Forbidden Fruit

Forbidden Fruit
A Commissioned Erotic Story by Redbud

  • This is my first commissioned erotic story. It was requested that I write about a couple in a situation in which they couldn’t act on their attraction to each other, but that eventually they succumb. I played with that a little. The request preferred dark to blond, writing as a subtext, and the troubles of flirtation.  I wasn’t going to write a longer story, but conveying attraction (and falling in love), I think, takes more than a couple of pages. I mixed in two ways of writing dialog, the European preference for the em-dash and the much more common use of parenthesis just because I enjoy the variety.

She sat back. She opened her legs wider. She touched the wetness between them. Her feet arched.

She closed her eyes but made herself stop. She sat up straight. She pulled the keyboard back to the edge of her desk. She backspaced. She erased the word ‘penis’. She typed the word Forbidden‘cock’. She blushed. She turned to make sure the door to the study room was locked. ‘…in her mouth,’ she continued. ‘He held her and said…’ She pushed the keyboard away. She leaned back. She pressed two fingers into her cunt for wetness, closed her eyes, squeezed  her clit, stiffened, lifted her legs to the balls of her feet, and came.

She was hunched over, legs wide open, by the time the last pang subsided.


—Miss Tremont.
—Hi, Susan answered
—How was your week-end?
Susan pulled back the chair, opposite the professor’s chair, and sat. His broad desk was between them.
—So you were productive?

‘Professor,’, she thought to herself. She had always imagined professors as bald, bearded and severe. She guessed that Louis wasn’t a day older than thirty five. His hair was full and dark. His lips were broad and full. His turned up the pages of her manuscript with a deliberate snap. Everything about him struck her as impulsive. She sat quietly. Her nipples hardened as she waited. She bit her lip. He was reading the word ‘cock’. Was it now? Had it been a minute ago? She crossed her legs. He was reading the word cock and she had written it.

She studied the shelves of books on both sides of the room. The room was small with a window and radiator behind the desk. Piles of papers, their edges divided by paper clips. were stacked on the side of the desk and on the floor. He hated the fluorescent lights, and had taped the light switch. I small desk lamp and daylight was all that lit the room. A green couch was somehow nestled under the bookshelf to her left. There was a poorly hidden blanket and pillow jammed between the far end of the couch and some crates. He put down the manuscript. He leaned back and looked at her. Her stomach felt sickeningly light. She gripped the seat of her chair.

—You’re improving.
—Thank you.
—Is this erotica?
She swallowed.
—Miss Tremont?
—I was reading Delta of Venus –
He held up a finger. She stopped.
—Do you consider that literature, he asked.
—I liked it.
—Different question. I think that if you want to write erotica, Miss Tremont, you have come to the wrong program.


—What did you say? Maddie asked.
—Oh my God, I just wanted to disappear. I wanted to fucking disappear. I wanted to melt into my chair.
Maddie put her purse on the floor. A waiter brought by two cups and a porcelain kettle. Maddie poured the hot water for both of them, leaned forward and dangled a tea bag between her fingers. She slowly dipped it in the steaming water.

—So you didn’t say anything?
—He looked kind of embarrassed reading it.
—Really? Maddie smiled.
—So what was I supposed to say?
—Embarrassed? Isn’t this guy, like. supposed to be the next Norman Mailer? Like he’s never read, gasp, porn before?
—I don’t know. All I know is that I was mortified. What was I supposed to say?
—Okay, for starters, you were supposed to ask him if this was a writing program.
—No, you’re the “professor”. Say ‘yes’.
—And isn’t erotica ‘writing’?

Susan leaned back, clasping her hands behind her head, elbows wide.

—This is a literature program little Missy.
—So literature isn’t writing?
—There’s a difference between writing and literature, young lady.
—So erotica can’t be literature?
Susan lowered her arms, pressed her knees together and cupped her chin in her hands, elbows on her knees.
—I can’t do it.
—Why not?
—I think it makes him uncomfortable.
Maddie snorted and rolled her eyes.

