An entry from Marie Rebelle’s 2019 Smut Marathon under the pseudonym of Lord Byron’s Ghost- Raz
“Where are you?”
“Here. Follow my voice.”
“Oh, this isn’t fair. I’m going to stub my toe or shin myself on something. I know it.”
“Sam, this is my apartment. Do you think I’d lay traps like that for myself?”
“…No, I guess not. But can’t you turn on a side lamp or something?”
She laughed softly, I corrected my course.
“Why would I have a side lamp?”
Oh. Right. I stepped gingerly on the carpet, arms reaching. Soft shag tickled between my toes. Didn’t this room have a window? Even starlight would have helped.
“There you are,” she said.
I’d barely touched corner of the bed. No blanket, but smooth, clean sheets. Sheets could feel clean. Who knew? I guessed Ivy did.
I slid my hand across the top of the bed, excitement from earlier in the evening replacing the uncertainty of the pitch-dark room, and the relief at having navigated the miles – or feet – to the bed. Where…?
“Mmmm. ”
An ankle. A calf. Warm, toned, bare.
“Are your toes ok?” Was that a smile in her voice?
“Entirely un-stubbed,” I said, sliding my palm up her leg. Soft skin, muscle underneath. Calf to knee to thigh. God, I wanted to see her like this. I reached the join of leg and hip. Her shivering exhalation was the sexiest thing I’d ever barely heard.
My other hand found her side, her ribcage, the curve of her breast, and then she touched me. Her fingertips traced up my arm, to shoulder, neck and face. She’d gotten a good “look” at me early in the date, and then later as we danced – she was a perfect ballroom follower – and kissed in the backseat of the cab. This touch, this read, was different, though. Maybe because I couldn’t watch her expression.
Maybe because her other hand was wrapping around my cock. My gasp wasn’t particularly quiet, and she met the following groan of pleasure with a squeeze and an exploring caress that made me throb in her grip.
Fingers of one hand found a hard nipple, and the other hand touched soft fuzz and slickness between parted legs. She pulled at me – leading me by the cock to climb onto the bed, drawing my head down for a kiss.
As our lips met, and she guided my cock to her entrance, I began to think sight really just might be overrated.
Categories: Erotic Fiction, Foreplay, Raziel
The Erotic Writer 
Mmm, a perfect ballroom follower. Do tell?
Completely attuned to, responsive to the body movements, positions, directionality of the lead, since there are no visual cues. The lead has to know what they’re doing, though. A kid just out of driver’s ed will wreck a Ferrari in 2 minutes.
A conversation in touch. And an exceedingly intimate one too. Ballroom may ‘present’ as
uptight, but don’t be fooled. In ‘closed-hold’ the language is all thigh, groin and navel. Those prim frocks and tails hide a hella lot of erotic tension. Grrr.
That’s so true. We won’t even talk about Tango. Sure, you can Tango with a stranger, but even when it is not explicitly foreplay it’s this -><- close to it.
I enjoyed that exploration of the sense of touch and sound. I could feel her hand on me as I read it.
I’m very glad. Eroticism really is a gift for all the senses.