Coyote Too

I texted you from the airport. "Have rental car. On way. You know what to do." I sent nothing more.

The house was as you had described. The door unlocked, as you had been told. I put down my bags and walked towards the bedroom.

Your pictures hadn't done you justice. So beautiful, and yet so vulnerable. The air was warm, but I could see the goosebumps, see you shiver as you heard me move. You were naked, kneeling sideways on the bed, ass high,  blindfolded face flat against the bed, hands clasped over your head. Just as I had told you.

"Good girl."

You flinched at the sudden sound of my voice; heard for the first time.

I took a small length of rope from my pocket and bound your wrists together.

"Very good."

I brushed the hair from your face, bent over and hovered next to your clothbound eyes, letting you sense the closeness, hear my breath, feel your helplessness. A stranger in your house. Your body at my mercy.

SensualStories runs a writing exercise on Twitter. People submit phrases (from fiction, or of their own), and anyone who wishes can pick one and incorporate it into a short piece of fiction. The pieces don't have to be erotic, although they often are. She collects them and posts them on her blog for people to comment on. It's a great way to spark your writing spirit.

This time around, I chose SensualStories' phrase submission, "She hadn't imagined the sound." There are several ways to interpret the phrase, and I have no idea which she intended; I changed my own interpretation several times while writing it.

She hadn't imagined the sound from the doorway behind her; so soft that it lingered on the edges of imagination. Chills lapped across her back and trailed down her arms. A warm spark lit at her groin, blossomed into fire, spread up and across her breasts. Just one soft sound, nearly imperceptible—the parting of lips in a blown kiss—and yet it changed her life forever. She breathed deep of the newfound strength it brought her, turned to face the doorway, and dropped the robe from her shoulders.

The theme for this week's Microfantasy Monday is "What’s your perfect snapshot of a lazy morning?"

The sun streamed through the windows, flowed across the room, and poured its warmth across my skin. I didn't so much waken, as slide from one dream into another; from a warm ocean of tranquility, to an even warmer ocean of sensation. The heat of the sun on my loins grew in intensity. The beams of light seemed almost liquid as they drenched my cock in waves of passion. 

And then I opened my eyes in time to see you glance up at me.  Your face was filled with silent mirth, and the heat of your mouth outshone the sun.

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See here for an explanation of what MfM is.

She told me to meet her in the garden, under the full moon. "Come at midnight, and wear nothing," she had said with sternness in her voice, but a glint of laughter in her eyes. And so I found myself, stepping gingerly down aisles of corn and sunflowers, searching for my mysterious lover.

I smelled her before I saw her; the odd scent of lilacs wafting through the corn rows. She lay motionless in a clearing by a small dead tree, covered with dew-wet petals that glistened in the moonlight. They shaped and formed her curves, defining her lips, her breasts, the inviting curve of her hips. Had they fallen upon her, leaving the tree bare and lifeless? Or had they indeed formed her, molded her, transformed themselves into the living, breathing soul of the lilac tree? Those questions come to me, each time I smell the sweet scent of a lilac tree again, each time I taste a shadow of the need and desire that drew me to her that night.