This is the preface and opening chapter to my full length, 90,000 word explicit erotic novel. Let me know what you think.
* * * Prelude * * *
The primary goal of this novel is pleasure. It seeks to accomplish this through story telling, wandering through all the sexual fantasies that I have ever had, and then some. There are a few fantasies that are repugnant to me and they are not included in this story; scat play, for instance.
A secondary objective is education. By hearing different people's internal dialog, you may pick up some insight on how other people look at things. This is especially true of the opposite sex. In my own sexual journey, I assumed that the opposite sex felt things in pretty much the same way that I did. Boy was I mistaken!
A good novel is a chance to escape. To experience fantasies that are not safe to experience in the real world. To this end, if you choose to take this journey with me, we will visit some topics that are not normally allowed to see the light of day, even in a fictitious novel. Topics like incest and rape. Rape in particular does not go down easily. It's not actually a fantasy of mine, but I know that it is very common in girls and women. In real life it can be very damaging to women. It can ruin their life. So I chose to approach the subject in a way that scratches that itch, but in a safe way: the man gets dominated by a woman, and there is consent (you will understand when you get there). It is close enough to rape to scratch that itch.
Some people worry that indulging these fantasies will normalize them and cause people to do things in real life that are harmful. I disagree. When I was a boy, my friends and I would play army. We would shoot our toy guns at each other and proclaim our victims to be dead. Neither myself nor any of my friends have grown up to be murderers. It has not even inspired me to join the military.
That being said, this novel explores a lot of common human sexual fantasies. From swinging, to lesbian sex, yoga, exhibitionism, voyeurism, father-daughter, mother-son, age dynamics, infidelity, secrets kept and secrets revealed. There is a lot of graphic sex contained in this story, but there is a lot more than just sex. There is a fascinating plot with several unexpected plot twists and turns. The characters are interesting, have real life flaws, and things happen that are unforeseen. You will come to love many of them for their characters and vulnerability. The story is erotic, but it is far more than pornography.
* * * Chapter 1 * * *
Lilith:
I lay in bed with a shit eating grin. Not because I just had morning sex, but because I just awoke from a sensual, decadent dream and I am about to get me some of that morning sex!
I usually forget my dreams, soon after awakening, but I don’t want to lose a single frame of this one. So I lie in bed with my eyes closed, squeezing them shut, trying to claw my way back into the dream before it dissolves.
The sun is high and mercilessly generous, pouring molten gold across my back. I’m facedown on the lounger, arms folded under my cheek, breasts pressed into the thick cushion, hips slightly raised because the position feels obscene and perfect. Only a narrow, snow-white towel lies across the fullest curve of my ass, its hem barely brushing the tops of my thighs. Every breath of wind lifts it a fraction, teasing cool air across the wet seam of my cunt. I know I’m already glistening there, swollen and shameless, and the knowledge makes me throb.
The beach is nearly deserted— just the slow hush of waves licking the sand and the occasional cry of a gull. He appears the way dream-men do: without footsteps, without warning. The same man from our vacation in Mykonos— tall, bronze, black hair curling damp at the nape, linen shirt open to the waist, slate-gray eyes that always look like they already know what I taste like. In the dream I recognize him instantly, and my pulse answers before my mind does.
He is gripping a brown bottle of coconut oil in one of his strong hands. The scent drifts over me first— warm, sweet, sun-ripened. He tips the bottle; a thick amber ribbon spills into his palm. He warms it between his hands with a soft, deliberate rub, then lays those hands on me. He begins at my shoulders, thumbs digging slow, deep arcs along the muscle, spreading the oil in a glossy sheet. The sun has baked my skin all morning, but his palms are hotter. Each stroke leaves a slick trail that cools instantly in the sea breeze, so I’m shivering and burning at once. He works down the long slope of my back, over the sides to the swell of my breasts, then up to my spine again. His fingers splay wide, pressing hard enough that I feel it in my spine, in my hips, in the throb between my legs.
My legs part without thinking, knees sinking deeper into the cushion until the towel stretches taut, then slackens again. The movement is unmistakable: an offering. I want his hand to follow the heat, to discover how ready I am, how I’ve been aching since the moment he appeared.
The bottle of coconut oil hovers above my back. The sweet, tropical scent fills the air around me. A thick ribbon of oil drips onto my back, pooling in the dimple just above the cleft of my ass; I shift again, thighs sliding wider. The towel slips an inch. Cool air kisses the slick folds I’ve been hiding, and the shock of it rips a tiny, helpless sound from my throat. He hears it. His hands still. The oil pools, warm and thick, then begins its slow slide down the cleft of my ass, under the towel, tracing the path I want his fingers to take.