—Do you want to be a fucking writer or not?
—Then you need to think about who is paying who; what you’re paying for; and if he’s uncomfortable with a sexy woman writing sexy prose then that’s his problem and not yours. He’s there to make you a better writer, not to tell you what to write.
—Say it louder.
—Do you have it on you?
—The manuscript?
—Yes, but I can’t show it to you here!
—Susan. Give me the manuscript. I’m going to read it. I’m going to give you criticism. Then you’re going to rewrite it. You’re going to take it back to ‘his professorship’. I’m only going to do this once. I don’t have time to be reading smut.



He pushed me back against the tree. I could feel the bark against my back. He was pushing his cock against my stomach. I knew now was the time. I forced my hand between our stomachs, between his belt buckle and stomach, and felt a man’s cock for the first time. I was shaking so hard I couldn’t breathe. So was he.

ForbiddenThis was wrong. This man was twice my age, but a man twice my age made me feel a whole mix of things. He made me feel like a girl. He made me feel dirty and innocent at the same time. He made me feel vulnerable and seductive. When he spun me around, roughly, I grabbed a hold of the tree. I wrapped my arms around it and felt him tug my panties down from under my dress.

I heard him unzip and I prayed my father, my mother or my brother wouldn’t hear me, their daughter, their sister, being taken for the first time.


She inhaled sharply with each spasm. She was on her belly, cheek pressed into the pillow, right hand between her legs and alone in her bedroom, but it was him. I was him on top of her, holding her wrists. It was his weight, from behind, driving her hips into the mattress again and again. The morning sun brushed the edge of her bedsheets. She exhaled. She arched as he filled her pussy with his own orgasm.


—You can’t write this.
She straightened. Her lips tightened. Hadn’t they had just had this conversation?
—No, he said. That’s not what I mean. You can’t write like this. This is pornography. This isn’t erotica.
Susan blushed and squirmed in her seat, waiting for him to continue.
—Do you know the difference between pornography and erotica?
—Pictures and words, she answered, already hating the way her voice pitched upward like a frightened thrush.
He leaned back. He looked at her. His fuck-you finger made idle circles on her manuscript lying flat on the desktop.

—You watch pornography, he continued. You don’t know what’s going on in their heads. But maybe you can guess.
Susan grinned awkwardly in response.
—They’re acting. They and a director want you to think they’re having great sex. How do you know? She begs. She spreads her legs. She tears the sheets. So, when you write erotica, you’re the director. Think like a director. You’re going to tell the characters how to have sex. First, what kind of sex are you having? Is this your first time? Is it boring sex? Is it hot? Is it mundane? Then you’re going to decide how they’re going to move, because they’re going to communicate those emotions in the way they have sex? What do your fingers do? Your tongue? Your feet? Your legs? Think about how your body is going to communicate to the reader what you’re experiencing. Are you submissive? Then think about the position that’s going to communicate that. When you suck my cock are you going to make eye contact? Do you stay on your hands and knees when you do doggy or put your head down when I’m –

He abruptly stopped, blushing furiously. Susan’s heart rang in her ears. Her stomach was at the top of the roller coaster, at the very top, just before the cars let go. Her breathing, his, were both too loud.

—I’m so sorry– I didn’t mean– I meant to say narrator, not you; I didn’t mean to say you.
—I know, she fumbled for words. I totally – I didn’t take it that way. She laughed awkwardly. I mean, I would never–
She stopped.
—Oh my God. Okay. I didn’t mean–
—No, of course not.
Susan absent-midedly crossed her arms.

—Mr. Delaney. I’ve embarrassed you. I bring something else to our next–
—Excuse me?
—No, I’m sorry. I think you’re a serious writer. I take your writing seriously. Okay?
She bit her lip.
—Do you accept my apology?
She nodded.


—And then what did he say?
—I felt so sorry for him, Maddie!
Susan leaned and pressed the phone against her ear. The bus rumbled back into traffic.

—Susan, he wants to sleep with you.
—He wants to fuck you. He doesn’t give a fuck about your writing.
—Susan, that was utterly inappropriate. You either need to report this guy or find a new mentor. That was completely out of line. That was bullshit. He knew perfectly well what he was saying.

