, loves to have her way with me. I hope you enjoy this little taste of nature-inspired sensuality as much as I enjoyed revisiting it: When I Leave June 2010 I wake up alone in the middle of the bed with newborn aspen leaves, as fresh and still as dawn, outside our cabin’s window. My hand reaches towards them, unable to resist all that promise of summer and gentler days between us. I slide the window open, inviting the spring to curl up with me as I fantasize about what I’d do if you were sleeping naked on your back beside me, instead of working in Oregon. My kisses begin between your brows, at the furrow that deepened this winter.  You exhale, a soft rumbling snore. I inhale, summoning the leaves to float inside and take part in my love spell. My lips moisten your third eye and I guide a leaf to land there, anointing you with fresh vision. You stir and a slow smile pulls at the left corner of your upper lip. I trace the curve of your ear with the tip of my nose and rest my palm over your eyes. “Shhh,” I whisper.  “Don’t open them yet.”  Your hand reaches for me, finds the soft skin of my inner thigh and stills. You exhale, this time with a low moan of anticipation. My lips persuade one eye lid and then the other to stay closed. Two leaves follow in their wake encouraging your eyes to see with renewed passion and hope. I place a kiss on your Adams apple, infusing your voice with words as tender and sweet as the small leaf that follows. My enchantment descends until my breasts and then my lips are hovering above your sternum. A leaf lands and I kiss it into place, reminding your heart of our first spring together: twelve days and twenty-three condoms spent traveling the Oregon Coast. I guide a second leaf there, that magical time worthy of two, to honor that intense love and passion of the springtime of our relationship. Another leaf follows, in gratitude for the nine springs we’ve shared since and a reminder that we never know how many we have left. I invoke yet another leaf, an invitation to grow slow and steady like the trees we sometimes see in the woods, their trunks intertwined but their branches extending upwards and outwards towards their own source of light. My kisses move laterally brushing your right nipple and then the left, adorning them with foliage and the intentions of symmetry and balance. The tip of my tongue makes a curving path to your navel. Another leaf drops and adheres, a reminder to stay centered. My kisses drift left, right and back to center, marking the bony protrusions of your hip and pubic bones.  Leaves settle there, framing your sex and your second chakra with their chartreuse vitality. My nose dances around the tip of your arousal, your morning wood already hard like hickory yet smooth like finely-sanded cedar. My tongue drenches your length and descends, moistening the surrounding curves. Leaves follow my swath, covering your testicles in greenery to rival Adam. My hands contour either side of your waist and slide upward, half expecting to feel the roughness of bark. I...

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Posted by on May 13, 2016

  Here’s some more sexy art from the Seattle Erotic Arts Festival…     I found myself captivated with the couple in this piece of art entitled ‘Woven’ by fine art photographer Craig Stocks. Here’s what I fictionalized about it: (After my version you’ll get the real story) When Hannah saw the flyer on the wall by the bathroom of her favorite coffee shop, she took a picture of it and texted it to her husband Hank with the caption: Let’s . And now they were at the photographer’s studio: an empty room with a spot lit black box in the middle. Another couple, young, inked and so obviously in love, emerged from the back corner of the studio looking like they had just pulled on their clothes on, which they had. They were giddy and glowing as they held hands and hurried out the studio door. The photographer was a man.  Why couldn’t it have been a woman Hannah thought as she fumbled with the top button of her blouse that she spent all week picking out which was so ridiculous, as her sister pointed out, since she and Hank were going  be photographed naked something she’d never done but wanted to do or so she had thought. She was so nervous she felt like she was going to throw up. The photographers name was Paul, like Paul Simon she thought.  He was short, soft voiced and unassuming as he extended his hand that was soft like a priest’s when she shook it “I’ve scheduled 15 minutes for each couple,” he said. “I work best with the clock ticking. Undress over there,” he pointed to the corner of the room . There was no dressing room, not even a curtain, just two metal chairs. Hank cleared his throat as they walked over.  “This excites you?” he said through a tight jaw. Hank was as nervous as she was but it was presenting itself, as most of his emotions did lately, as anger. “Not yet,” she said with a nervous laugh. She swallowed hard.  Her belly was churning with so many emotions but fear was the biggest and not just about the prospect of taking off her clothes and being photographed but for her marriage.  She had convinced herself that they needed something a little outrageous. They needed something. The couples therapy, the tepid date nights, the $200 lingerie…nothing so far was really helping. It was so fucking awkward as they slipped off their clothes. “I just want this to be over,” Hank said as he strode towards the box. The bigger implications of his statement hit her like a slap in the face.  Hannah crossed her arms over her breasts and followed.  Absurdly (her subconscious had a bizarre sense of humor) the song Fifty Ways To Leave Your Lover started playing in her head. Hop on the bus Gus. Paul Simon went behind his tripod and made some adjustments. “I want you to hold each other,” he said. They stood in front of the box and hugged like a couple of siblings who hadn’t worked through their rivalry. “Great,” Paul said not meaning it.  Click. “How long have you been married?” “Married ten. Together for twelve,” Hank said sighting their statistics like the accountant that he was. “How is it going?” Paul asked. “Being married for ten, together for twelve? Hank…It’s Hank right? Sit on the box.  Hannah circle him… find your place with him.” Hank cleared his throat, sat down, bent one leg to cover his cock and said nothing. No need to be coy Roy played on...