He moves down toward my feet and begins kneading the backs of my thighs, starting just above my ankles. His thumbs sweep inward, creeping higher each time, toward the place I desperately want them. When he gets just above my knees, he moves back down to my feet, spreading oil over the pads of my feet, working it in between my toes. He progresses up my legs, paying special attention to the silky skin of my inner thighs, until the pads of his fingers graze the outer lips of my pussy, feather-light, maddening. I’m dripping and he has to know, from his position he can see up under the towel. My legs fall open wider, knees splayed, ass tilted up in raw, wordless begging. I can feel how exposed I am, how the sun and his eyes and the entire empty beach are looking right at me.
His hands pause at the tops of my thighs, thumbs resting in the crease where leg meets body. Then they move, sliding forward under the towel. One slick fingertip traces the seam of my cunt from bottom to top, parting me just enough to coat me in warm oil, stopping a whisper short of my clit. Another finger joins the first, spreading me open, not entering, just holding me there, open, trembling, burning. My hips rock back before I can stop them, chasing more. The towel is nothing but a soaked scrap now, clinging uselessly, riding lower with every breath.
I’m panting into the cushion, hips circling in tiny, frantic pulses, trying to take what he won’t quite give. The towel slips entirely, pools beneath me like a surrender flag. I’m naked now, gleaming, spread for him under the open sky, and his oiled fingers are right fucking there, stroking the slick entrance he still hasn’t claimed.
That’s when I wake, with a sharp, broken cry caught in my throat, thighs clenched so tight they shake, the ghost of his touch still sliding between my legs. I’m soaked, aching, half-mad with it, and all I can do is press my hips into the mattress and chase the dream that ended one cruel second too soon.
I lay on my stomach next to my husband, Robert. Sweaty, I flop over onto my back and stare up into the ceiling fan, stirring the air over my bare shoulders. We have not had sex in several days and he is about to get lucky. Pushing the covers down to my waist I look down at my C cup breasts tenting my pink nightie. My nipples are hyper sensitive as I shrug my shoulders forward, feeling the fabric slide over them. I admire the way they look. They are not as nice as when I was twenty, but they are not bad for my age and having nursed two children. Reaching my hand up under my clothes, I massage my breasts imagining the oily hands of the Grecian man from my dreams. A tingle emanates from between my legs.
With a sigh I roll over towards Robert. His masculine form beside me inflames my lust. His scent sends a quiet urgency pulsing through my veins. I am disappointed to find him lying on his side with his back to me. He is lost to me while he is sleeping and unaware of my need. I have ideas of gripping his tool with my hand, massaging his morning wood until he is gently awakened.
It won't be so easy if he is lying on his side with his back to me. Snuggling from behind, I hug his body, spooning him. He’s sound asleep and unaware of my advances. My tits are pressed into his back, which fans the flame of my passions. But he slumbers on unaware and does not respond.
I want more. Much more. I throw my leg across his hip, bringing my mons into contact with his body. I try to grind myself into him, but it is not satisfying since I am just rubbing my pussy into his soft buttock which does not create enough friction to generate the sensation I crave. Snaking my hand over his hip to his crotch I search, hoping that I can rouse him by stroking him. Imagine my chagrin at finding a soft little sausage without an ounce of enthusiasm in it. In a last ditch effort, I try to stroke and pull at his little fellow, but just as I get started I am interrupted by the ‘bleet, bleet, bleet’ of Robert's alarm clock. That shrill little bastard is a real buzz kill.
Robert stirs, sits up on the side of the bed and extinguishes the alarm. Rubbing his chin I can hear the scratching sound of his stubble. I try for a smokey “Good morning, honey” but it comes out more like a squawk in my early morning voice. Robert pushes to his feet with a groan and ambles towards the bathroom without a backwards glance. The mood is broken. I can hear him urinate like a horse through the bathroom door. The spot where he lay, still retains some of his warmth, but it is fading fast. My body still hums with need, and my husband is completely unaware. I feel unseen and unfulfilled.
Resigned, I sit on the edge of the mattress and look at my image in the dressing mirror. I look pretty good for my 43 years and two kids. But what good is that if my own husband doesn't notice me? I have an idea! Robert always uses the full length dressing mirror when dressing in the morning. I apply bright red lipstick and plant a kiss in the upper right hand corner. He can't help but see it and it will strongly telegraph my need for him.
My name is Lily, but all my friends call me Lilith, a nickname from high school. I stand to my full height of five feet and ten inches and run my fingers through my thick natural platinum blond hair. I suppose that I have my Norwegian heritage to thank for both my height and my hair. Some say that I look like one of those Viking chicks; one that takes no prisoners. My high cheek bones create dimples when I smile. But my piercing blue eyes are arguably my greatest asset.
I wasn't always like this. As a girl, I was skinny, awkward and without the womanly shape that I now possess. The passage of time gifted me with curves while my female high school friends have gone soft and flabby. It hasn't hurt that I own a yoga and Tai Chi studio and teach both arts for hours each day.