—Maddie, he was red as a beet!
—Okay, Susan, first, that’s a cliché. Don’t ever put that in your writing. Second, he just wanted to see how you would react. And you know what he found out?
—Maddie, stop it.
—He found out he could get away with it.
—Maddie. It was funny! He was so embarrassed. If you had seen him you would know it was a complete mistake. He’s not like that.


He pushed me back against the tree
“I can’t! Not here!”
He gripped my wrists and lifted them above me.
My back rubbed the rough bark of the maple just yards from my back porch. He was pressing his hips toward my belly. I didn’t want to feel what I knew was there. I sucked in my breath. I pressed my ass and shoulders back against the tree, trapped. He smiled and touched my stomach. I felt the underside of his cock through the canvass of his fly – thick, large and upright beneath his belt buckle.

“Feel it?” he asked.
“Where does it go?”
I slipped one hand out of his grip. I could do this to a grown man? I had to feel him. I forced my hand between his belt buckle and stomach until I closed my fingers around the cock of a man almost my father’s age.
Forbidden“Inside me,” I answered.
“Good girl.”

This was wrong, and the wrongness turned me on. I felt like a naïve under-aged girl and a sly, experienced woman. I was shaking with anticipation. He spun me around. I embraced the rough skin of the tree and felt him yank my panties to my knees. He unzipped and lifted my skirt. The light of my Dad’s bedroom flickered through the leaves. I hoped my parents wouldn’t hear their daughter being taken for the first time.

I felt his flesh hotly against the skin of my thighs. My stomach heaved when he pressed and entered me. I couldn’t believe we were doing it. He was moving inside me, back and forth, and I was gasping each time his cock lifted me to my toes.

He held my hips tightly and shuddered. His orgasm seemed to go on and on. We both held still and for the first time and felt someone else’s ghostly orgasm in my pelvis. Please, I begged, please. I guided his hand to my clit and his touch was all it took.

He pulled out and I pulled up my panties. I turned. I kissed him quickly, a passionate kiss, and hurried back into the house. I wanted to see what he had done. I hurried to the bathroom where I could smell myself and the presence of man.


She turned in front of the mirror. The dress fit her waist and hips tightly. She liked that it was sized to the shape of her breasts. She turned her hair up in a bun, glancing sideways to see the wisp of hair at the nape of her neck. She rouged her lips with lipstick. She almost changed her mind. She didn’t usually wear lipstick, but she liked colorful fullness. She spun completely around before hurrying out of the bathroom. She took her manuscript in one hand, her satchel in the other, and hurried to make the next subway train to the university.


―Better, he said dryly, too dryly.
―I added more dialog.
―That’s good, he answered still studying her manuscript. No, that’s good. You took the story out of your head, but this sex scene– You– The narrator is in her head again.
He shook his head. Susan slouched in her seat.

―What is he doing? What is he thinking? What does he want and how does he get it? And you move too quickly. This is the first time she’s having sex. You need to convince the reader this is the first time; and not like this. Slow down. She needs to feel every sensation. It’s all new to her. Everything. Build the tension. Remind the reader what it was like the first time. There’s more to writing than description. There’s pacing. Pace the narrative, Susan.
―What about the rest?
―The rest–
He’s not wearing the same drab coat and tie. She notices. He’s wearing his shirt with sleeves rolled and no tie. He’s wearing canvass dungarees and his jacket is slung over the arm of the couch. The hair of chest is as dark as his hair, and when he looks up she blushes.


―What did he say? asked Maddie.
―He wanted to know why. Why describe the sex? Why make it erotica?
They moved to the next isle of books. They were on the second floor of a Barnes & Noble. They had left tea cooling on the table. Maddie picked a self-help book from the bottom shelf.

―Have you ever heard that expression? Susan asked.
―What expression?
―Good girls bend at the knees, bad girls bend at the waist.
―Complete and utter rubbish.
―Maddie! It’s supposed to be funny.
―Did you see me bend at the waist? No. Do you think I’m a good girl?
―My dear, in a bookstore you are a positive role model.
Maddie snorted. Susan followed her out of the isle, then stopped short. It was him!