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Smell The Roses

Posted by on May 6, 2016

For your reading pleasure…the story that was accepted by the Literary Arts Division of the Seattle Erotic Arts Festival this year. Smell The Roses I’ve never been one for the romantic gesture of champagne and roses.  And dear lord don’t even think about it on Valentine’s Day when every other man is doing as Hallmark dictates.  Give me a handful of wildflowers, a hit of Jameson’s from your flask and lay me down in the sage and we can remind each other what it truly means to be free. But right now I’m rethinking all that because we are in the city and there isn’t a wildflower in sight. We need earth and sky like most need food and water, so we followed the asphalt from the doctor’s office to a park where the surrounding homes have these amazing gardens, the kind they pay other people, people like us, to maintain.  I had to stop, I’m smelling the roses Baby, and cup a rose, the color of a Popsicle that wasn’t quite sure if it was grape or cherry, to my face. The smell was so sweet I could have swallowed it whole so I guided the blossom to your goatee and you inhaled a deep belly breath like the Outlaw yogi that you are and sneezed five times in succession, loud and exuberant, making a little kid who was walking nearby grab the hand of his mother. Now we lie naked, face to face, against the fat pillows of our three- and- a-half-star hotel that we snagged on Priceline for the price of two. You dazzle me first with a champagne kiss, your perpetually chapped lips parting mine as you release all that effervescence, like an orgasm, into my mouth making me slurp and giggle.  And now, my bad boy of a man, you have that black cherry colored rose, that you must have snipped with your pocket knife behind my back and hid inside your black leather jacket. You trace the blossom around the cross tattooed on the back of my head, a mark my defiant, head- shaving, twenty-four year old self put on me, a mark that reappeared and asserted itself after the chemo. It’s barely visible now, tucked back under my peroxide pixie but we know it’s working, especially after today’s clean lab reports. Your green eyes hold mine captive as you reach around and run the rose down the knobby length of my spine. When you get to the trails end you just keep going, letting those silky petals tickle the cleft of my ass before plunging down until it’s going to be petals on petals. My dew drops just thinking about it and your smile stretches up against mine as you leave me to my imagination, and tease my inner thighs instead. You don’t give gifts often and never before a rose, so you take your time giving me this one. You pull out the scarves I bargained down from a street vendor, pretty long colorful things I bought for my sisters, and guide me flat on my back as you tether my wrists to the fancy wrought iron bedpost.  Not having control has been my cross to bear these past two years, the one you helped me carry.  Now you are showing me how it translates to pleasure. You kiss more champagne into my mouth and follow the spill of it down my neck. The rim of your glass tips and fills the hollow at my left collarbone until it overflows to the jagged tissue where my left breast used to be,...

