Your Words  

rm_Drishya 40F
146 posts
5/30/2006 7:03 pm
Your Words


There is nothing in the world like reading a piece of perfectly fluid, sharp and still tempered, prose... especially if the content is exciting. I think about this a lot when I read literotica stories, the really good ones, the ones that make you forget you're reading at all, where your eyes just float along the screen, where the words just seem to massage them and gently prod them from left to right and back again. It's hard for me to describe, because my writing has always been a little lukewarm, with only the smallest gestures toward "keen" or "witty," and never brilliant. But you, your words, they penetrate.

This morning I had your words in my lap, coffee mug in hand, still in my little pink tank top and drawstring pants from the night before. It always starts out the same. The first few lines of your prose, sip from my mug, smile on my face, I think to myself, "how does he do it?" It always begins with fascination, the way a groupie marvels at a rock star. But something takes over once the smile wears down, once I settle into your pages. This morning it started with a laugh, the kind that shakes your body a little, muscles clenching in short little spurts. My laugh rocked my body just enough to make me feel that little stirring between my legs. I know this feeling... I know what it leads to. And I want it.

Scrolling down the page you start to move me, your ideas, the way you seem to address me alone. And the way you always find the right word ‒ the exact word ‒ to convey your meaning. So precise, and still your prose is almost poetry. Exploratory, modest, unafraid. I love this feeling, the sensation of reading something amazing, something beautiful, for the first time. Even your ugliest words rock me, maybe especially those. I want you to talk to me like this forever. I feel that warm chill prick my skin as I absorb your words, your ideas. It starts in my arms and creeps through the rest of me, my legs, my chest. My nipples slowly tighten against the thin cotton that clings to them. Something about your language, I wish I could say what, makes me want to feel my body as I read, makes me want to trace my curves, to know my flesh since I can never know yours.

Stretching out on the couch, my computer still nestled my lap, I rake my fingers through my hair, lightly grazing the nape of my neck. I smile at the heat I find there, the heat you activate in me time and time again. Sometimes when we are talking together I wonder if you can feel it, see it, smell it, from where you sit. I wet my lips and run my finger along the thick fleshy pout of my lower lip, the delicate curve that dips down along the top of my mouth. I wonder what your mouth feels like, I want it here so badly, to talk to me, to read to me, to buzz hotly against my ear. My eyes scroll down the page, to the fleshier part of your argument, where the words seem to enfold your thoughts like a perfectly snug-fitting dress. They cling to the fullest parts of your thoughts, exposing them like a bare shoulder or thigh, but they also have a mystery about them, making me wonder what lies beneath. And as I wonder, my hand wanders. I slide the straps of my tank top off my shoulders, I pull the front of my top down slowly, I arch my back as my full breasts meet the air. Never taking my eyes off the screen, my fingers slide up my smooth stomach and find the curves from beneath.

For just an instant I let my head fall back, my eyes leaving your words to close softly as my fingers trace the full curve of my breast. My stretched neck, my chest, my firm tummy, are all exposed to the cool air. I imagine you watching me, watching me as I lay here sprawled on the couch, wanting to replace my fingers with yours, wanting to touch me, to learn the way my body moves under your hand. Lifting my head to read the next page, my eyes roam as my fingers do, gliding through your easy prose effortlessly. My fingers find my nipple, tight, aching to be touched and licked. It feels so good to tickle, to pinch, to tease myself as your words tease me.

Then come your short, cutting, declarative sentences. They slice right through the page. Ugly, stark words for your most provocative ideas. I love the way you use these biting words, cutting to the truth of your argument, to its core. I want you to do that to me, to cut to my core, to see through me the way I imagine you already do. I feel a throbbing between my legs as I read these words, my body trembling in anticipation. Without even deciding, my fingers find the drawstring of my pants, pulling softly, sliding them down my thighs. My hips rise as I read. I want so badly to hear you whisper these words in my ear while I slide my hand beneath the waistband of my cotton panties, your low even voice coaxing my fingers further.

A long, slow sigh as my fingers trace my thighs, finally spreading my lips, drawing the opening between them, feeling the moisture there. I want you to feel this, to feel what you do to me, the heat and wetness between my thighs that comes from the heat and wetness of your words. I need to touch myself, to stroke my pussy as I read. My fingers glide along my slit as I scroll down, working my way into the thick of your argument. Your words unfold, opening themselves up for me just as my fingertip opens my cunt. Your words probe, my fingers do the same. Slowly my hips begin to rock back and forth, moving with my finger, moving with my eyes along the screen. This feels so good, the tightness and heat that enfold my finger, pumping my cunt as your words penetrate me. I read your lines about desire that is illicit, that is beyond help or control, it feels like you know, like you are watching me lose myself here, fucking my hand and imagining your own.

I get greedy with your words, wanting you to feed me more, my cunt aching for more, more friction, more heat. I slide another finger inside my tight hot hole, opening myself to you. It feels so good to fill myself this way, to let your words play lyric to my music as I build this rhythm between my legs. I fuck myself faster, generating more and more wet heat in my cunt as your ideas build. I love the way you make me work for it, the way you tease me with suggestion, the way you engage every part of my body and mind. I am so close, writhing on the couch now, my legs spreading wider, wanting more, laptop rocking slowly along my ribcage. My breaths are short, quick, my lips parted, starting to move slowly, mouthing your words as I read them from the screen. I want to cum when you climax, I want to follow you there, to be your student.

I want to feel your words form in my mouth, on my tongue, and so I read aloud as you bring me to orgasm. My voice is uneven, a half-whispered frenzy, your long, perfectly measured sentences cut sharply by my little breaths and whimpers. I imagine you kneeling beside me, your murmur in my ear, breath hot on my neck, your eyes all over me, everywhere my hands have been. I want you to see me now, to watch me cum with a mouth full of your prose and a head full of your ideas. My cunt begins to tighten around my fingers, clenching, throbbing full of hot moisture. I read as you bring me there, taking me to the brink. I slam my fingers deep, hard, rough inside my cunt. I need it now.

I slowly let my fingers slide from my tight dripping hole and move to the top of my slit, curling them gently as they find the hard little button aching to be touched. My breath stops at the instant my fingertips brush against my clit...a soft tickle, but it makes me shudder and groan. Your words in my mouth grow into sounds, sighs, voiced breaths, and suddenly it is your name I am moaning. My fingers trace fast circles around my clit, teasing it, juicing my cunt before I finally push down hard and rub forcefully. I am arched all the way back, my thighs spread to their limit, and I feel wave after wave of orgasm rock me to the core. The muscles in my cunt are clamping down and I feel them throbbing along my fingers, squeezing as my whole hand rubs the dripping hot slit that is exposed to the cool air. I want you there so badly, between my legs, watching me groan and cum with your words mangled in my mouth. I am moaning your name, moaning your words, moaning everything I wish I could tell you: I want you to word me, to tongue me, to talk me to orgasm again and again.

I bring my dripping fingers to my mouth and wet my lips. Licking my fingers slowly, sensuously, I bring myself to read your final words. They settle things in the way that final words do, but they prod me to wonder, pushing me to take your words and write my own. I sit up, my body still weak but still thrilling from the force of your prose, and open a fresh page on my laptop, your words still wet on my tongue, still wet between my thighs.

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