―Oh! said Maddie, pulling her reading glasses to the tip of her nose, Mr. Delaney, fancy meeting you here.
Forbidden―Hi Maddie.
―We were just looking for some books, said Susan.
She cringed with obviousness.
―We were just going to sit down for tea. said Maddie. Care to join us?
Delaney didn’t. Susan followed Maddie back to their table.

―What was that all about? said Maddie. What just happened there. Your voice went up two octaves and your IQ down two.
―Oh my God. Susan quickly sat in her seat.
―Stop pretending. I know you want to look. He’s still here. I can see him. He went to the fiction section. He was probably looking for you.
―Maddie! Stop it! Susan hissed.
―Susan. He’s your professor. You’re his student. You can’t do this. There are rules. He could be fired; and I’ll tell you right now, women writers are only remembered for two things: who fucked them and what the men who fucked them wrote.
―Oh for God’s sake, Maddie! Susan tapped the table with a fingernail. I’m in my mid-thirties. I might be single but this isn’t my first trip to the beach. When has an MFA in writing ever been any different? And when did you turn into such a shrew? Don’t think I don’t know what goes on in your average publishing house.
―Not much.
―Oh really? I seem to remember a few late nights.
―And maybe that’s the problem. I wish I could remember them.
―So? What do you think?
Maddie raised her eyebrows. Sunlight from cars coming and going just outside the bookstore, glinted through the windows the café. Spring was a welcome warmth. Susan distractedly fingered her own cup and plate.

―He’s cute.
―I think you should stop wasting my time and go flirt with him, she sighed.


Flighty Flight”y, a.

1. Fleeting; swift; transient.

[1913 Webster]

The flighty purpose never is o’ertook,
Unless the deed go with it. –Shak.

[1913 Webster]

2. Indulging in flights, or wild and unrestrained sallies, of
imagination, humor, caprice, etc.; given to disordered
fancies and extravagant conduct; volatile; giddy;
eccentric; slighty delirious.

[1913 Webster]

‘How does a writer describe that tingle, flighty feeling in the stomach?’ she wondered as she puzzled her way through the isles of books. ‘How do you describe “falling in love”? But it’s not falling in love. Falling in love makes you sick and moody. It’s the tingly excitement of his face, his walk, his hands, his smell, his voice.’

Why? She didn’t know why. She saw him and the tingling was in her fingertips.


―Hi, he smiled.
He looked so different out of his room. He looked boyish. He was wearing dungarees, a white button down shirt and leather vest. He looked Italian – even bronzed. The tingling at her fingertips moved to the tips of her nipples.
―This is my favorite section, she said.
―You caught me.
―I thought erotica wasn’t good enough for literature
―Have you read Henry Miller? He knew Anaïs Nin when they lived in Paris.

―I knew they knew each other.
―My wife, before she died, bought Tropic of Cancer for my birthday. It was years before I could read it, and when I did I found little passages that she had circled.
―I’m so sorry!
―She died of cancer.
He smiled momentarily, as though lost in memory, before his thoughts returned.
―Here, he said.
He handed the book to Susan.
―It’s on page 98.
Susan leafed to page 98.
―It begins: If at any moment…

―I don’t see it.
Delaney stepped behind her. Susan’s flightiness leaped into her throat. She felt his warmth against her back, the hardness of his chest. He reached around her, just over her own hand, looking over her shoulder. Yes, he meant to do this. He knew the page. He pretended he didn’t and she pretended she didn’t know what he was doing. As he flipped the pages forward, she leaned back into him, feeling his presence, his solidity, against her own.
―I must be going the wrong direction.
―Yes, she said.
And that yes could have meant anything. Yes, you’re going the wrong direction, but it’s the right direction. She smelled sweat, but the delicious musky smell of a man’s sweat, his Forbiddenunderarms. The stubble of his cheek brushed her ear and she could already feel the hot melting between her legs. She smelled aftershave, his earthy breath, and the hardness of his cock pressing, so deliciously, so accidentally and purposefully from behind.
―This way, he said, his voice strained.