Robert:
My name is Robert, Lilith’s husband, and I work in commercial finance. My work provides a decent living, but it is demanding. When Lilith and I were first married, I was a romantic and could never get enough sex. I was like a marathon runner and could spend an hour in foreplay, priming my wife before lovemaking, never in a hurry to finish. Sometimes she would have multiple orgasms in one night. But then the kids— a boy, Brad and a girl, Sarah— came along. About the same time our careers blossomed and we became too busy for lengthy or frequent sexual adventures. Too busy and too tired. I am expected to be at my office promptly by 7:00 AM. Lilith doesn’t usually go into her studio until 10:00. I am blessed with good genes, am six feet one inch tall and am trim at 170 lbs.
Turning off the shower and opening the sliding glass door, I am surprised to see Lilith at the sink in her pink nightie. She still has the cutest ass of any lady that I have ever seen. As I am toweling off, she opens the lower cabinet drawer, bends at the waist to get something. I catch just a peek at her snatch from the rear. Is it wet? Her heart shaped ass looks delicious. As she walks out of the bathroom I watch it sway. I wish I had just a little more time before needing to be in the office. How I would love to spend some time with her in the sack!
I got to focus on getting to work. Averting my eyes as I come out of the bathroom, I see from the corner of my eye that Lilith is still in the bedroom, doing things in her thin, pink nightie. I dare not look at her. Cinching my tie, I rummage around in my closet looking for a match to my shoe. “Lilith, I'm running late for work. Can you meet me at the door with a cup of coffee, please dear?”
“Sure, honey. I'll have it ready for you.” She sounds disappointed but resolved. She grabs a short gown and leaves the bedroom. Looking in the mirror to straighten my tie, I see lipstick on the mirror. It's apparent that it is not accidental, but was purposely smeared there to send a message. I hate to run out like this, but Lilith knows that I got to get to work on time. And what about all the times I needed her, but she was tired, or had a headache, or just not in the mood?
Lilith:
Looks like today is going to be just another long and boring Thursday. But as I descend the stairs for the kitchen, I realize that I am mostly frustrated with life. Why do we have to be slaves to our careers? Life should be more fun. I need more adventure in my life. Feeling sorry for myself, I prepare a pot of coffee for Robert and myself. Then I remember that our son Brad is here at home and will be wanting some coffee. He is 20 years old, and about to begin his sophomore year in a college in an adjoining state. He decided to spend the last couple of weeks of his summer break at home with us . He will be getting up soon and will want some coffee as well.
His sister, Sarah, is a waif of a girl at 18. She will be starting her freshman year this fall at the university in our state capital, a couple hours from home. She is there now getting her dorm ready ahead of time. She has my eyes and hair, but smaller B cup titties. She has inherited her father's brains and, like him, has a thing for being on time and well prepared.
Hearing Robert's footsteps pounding down the steps, I pour his favorite thermal mug full of coffee. He sweeps around the corner, just as I fasten the lid on it. Lifting the cup just in time for him to intercept it, he surprises me by setting it back down on the counter. Wrapping me in his arms, he gives me a very respectable goodbye kiss. “I look forward to seeing you tonight, Lilith.” Breathless, I stare as he takes up his coffee cup and scurries out the door. Reflecting on his exit, perhaps he doesn’t totally take me for granted, after all.
With Robert out of the house, I climb the stairs again to get dressed. Opening a drawer, I *********** a matching gold colored bra and panty set to wear to my studio. Standing in front of the dressing mirror, I admire my image, turning sideways to see my profile. I don't hate what I see. Cute butt, slim waist and flat belly. My boobs protrude proudly from my chest. They don't sag as much as most women my age although the areolas are larger than they used to be. If I can't get any dick, I'll have to resort to my favorite pastime: flirting. I just love feeling desired by men.
I apply some light makeup and comb my shoulder length hair in the downstairs bathroom where I have a chair in front of a well lit vanity. It can get warm with all the lights on in the small bathroom, so I usually leave the door open. As I work, it is still warm even with the door open so I hang my robe on a hook and sit with my long legs crossed in just my panties and bra. I remember that Brad is in the house and will be getting up soon, but I didn't care. I could not admit it out loud, but down deep I hope that Brad will see me sitting here. It would be gratifying if he saw me and enjoyed looking at my body. I could never admit that out loud, of course. But there it is. That is how I feel. Part of my flirting instinct, I guess. Call me a bad mom for displaying my body in a sexy way before my own son.
To accomplish this, I use a tactic not often utilized in the erotic fiction genre. That is to look at each episode of the story through the eyes of a single person, using primarily first person, present tense. In a few cases, I come back to the same episode and view it through the eyes of another character. I try to identify the person whose viewpoint is taken at the beginning of each episode.
All of this story and its characters were dredged up from my imaginations. Any resemblance to actual people or situations is purely coincidental and has no basis in reality. Their actions are also fantasy and neither I nor anyone that I know actually did any of these things.