A Snog For Sommer
A Snog for Sommer is the blog hop that I and many other erotic writers are taking part in today, to raise funds for a lovely lady and wonderful writer, Sommer Marsden. Why? Well at the moment Sommer is going through an incredibly difficult time as her husband is fighting pancreatic cancer. It’s taking its toll on the family physically, emotionally and of course, financially.
A Snog for Sommer hopes to alleviate a little of the tension by raising cash to help Sommer and her husband in the good fight against the big C and associated stresses. If you’d like to donate (don’t worry, you don’t have to write a blog post!) you can
click here to send any amount. The donation page will be open until 20 September 2014, if you’d like to donate after this time please contact me to find out how.
Thank you in advance, and I hope you all enjoy this piece of kissing related flash fiction.
I am in darkness.
I hear my breathing, the rhythm of my heart. I hear his breathing, at times when he’s close to my face, and his movements over me and by my sides. I can smell his scent, the one he wears which melts me to liquid; as well as his own smell which is aphrodisiac enough on its own. I taste nothing, yet. Just the dry anticipation of a tongue feeling too big for my mouth and dry lips bitten from nerves and a touch of fear.
I feel the sheet under me, the sheet that felt so cold when he first carried me to it and laid me down but has since submitted to warmth underneath my naked but for rope body. I feel the hemp rope tight but not painful around both wrists, tied in front of me in a placating prayer. He is kind and didn’t tie them to my rear, so I can lay flat on the bed. He is cruel because I know this means he plans to keep me like this for some time. Rope also adorns my ankles, keeping them bound together although I can crook my legs open at the knees. Or rather, he can prise them apart. My mind cartwheels again. I try for a dry swallow.
Since laying my bound, naked-but-for-rope form on the bed, he hasn’t touched me at all. He has very deliberately, carefully not touched me. He’s come close, so close that I could feel the heat radiating from his body and conspiring with my aura. But no cigar.
A click cuts through the sensation enlivening darkness. More a flick, a switch… I’m not sure until the faint scent of jasmine enters my limited senses. A lighter, then – and the candle lit.
My breasts are pushed up through the restraint of my arms and the cradle this makes for them. He blows lightly and my nipples react with a flare of icy heat which sends an electric tingle southwards culminating in my perked clit. Bastard.
I say nothing.
The silence helps me to make sense of the stream of sensory clues. There’s a spell cast when blindfolded and bound, a trust in him and a heightened awareness of the private world we share. A shortcut to arousal.
It’s knowing this that he leans over me, undoubtedly amused by my helpless body, not quite surrendered to his demands. Not quite. Not yet. Not until he adds the secret ingredient to the cauldron of passionate sensations. The libation which quenches any fiery resistance in me.
His mouth finally presses against mine, soft warm skin with a snake tongue delving between my lips. A first penetration, bringing its own delicious lubrication and an intoxicating bouquet. The kiss probably lasts only a few seconds, but sparks light up my dark world in that moment, illuminating our connection, our bond.
The kiss is all at once languid and urgent, passionate and peaceful. He needs me but makes me wait. I taste him but still want more. It’s the start of things to come.
– Cara Sutra