He turned the pages back again.
―It’s on 96, he said.
Now she was pressing herself hard and back against him. There was no mistaking. One hand held the book with her own. His other hand, with her own hand on top, was at her hip and moving downward, slowly. The noise of cups and plates, of voices – men, women and children – of cash registers and music blurred into a white noise, her own heart and the feel of his breath.
If at any moment, he read, anywhere one comes face to face with the absolute, that great sympathy which makes men like Gautama and Jesus seem divine freezes away…
His hand hand moved down the swale, the smooth indenture, dividing her belly and leg, She closed her eyes.
If at any moment the monstrous thing is not that men have created roses out of this dung heap, but that, for some reason or other, they should want roses. For some reason or other man looks for the miracle, and to accomplish it he will wade through blood…
His fingers, then his palm, moved over the triangular inward between her legs, pressing inward the thin blue fabric of her dress. Her mouth opened and she leaned her head back on his shoulder.
He will debauch himself with ideas, he will reduce himself to a shadow if for only one second of his life he can close his eyes to the hideousness of reality. Everything is endured – disgrace, humiliation, poverty, war, crime, ennui – in the belief that overnight something will occur, a miracle, which will render life tolerable.

His finger pressed, just one finger, against the fiery knot that pressed back through the fabric. She pressed her ass back. She lifted her spine. She imagined the hardness of his body, his presence, and mind inside her, belonging to her. Maybe she would write an erotic story, someday, about just this moment. She would write that the orgasm was sudden, unexpected; that it made her open her eyes with shock, then surrender, sightlessly, as she tried to hide the repeated bursts in her abdomen. She would let the readers decide if it were true. It was true. It was a lie. It was true. She exhaled and let him hold her weight.


“I can’t! Not here!”
He gripped my wrists and lifted them above me.
“You win. You win. Is this what you want?”

My back rubbed the rough bark of the maple just yards from my back porch. He was pressing his hips toward my belly. I didn’t want to feel what I knew was there. I sucked in my breath. I pressed my ass and shoulders back against the tree, trapped. He smiled and touched my stomach. I felt the underside of his cock through the canvass of his fly – thick, large and upright beneath his belt buckle.

“Feel it?” he asked.
“Where does it go?”
I slipped one hand out of his grip. I could do this to a grown man? I had to feel him. I forced my hand between his belt buckle and stomach until I closed my fingers around the cock of a man almost my father’s age.
“Inside me,” I answered.
“That’s right, girl.”

This was wrong, and the wrongness turned me on.
“If my Dad finds out –”
“Like you give a damn.”
“Right here?”

I felt like a naïve under-aged girl anda sly, experienced woman. I was shaking with anticipation. He spun me around. The sharp edges of the tree’s bark were like an accusation. He pressed my cheek sharply against a burl. The fingers of his other hand were gently, pressing at my lips until I sucked.

“Get it wet.”
My saliva glistened on his finger. He yanked my panties to my knees.
“Spread your legs.”
“I’ve never done this before.”
He kicked my legs apart, stretching my panties between my knees.
“You cunt. Lift your ass. Show me your little pussy.”
“Do like fucking your boss’s daughter?”
I heard him unzip. He lifted my skirt. The light of my house, just yards away, flickered through the leaves.
“Does it turn you on to fuck her right outside his –”
He stopped me mid-sentence. He hooked the saliva of my own mouth into my pussy and lifted me to my toes.


“You were saying?”
I closed my eyes and exhaled, turning my heels outward, sliding my cheek down the tree as I bent over for him, back arched, pussy hooked by a finger.
“I didn’t think so.” He removed his finger. “Don’t move.”

I felt heat between my thighs. He squeezed through until the tip of him touched my belly button – so much longer and wider than a finger.. He took a fist-full of hair and yanked my head back. His other hand held my hips. I held my breath. My stomach heaved when he drew back, pressed the broad head at my entry, and pushed. I dug my nails into the bark. A man was finally entering, stretching and filling me.