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Silent Night

Posted by on Dec 25, 2015

We’re having a sensuous Christmas. A freshly cut blue spruce stands inside the cabin waiting to be adorned. A colorful display of envelopes, cards from family and friends, are scattered beneath the boughs like the precious gifts that they are. We no longer buy into the the tradition of giving Christmas presents, choosing instead to retreat to our cabin to appreciate the gifts we already have. We’ve been unwrapping each other every morning in the dreamy dark. Tonight our wood-fired hot tub is at 105 degrees. After a week of snowstorms, the sky has cleared and a full moon is rising in the east, casting moonshadows of the aspens across the untracked snow. The surrounding peaks glow. There’s not even a whisper of wind so even though it is eighteen degrees, it’s relatively painless to cast away our robes and sink naked into the hot water. The nearest neighbor is two miles away by snowmobile or skis this time of year. The night is so still and quiet, as if the fresh snow has cleansed the atmosphere of all sound.  We sit and look out over our meadow, the sage barely visible under a blanket of sparkling white, and we feel it too:  this deep quieting. Life, as they say, has it’s up and downs.  This year brought more valleys than peaks.  I lost my father.  We both lost perspective as the seeds of our entrepreneurial visions started bearing fruit. In the act of juggling three ripening  businesses, the ball that often got dropped was us. But this week, we are picking ourselves up. We sit, our limbs buoyant and entwined, on our twelfth Christmas together, in awe of the incredible perfection of this silent night. All is calm.  All is bright.  ...

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Posted by on Aug 15, 2015

  I am halfway through a four mile hike around our cabin when my man’s text comes through: I’m an hour away. He’s in a pocket of cell coverage and so am I, so he just might get the text I compose back: Sorry, I’m running late but I sent someone to meet you at the cabin and get the party started.  Get this: her name is River. My thumb hovers over the send button.  Once I hit it, I’ll be committed to the Call Girl role play that’s been brewing in the back of my brain for well over a year now. I’ve already done my eyes with the purple eyeliner I got at the new Mac store at the Denver airport (Concourse B: go there). I’ve woven small segments of my hair into Bo Dereck-esque braids. Back at the cabin I have a new blue Elle MacPhearson bra with some matching cheeky boyshorts;  a purple lace lingerie dress with a thigh-high slit; elbow length black gloves; heels; and a playlist of sexy music. All I need now is the courage to hit Send. I hesitate because my sexy little plan could totally back fire. My man is officially ending his 2014 river season today. Historically this is a tough day for us. I’m always so excited to have him back. He is always sad and already pining for the river. It never goes well. But tonight I plan to rewrite that unsexy piece of our marital history. So even though he might be suffering from post-river season depression syndrome and might not even be in range to get this text, I decide to just fucking go for it.  I release a high pitched shriek as I hit send and start power hiking back to the cabin.  Within a few minutes I hear a ping indicating that I have a new text. I hope she likes champagne. My Inner Stripper texts back: She bathes in it. I tuck away my phone, cinch my camel back tight to my back and start running.   By the time he drives up pulling a camper with five kayaks and a mountain bike, I have become Riviere. I greet him with a French accent and a French kiss . I have a dark purple lupine flower the color of my dress tucked behind my ear. “Allo! Your wife, she eez running late.  She have me come… how you say…entertain you… until she arrive,” I extend my gloved hand and offer him a glass of champagne with a strawberry in it.  “She tell me to dance for you and to wear my hair down, that you like it long and flowing like a river yes?” He steps on our weathered deck of a stage and accepts his champagne and his role in this play. “I do.” “That is why I pull mine up like so,” I say as I touch my French twist and let my hand flow like water down the nape of my neck, across my breast, around my waist until it comes to rest on my purple lace encased hip.  I raise my champagne glass to his and gaze into his eyes over the rim. “I make you wait for it.” The rest, as they say, is history, some super sexy history, the details of which I will save for my erotic memoir. I make you wait for it.   Sexy tip:  I’ve blogged about role playing before.  It’s a bit like erotic photo shoots: every voice in your head will try to talk you out of it.  Don’t  listen....

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