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LickedSmall

 My story Wet Satin Plaything was accepted by House of Erotica for their themed anthology Licked  and was released December 2015.

It’s Spring here now in Australia -and I’m in the mood for some spring-cleaning – so  am updating all of my published fiction information this month.

 This was quite a cathartic little beast of a story to write – allowing me to explore some themes I find particularly (and personally) compelling  – those of acute sexual hunger that verges on addiction, complex relationships as places of struggle and transformation, and feminine revenge .

Licked contains “seven lip-smackingly sensual stories of all kinds of oral pleasure. Stories of nostalgia for the taste of a lover, long distance relationships, and revenge. Stories taking in both the distant future and pleasures in the past. ”

Edited by Jillian Boyd (Spy Games – Flappers, Jazz and Valentino) Licked is a tribute to the act of oral sex – to the intimacy, trust and the taste of your lover, the scent, the feelings the act invokes in both the giver and receiver. … Licked is a sizzling fictional exploration of some of the many ways oral sex can inspire so much more than just a hot flash of arousal. ”

For a sneak preview of my story, read on …

WET SATIN PLAYTHING

Last week, she tried to leave him on a Wednesday just before dinner.

But then, he’d pinned her to the wall in the hallway. Slowly increasing his weight on her body as one hand stole under her skirt, he’d caressed her satin-covered sex, kissing her deeply, quieting her distress.  He’d sunk to his knees, sucking at her through her underwear. Her fingers running through his rough blonde curls, coaxing his tongue deeper into her, were a tender plea for reconciliation. The cooking casserole had dried in the oven, as they devoured each other instead.

The week before it had been an early Tuesday morning.  He had taken her from behind, half-asleep on her side. No words passed between them, just the surprised gasps of her prolonged orgasms, and the quiet grunt of his eventual release. Then he rose silently, almost stealthily from the bed to leave for work. Lying awake in the chill of dawn, she wasn’t sure at what moment she felt more alone – when he was deep inside of her, or in the silence eddying through the house in the wake of the slammed door.

Sex was now the best kind of conversation they had. And although sometimes she hated herself for it, she always became wet at his first touch with any hint of sexual intent. In two years, he’d never failed to fling her onto a wild carousel of sensation, orgasms whirling through her with a carnivalian ecstasy and ferocity, seduced onto this maddening ride by his cock, his tongue, his seeking-finding fingers.

The month before, she had wanted to leave him on a claustrophobic Friday night. Claustrophobic because they never went out anymore, and she found herself curled in a foetal position in the hallway after trying to start a conversation about his behaviour (she daren’t use the word anger), and the yelling and threats had started and didn’t stop for an hour. His fury fell on her like piercing needles of relentless rain. No matter how small she tried to make herself the tirade hit her all over her body, the needles seeming to edge their way with icy precision through her hunched upper back into her heart.

She would leave him. She would. They were never going to go back to how they were in the beginning… She would watch as the kind gleam in his blue eyes steeled over into the grey slate of barely-repressed fury if she demanded too much of him. The electrifying sex remained, but with an undercurrent of desperation for her now.

Her earthen man with hands of bark liked to get her wet before taking off her panties. He liked to suck at her through the sheer fabric, his hot breath melting her into streams of pleasure. The thrill of his mouth being so close, feeling his tongue trying to enter her would send currents of yearning through her body, saturating the fabric with her liquid orgasms. Kneading into her cunt with his lips, he would force her thighs apart with his hands, giving her the occasional wet flick with his tongue, until she was pliant and yielding. Only then, when her wetness had seeped out onto the sheets as irrefutable evidence of her desire for him, only then would he remove her panties.

She would leave him this week. Before the verbal threats of ‘smashing her face in’ via a heated phone call a few mornings ago became a reality. Before the violence seething in his words and in the aggressive way he drove his work truck – tools lurching to and fro in the back just as her stomach lurched – bled into his actual actions towards her. How had she gotten here? She had not been with verbally abusive partners before, and she was enough of a feminist to know that she didn’t deserve to be treated this way. This didn’t stop her from feeling the fear in her belly when he was possessed by one of his rages, from shrinking and becoming this placating, cringing thing she didn’t recognise when he would threaten to leave her. Worst of all, it didn’t stop her from wanting him, wanting him even when he reeked of sweat and soil. It was as if she wanted to be sullied by him.

Her earthen man with hands of bark.