The surprise, the dismay, the pleasure of a woman’s experience? – necessary. A man’s cock is necessary – a man’s voice, smell, demands, and this too, the sharp thrusts of his cock, his urgency, his thirst, his possessiveness. He let go of my hair. He held my hips tightly, bruising me, driving his cock upward until I lifted a foot, knee bent and foot curling with pain and pleasure. His orgasm seemed to go on and on. We both held still and for the first time and felt a someone else’s ghostly orgasm in my own pelvis.

“Please,” I begged.
I guided his hand to my clit and his touch was all it took.
He shook one last violent time and all but fell backward. I fell to my knees. I dug and the grass and leaves. Lifting one knee, then the other, I pulled up my panties. I pushed my skirt down. I turned.
“Bitch,” he said. “I could throttle you.”
But it was the way he said it. In that split second, I was the sexiest woman on the planet. I kissed him, a passionate kiss, then hurried back to my father’s house, full of his new partner’s orgasm.


She pushed the keyboard away. Her finger was between her legs. Her ass was pressed toward the back of the chair, and her head was on the desk when she orgasmed. She ignored the ringing phone. It was Maddie.


―Are you at home? Maddie asked.
Susan lay back on the couch. Her hair was wet. Her pussy was still pleasantly buzzed with the heat of her orgasm.
―I was in the shower when you called.
―He was nominated for another award.
―Who was?
―Your lover.
―He’s not my lover.
―A man will say anything when he’s fucking you, said Maddie. It’s why students don’t fuck their teachers.
―Maddie, I’m not fucking him.
―Maddie, I can’t write erotica.
―Really? Are you having your period? Don’t worry. Give it a week.

―It’s exhausting.
―Oh. That problem.
That problem.
―Can you hurt yourself? Can you have too many? It can’t be healthy.
―Oh for God’s sake, Susan, don’t be stupid.
―I need a cigarette.
―Look, how long before the end of the semester? Eight? Twelve weeks?
―Maddie– Maddie–
―How old are you?
―He read a passage from Tropic of Cancer. I couldn’t say no. I think the last time I felt like this I was fourteen years old.
―I think I was that old when I had a phone conversation like this.


Delaney was outside the door of his office when she arrived. Susan hello’d another of his other students, a younger and prettier girl with long blond hair, just leaving. She was jealous and didn’t like that she was.
―How was your week-end?
He opened the door for her.
―It was wonderful, she answered. I met a beautiful stranger at a bookstore. He read Henry Miller to me.

The door closed and he guided her to her chair, a hand at the small of her back. Someday she would try to describe the effect that touch has on a woman – just a finger at the base of her spine. She stopped. She turned. She reached for his shoulders. He drew her against him, both hands now at the small of her back, pressing her midriff against his own. After the kiss, the passionate kiss they both wanted, they let each other go. Delaney laughed.
―God, I want you.
Susan bit her lip.
―I’ve so totally blown it, he said boyishly, his hands gliding beautifully into hers.
―I’m firing you after this semester ends.
Delaney smiled again, broadly; and that smile, that happiness was like sunlight. He guided her to her chair and he sat behind the desk. She ached for his warmth. She ached for the hardness of his body – that painful pull when the sight and sound of a lover isn’t enough, when the body inexplicably aches for the other body, aches to be inside, and aches to hold inside, the other.
―This, he said again, this. Beautiful. But this–

―What? she asked.
―Here. When you write something like she felt or he felt
She wasn’t listening. She was dizzy. He was pointing at the manuscript. She stood up. He did too. They met in the middle, at the side of the desk. She leaned over, just a little. He put put her manuscript on the desk, he stood behind her. She had worn her tight one-piece dress. She had told herself it was because the days were growing hot. His hand found her breast, his palm cupping her nipple, as he pointed to the words, and her nipples burned.
He kissed her neck. He pulled the hem of her stretch-top down. Her nipple hung freely. His cock pressed against her ass.

