“no politics in sex”

Angelica had met him in an unusual place. They’d both left comments on a forum about the care of animals. He’d been advocating the use of animals in medical testing. She disagreed vehemently. It should have been a sign.

After a heated debate they exchanged emails and within weeks had eaten up serious bandwidth emailing each other about animal rights and films and literature and gender socialization and politics. Not typically confrontational, she’d be cautious in her statements, interested in how he formulated his arguments. He both repelled and fascinated her. His view on the world was conservative, but not in the sense she was used to. Most conservative men she had met were prescriptive and condescendingly reductive. He was articulate. Well read. He seemed interested in her opinion. Against a faint warning of instinct, she agreed to meet him. A walk in a city park seemed harmless enough.

He had a presence. Tall with a strong jaw, dimples and large, callused hands, she was immediately attracted to him. But he talked. A lot. She was happy to listen. She instinctively knew that while this man might be interested in her thoughts, it would be for the purpose of converting her to his own. That was ok. She knew her own mind and she was increasingly mesmerized by his internal dialogue. How he rationalized the world to suit his purpose.

His interest in taking the relationship further was obvious. But her instinct warred with attraction and she warned him against thinking long term. He shrugged her words off, and they agreed to meet for dinner.

She invited him in for coffee. He talked. She listened, holding her cup to warm her hands. Physically conscious of his body on the sofa next to hers, she thought, briefly and ironically, about how her body could so completely betray her beliefs. She was no longer listening to him. She was watching his hands. Looking at the line of his jaw. Watching the pulse in his throat. Her eyes lowered, she felt the heat building in her body. Wondered how long it would be ‘til he kissed her. When she might feel his hands on her face, the small of her back. He stopped talking. As if he’d read her mind he asked, “Do you want me to kiss you?”

She smiled a slow smile and nodded her head. He moved closer to her on the couch. Ran his hand into her hair and pulled her towards him. The kiss was like a match to a trail of gunpowder. The fuse lit, she was lost. Her skin was on fire and every touch burnt. His mouth was on her neck as he ran his hands under her shirt and along her ribs, grazing the undersides of her breasts. He kissed the inside of her elbows. The warm spots on her wrists. Each eyelid. The corners of her mouth.

He unbuttoned her blouse and pulled the straps of her bra down over her shoulders, peeled the fabric away from her breasts. He kissed the skin between them then traced their curve, cupping their weight in his hand before his mouth found a nipple, just for a moment. He knelt on the floor and unzipped her boots, running his hands up under her skirt and behind her knees, stroking the softer part of her thighs.

She pushed him away, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted with desire. She looked at him. She considered sending him home; grasping the last shed of her rational self. But just at that moment the lights went out. A power failure? Load shedding? It didn’t matter. It was enough.

In the dark he took her hand and led her to the bedroom. Took the last of her clothes off and lay next to her on the bed. His hands were flame and water and ice. His mouth a gift. His touch more and more insistent. Grazing one nipple with his teeth, he stroked circles around the other, his cock hard against her thigh.

“Harder,” she whispered.

He stopped. Looked at her. Asked with a voice low with desire, “Do you like it a little rough?” She nodded in the dark, not sure, not expecting this response. Not wanting to make this decision. He pinched her nipple until she gasped and asked again, almost growling, “Do you like it like this?”

“Yes.”

His demeanor changed. He turned her over. Ran his hands down her back. Caressed the curve of her arse. Fingers lightly teasing the tender flesh where her thighs met. He asked her to kneel. Looked at her with predatory eyes in the half light of the darkened room. Walked around the bed, his eyes on every inch of her. She began to shiver. Desire like mercury. She could feel him building to something. Feel his want like another element in the room. He knelt next to her on the bed. Slid his hand along her should and under her hair, lifting it to stroke her neck and run a finger down her spine. And without warning he spanked her. Too shocked to react, she felt the sting fade to a warm thrumming sensation. She was amazed at how sensitized she suddenly felt. To every whisper of breath, every touch, the feel of the cotton duvet cover, the light breeze from the window.

As he reached to caress her again, she flinched. The trailing fire of his gentle fingers distracting her from what she knew would come. He spanked her again and she gasped, instantly feeling the searing, sexy outline of his hand. Out of the corner of her eye she could see his cock. Rock hard and throbbing. The thought of his desire made her even more breathless. Made the edging feeling of humiliation bearable. Both his hands were on her arse again, a finger sliding into her scorching, silky wetness. She was trembling, more turned on than she’d ever been before. Surprised at how easy it was to give him this control, how hot it made her. How much his desire was linked to her own. Surprised at how objectified she felt, and how strangely liberated that made her feel. Wanton. Delivered from the self conscious performance of other sexual encounters.