The man who loved cunt, she thought wryly. She suspected he loved her only when his face was between her legs, breathing in the scent of her arousal, his tongue a probing promise of release. Or maybe it was more twisted than even that. Maybe he just loved her cunt. Not her. Sometimes this gave her a strange confidence, a surety that he would not, could not, leave her. He needed the scent of her all over him, like an archaic ritual that meant she belonged to him. She was his territory. But her scent on his skin was also a calling spell, marking him as hers, compelling him to return to her. Who had more power, she wondered. Waiting for him to text, delaying making weekend plans with other friends until she knew when she was seeing him, she knew the answer.

At other times, she was seized by an image of her own cunt, opening wide, labia swelling up and backwards, forcing her legs to fold up on either side of her torso like giant reverse secateurs, engorged lips turning back on herself, devouring the rest of her, a dark hungry mouth. Vagina Dentata, she thought, though somewhat inverse to how Freud had originally conceived of it. Instead of it being about a man’s fear that the vagina would envelop and devour him; that he would be sucked back into the womb from whence he came into the world, this was a fear that her own vagina and its insatiable desire for one man would devour her.

Turning back on herself. She heard her own description echoing in her head. Her sexual need for him was making her turn her back on herself.

Was this what addiction felt like?

She would leave him when he least expected it. The prolonged simmering of her own unexpressed anger was starting to develop a voice. Starting to have ideas. Making her feel like she could do something totally unexpected. And this ‘something’ was the only way she would feel some sense of retribution.

*  * *

“Lie still. Let me look at you…”

She can’t believe she’s done this. Can’t believe he’s lying there naked, silent, so very compliant. She saunters around the bed, viewing him from all angles, ensuring he too can see the undulation of her hips and buttocks in her high heels, the now-bared and beckoning place between her thighs dipping in and out of his view.

Laid out on the bed, she thinks how vulnerable he looks in them. How he is suddenly transformed; the harsh words, so unexpectedly hushed.

Now, he is her plaything.  All the dirty-earthed hard labour of him is softened in supplication.  Softened by the touch of satin and lace.  Her satin and lace.

Stretched across his cheeks, the sheer fabric strains to contain him. They are tighter on him than on her; black to match the leather bindings around his wrists. These two dark interruptions against his skin are almost all she needs to tame him.

Almost.

Hands on hips, she stands at the base of the bed, brazenly contemplating his erection as she moves her own legs further apart into a defiant stance. With satisfaction, she notices how he lifts his head to get a better view of her.

“You know what you are, today? You’re my little satin plaything.” She prowls onto the bed, knees on either side of his legs, as she moves slowly up his torso, to a standing position. “And I am going to do whatever I like with you.” Gazing up at her, he is perfectly silent.

“Take off my shoe, satin plaything.”

Despite the binding, he manages it.

“Good. Now the other one.”  Clumsily, he repeats the two-handed manoeuvre on her right shoe.

As she stands on the bed over his body, she trails a toe along his torso, smiling down at him as she moves herself so her sex is directly above his face.

“Such a clever little plaything.”

She tantalizes him, oscillating her hips as she lowers herself towards his face. He’s twitching and moaning. But he’s making no attempt to regain control.

She likes him like this. Vulnerable. Waiting. Wordless.

One thing is certain. Today, he’s not the one in control.

She lowers her knees on to the bed, her thighs a vice on his torso. Holding  him firmly in place she moves her hand to his mouth, examining her creative handiwork and reaching out to stroke his lips through the sheer fabric; this potently personal totem of her desire.

She leans in to kiss him – a masked kiss, a cloak-and-dagger-kiss.

The perfect gag.  Perfect to keep her plaything quiet.

© Adrea Kore September 2015

*  * *

 

  SO GET LICKED – YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO!

Buy Link Coming Soon

 Also available via Amazon

What the Reviews are Saying:

“I would definitely recommend this anthology to anyone who loves erotica and likes to indulge in very naughty short reads.

Licked, liked, and loved it! (I didn’t actually lick it, but had it been a hardback I was reading I might have).”

Coco Bell – Bell, Book and Erotica

“One of my favourite writers of erotic fiction, Adrea Kore, explores the torture of desire, of compulsion and addiction … She writes not only to arouse but to challenge us intellectually and emotionally. Her cleverly embroidered story of revenge is haunting, its prose woven with poetic refrain.

Let go your inhibitions and inhabit your senses. Embrace these tales of salt-sweet delight and, in so doing, discover oral pleasures anew.”

 

I hope you enjoyed my excerpt – and would love to hear what you thought … 

I’m interviewed by the anthology’s Editor on the intricasies and challenges of writing about oral sex  ….. here