―What are we doing? he asked.
―What do you think we should do?
―If I unzipped my cock, if I bent you forward just enough, I could slide inside you. I want to so much. I want to make love to a woman again. I want to make love to you. It’s been such a long time.
―Unzip, she whispered. Tell me bend over. Tell me to grab the sides of the desk. I’ll lift my pussy. I’ll arch. I’ll stand on my tiptoes.
Delaney grimaced. He lifted the hem of her shirt over her breast.
―What would you write if I made love to you, if I broke every rule, if I sent you back out of my office with my orgasm streaming out of you. How would you describe it? How would you describe it if I began to lift your skirt from behind.
―I felt him lift–
―He lifted–
―Yes. The reader will know, he said, pressing his finger into the taut drum of fabric behind her, pressing until the fabric parted the almond divot of her pussy. She lifted her head, closed her eyes, and widened her stance.

―What would you write if I began to make love to you from behind?
―I don’t know, she breathed.
―Think about it.
His finger moved subtly back forth. Pushing the drenched fabric of her panties and dress slightly inside her, then back again, before the next gentle push.
―I can smell you.
―What does it smell like?
―A man. Musk. Tangy. Heady. Heavy.
―What else?
She exhaled and pushed her hips back against the penetration of his finger, matching his rhythm.
―What else?

He touched her lips with a finger.
―Your fingers are soft, rough, but soft at the same time, she said.
―What about my cock? I’m pushing into you. Pushing and pushing like I can’t get deep enough.
―Like I can’t get you far enough inside, she groaned.
Forbidden―No, tell me. Tell me how it feels. Tell me how it starts. Tell me what it’s like when a woman is made love to.
―There’s always that first push, she strained, even when you’ve made love a hundred times. There’s always that first push, as if it were new all over again – his size, the warmth of him, always like a shock. He can feel so soft at first, just the tip of him, pressing, parting, opening. And then there’s the hardness that follows, the width and heat, that doesn’t stop – that’s almost like a necessary cruelty after the softness.
She inhaled. Her breath caught.

―Tell me more, he said.
She struggled to speak. He removed his finger.
―His size – oh god – just won’t stop going in. Big. Hard. Male. Skin sliding inside skin.
―A necessity.
Delaney turned her and she furiously kissed him.
―What are we going to do? he asked.
―Write that we made love. Write that you took me on your desk. Describe how much you want me.

Delaney gently guided her backward to her seat. He returned to his own.
―I would suck your cock, she blurted.
He stared at her, his fists opening and closing.
―I would make you, he said. I would find you first thing in the morning, when you were taking a shower. I’ll push you to your knees and I’ll make you. I’ll come in your mouth and I’ll come in your hair. Jesus, but I will Susan. I will. I’ll come in your hair, in the shampoo, in the rinse, in your mouth, in the water of the shower.
―No more.
―I won’t touch you again.

―If you touch me again I’ll file a complaint.
―Dinner at my house in twelve weeks.
―I’ll be there, and then she said again, biting her lip, I’ll be there.

Categories: Consensual, Copulation, CP, Cum, Erotica, First Time, Insemination, Masturbation, Pursuit, Quickie, RedBud, Reluctance, Romance, Rough SexTags: , , , , , , , , , ,


  1. penelopelake

    Hmm. Twelve weeks is a long time. The professor must have the willpower of champions. I wonder what would happen if Susan didn’t want to wait that long?

    • //I wonder what would happen if Susan didn’t want to wait that long?//

      I could have written it that way. I was tempted. They succumbed on paper, in their imaginations, but maybe that’s not enough. Maybe they won’t be able to wait. Somehow it seemed a pity to “end” the story. :-)

  2. vanillamom

    i liked it…different, as you say, but …three months to wait…but the hung like a glowing orb in the room.. “I’ll make you”…I’d wait for that. A hot piece too…loved watching the evolution of her writing along with their personal ones…

    well done!


    • I wanted to capture, in a certain way, how I’ve learned to write my own stories. I liked too, how adding just a little bit to the dialog, made the girl the seducer rather than the seduced. I wasn’t expecting that, but for some reason chose that after deciding to leave the overall story more open-ended. I thought it balanced out the story, erotically.

  3. Gosh, this was a wonderful wake-up call on the bus to work! Beautifully paced. You captured the heady, breathless anticipation of flirting perfectly. Not only that, but I loved the development of her piece. Gorgeous, Will! Brava!

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