He reached around her, cupped a breast and pinched and pulled the nipple again. Hard. Unrelenting. Every part of her pulsing body felt connected to his cruel, beautiful fingers. He pushed her forward, rolled the condom on his cock, and gripping her hips, thrust himself inside her. She was lost to sensation. She could feel his fingers dig into her sides. Could feel ever inch of his cock inside her. Could feel the throb of her nipples, her arse, her cunt. She was unleashed. She was a woman unfettered. She was fierce. She was wild. He fucked her like he wanted to break her in half and every thrust took her further from herself. She came with a savage intensity, gripping him with waves of deep pleasure. Wet with sweat and sated desire, she buried her face in the pillow as he came swiftly after her, growling into her neck. They collapsed together. Panting. Grinning. Catching their breath.

She turned to look at him, raised an eyebrow. He smiled. And, with a low and velvet voice said, “Give me five minutes then get me a rope. Next time I want to tie you up.”

And Angelica thought wryly to herself, “Clearly there’s no politics in sex.”

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20 thoughts on ““no politics in sex”

  1. clare says:

    Okay. So now that I’ve slid off the stool I guess there is going to be no more work today.

  2. You can’t write this in public when I have a boy far far away for far far too long… he’d better get home soon now!

  3. dolceii says:

    @ Clare > Exactly. And this is still running through my head. In technicolour. With the details changing with my mood. Work is not an option. But, it seems, neither is accosting a stranger.

  4. dolceii says:

    @ Champers > I don’t have a boy. Full stop. A little saucy texting? Some sexy phone sex? Champers…you’ve got options!

  5. I also have 1000 time zones till I reach him, so any emailing and sms’ing involves a more then slightly frustrating delay. Not that attempts have not been made. As for you not having a boy… I know a stripper who could at least help with further inspiration and creative fantasising!

  6. dolceii says:

    @ Champers > whahahahahahaha. Does he do “extra” work…and what about his girlfriend? *snort*. Work people are looking at me funny. The thought of your stripper rocking up to sort me out is cracking me up!

  7. Mrs. Benitez says:

    Ooer, I’m fond of a spot of light spanking myself – provided I’m the one wielding the paddle/crop/snake whip, of course.

    (This has to be the first time – *ahem* – load shedding has played such a pivotal role in erotic fiction. But not the last, I’ll bet. Have you seen this? There’s an excerpt here. I reckon you’d be a shoe-in for Volume 2, dear. )

  8. dolceii says:

    @ Mrs. B > No electrodes then? I’ve heard they’re all the rage, currently.

    (And yes. Shedding a load doesn’t have to be all bad. And oh god, “an erotic anthology by South African women writers”? I’m afraid. Clit lit is largely nasty. As is this, let’s be honest. Just something to pass the time between meetings, you know. *gag*.)

  9. Mrs. Benitez says:

    Electrodes? Do they run on generators?

    (I wouldn’t go so far as to recommend you read it, dear 🙂 But to be paid to churn it out – well, that’s got to be better than, uh… than…)

  10. dolceii says:

    @ Mrs B > No, but I gather that a car battery will work just fine.

    (Getting paid for sex, even if it is just the puerile machinations of my overly active imagination, is still a bridge too far. Today. Ask me again after the next petrol price hike…)

  11. clare says:

    Hey. Now the new guy in the office is starting to look really hot. What have you done?

  12. dolceii says:

    @ Clare > *cackle* And so she shares the wickedness. (fekkin’ hormones)

  13. dolceii says:

    @ Parenthesis > I don’t bite, promise. Not unless asked nicely. 😉

  14. daisyfae says:

    women who must be responsible in our ‘day jobs’. take care of our families. take care of the lost trolls in the office. the charitable work we do. alway making suren things get done. properly.

    UGH…

    God, if i could trust someone that much. Give myself over? Let someone else make all the fucking decisions? probably never leave the house again…

    and “load shedding” is now my favorite euphemism….

  15. dolceii says:

    @ Daisyfae > Exactly. I’m so completely in control in every other aspect of my life, that a little bedroom submission can be utterly delicious.

    And yeah, life is stranger than fiction, nés pas? 😉

  16. Parenthesis says:

    Why not, it’s ever so nice … 😉

  17. Rox says:

    Shoo wee girl, when are you going to put these literary skills together and write us an erotic novel then? You could totally kick every other writer’s ass with your prose doll, seriously!

  18. daisyfae says:

    do you find it’s a ‘sometimes’ thing? like Mrs. B, i can dish it out, too…

    your fiction is rather inspirational. shame my children read my blog… might be fun to try my hand at something one of these days! and along the lines of several other comments, you might consider paying options! use the extra cash for Salon Time!

  19. dolceii says:

    @ Parenthesis > the biting or the writing? 😉

    @ Roxy > Ag, Rox. It’s hard work. A girl gets all worked up writing this stuff. A novel would take months. And a lot of batteries 😉

    @ Daisyfae > Absolutely. I’m not so good at the giving, though. I get the giggles. And I absolutely reserve the right to gentle, tender moments too. And moments when I get to dress up in that Frauline outfit and talk in a dodgy accent. And moments when….*ahem*….you know?

    As for paying options. I’m *way* to sodding lazy (and distrated) to write more than two pages. 🙂

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