the writer

photo 2


the young woman wore a long colourful skirt, thick silver bangles and her skin was a dusky brown that the writer imagined might taste like cinnamon.

she wasn’t wearing a bra
and her nipples pushed against a black cotton blouse.

the writer thought she resembled the french actress marion cotillard.
it was difficult not to be fascinated.

that something happened you could say was inevitable. she rented the beach resort’s last vacant bungalow, which sat a mere twelve feet from the writer’s own. their bungalows were right on the beach.

it became second nature for the writer to track her movements:

she retired to her cabin early in the evenings, but her lights stayed on well past midnight. sometimes when she walked past a window with its blinds rolled up, the writer saw she had a wineglass in one hand and a book in the other. she woke late and spent most of the day on the porch reading, smoking cigarettes and sketching. at 3pm, she would swim in the sea for an hour.

she was a creature of habit even on holiday.

when the writer wasn’t spying on the young woman, there was writing. being near water helped unblock the writer.

one evening, the woman stood by the window dressed in a gown that hung open revealing breasts that reminded the writer of dark chocolate and a triangle of black hair between her thighs that was– contrary to the current fashion– left ungroomed. the writer found this erotic; here was a woman confident of her attractiveness, her desirability. the writer envied that.

the woman turned suddenly and stared straight at the writer. there was a moment when neither moved. the writer was about to turn away when the woman raised her right hand to caress her left breast; her fingers played with her nipple. the writer wondered how her nipple would feel in her mouth. she imagined pulling on it, biting, then taking both the areola and nipple and sucking hard.

the thought made her cunt flood with heat.

the woman smiled when the writer pushed aside her top to reveal her breast. the woman moved away from the window and came back dragging a chair. she placed her left foot on the chair and spread wide. she began to rub herself. her mouth opened. she moaned. then the woman raised her hand to her mouth and sucked on two fingers. she brought her fingers back down and began moving them in and out of her cunt.

the writer slipped her hand beneath the waistband of her shorts and felt the wetness of her own.

she began to rub her swollen clit and, still shadowing the woman’s movements, she pushed two fingers inside. she ached for something to fill her. the woman laughed and nodded. the writer let herself fall on a chair by the window; she stroked and finger fucked herself until she came. when her breathing settled, she raised her head to offer a sated smile, but the woman was gone.

the next morning, the woman was in her usual repose, on her porch with her coffee and book. she looked at the writer, smiled then went back to reading.

This week’s one word prompt: erotica



14 thoughts on “the writer

      1. I have always wanted to write and draw erotica but so far my efforts have been both hamfisted and unoriginal. Creating this stuff is really not as easy as people might think. I do like this effort, and I do wish I had the ability to write something along these lines!

        Liked by 1 person

  1. “…the thought made her cunt flood with heat. ” I love this line–visceral. Great little vignette, Babe. The rhythm of the piece reminds me a little of Nin’s work. Bravo!

    Liked by 1 person

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