Tantalizing Tales
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Tantalizing Tales

A woman looks at her mobile phone
Photo by Laura Chouette on Unsplash

If My Stories Arouse You, That Arouses Me; Let Me Show You How Much

I’m on a writing journey again. Will you come with me?

Dear Reader,

I wonder if you’re still out there.

Do you still read? Do you still dream, and dance in your mind, and share secrets with strangers? Are you still strong?

If I wrote, would you come back to me? Because I want to tell you — show you — that I still love you.

Yes, I do love you; I did from the start. I know that now. For a long time I thought it was all me, that I wrote for myself, that you didn’t matter. And even when you came, and frightened me with your love, I decided it was mine to control. What conceit. Perhaps I knew it — but not well enough. In fear and self-disgust I ended it.

What are you feeling, as you find this new story from me? Perhaps you searched for me, just one more time, though now months can pass between each one more time. Perhaps you’re in a park, or at work; and you wonder if anyone saw the small intake of breath, the urgent tap and scroll, the gently bitten lip.

You know my voice. But you weren’t expecting to be addressed like this. If there’s anything you did expect, these years, it was another fantasy, another dream. Even though my last dreams were already being addressed to you, written in tears.

You hesitate. You have things to attend to. Go.

You impatiently fumble for your keys, like you’d forgotten that once you’d pattered up the steps, you would need to unlock your door. Perhaps you do the same every day. Can I kiss you?

The door opens; there’s a swirl of accessories and outerwear in disturbed air that smells a little of you. My heart jumps. Will you leave me outside? No — I can feel the clench of your fingers, like a tiny apology, as your distracted mind recalls why it was distracted.

But in your keenness to grasp your phone you’ve stranded one arm in your coat. I giggle at the flummoxed look that passes over your face, before you lean awkwardly to set the device on the coffee table.

You stutter through your coming-home ritual, like an actor finding the script inappropriate. Once again, I feel remorse at leaving you. I had no right; I have no right now. You don’t have to be with me. Of course not! How ridiculous to even mention it. But please, will you hold me?

I’m fading. You don’t want this. You come to a halt, sit on the couch, knees together; and sigh. You reach out, but only to push the phone an inch away from you, before leaning back to gaze at the ceiling.

What am I doing wrong?

The merest shake of your head seals it. I stand, feeling sick — the long-buried but familiar nausea of knowing I can never know you. I take a step away, lifting my eyes for one last look around, at your home, as if I could see it through your mind, before becoming nothing again.

There’s a mirror. Somehow, I’m framed in it — though distorted and hazy. What am I even wearing? Of course, you don’t know; why would you. You could make it up though. I cluck mirthlessly at the thought. It’s pyjamas, okay?

I can see you in the mirror too, and with a start I notice you’re looking at me.

Of course.

They’re lilac, silk, a shade too small. You cock your head to the side. They don’t go with either my hair or my skin. You look amused, but unimpressed.

How about you take off that entitled grin and give me something to work with?

You’ve picked up your phone. So I turn back towards you, my heart tentatively alive again. If I put my hands on my hips, like so, you can see my shape; and maybe your imaginings let you see a little more. I don’t know how to sashay, but I give it a go, then come to my knees on the floor by you.

You’re reading now, and your arm and phone interrupt my view of you. I reach forward and idly begin to draw a line down your forearm with my finger, from wrist to elbow, noticing delightedly how you pretend to ignore me.

I climb forward, ducking my head under your hands. You sigh with mock exasperation, though lifting your legs and twisting to a lying position, surreptitiously making a space for me. As I push and turn, my shoulders find the warmth of your chest; and then, with a thrust of my upper leg, my bottom is in your lap. Well, mostly — I’m too tall to fit here perfectly, with my head against your shoulder, my short hair against your cheek.

I make a small contented noise; but I’m already far beyond contentment. The flood of oxytocin from your warmth is unbearable, after all these years. As I turn my head to try and look up at your face, my eyes spill ecstatic tears, and my wide-open mouth sighs a louder, more intimate query.

Still you read, and the tiny jumps of your eyes betray your own need. I glance to your mouth, lips set in a line but ever so slightly flushed, and I wonder if I could even survive kissing you. Just your presence, so warm, so close, is making me shake with each drawn breath; and the responsibility of my love feels heavy within me, collapsing me into the couch, my head crushing down against your upper arm.

I look along the length of your body, seeing your other hand hovering over me, then darting up to flick at your phone screen. I snicker at an impulse, and before reason or reality can intervene, I intercept and grasp that hand with both of mine.

Now then, whatever shall I do with this prize?

Your fingertips have folded down languidly over my grip, so naturally I bring them to my mouth, touching them gently to my lips. They straighten a little, so I encourage them further with a thumb, so I can kiss the softer skin underneath, directing them to one side onto my cheek, kissing your palm. Surely you can feel the heat of me now. I arch my neck a little, trace your fingers there.

You tug against me; for a flash I’m scared of what I might have done, but then I laugh as realisation dawns, and I release your fingers to scroll once more. And then you’re back, and I sigh at your caress.

I want you. We’ve both waited long enough. I raise my gaze to your face again, glancing only briefly over your features before locking my eyes onto yours, not to miss the tiniest emotion in them as I draw your fingertips down my neck, down, onto my clavicle, down, onto the loose collar of my pyjamas.

There I pause to press your palm to my heart. I see you blink at that, and I smile sadly. I can’t know who you are, I can’t know who else you read, but you surely know that with me, love must be hopeless.

I draw a long breath. We are not really tucked together; I feel you only at the back of my head, and where my shoulders and the side of my hip rest twisted against you. And yet your warmth, your smell, your presence, is like a cocoon, a place where I could rest forever.

I whisper my love for you, and guide your hand down further. The silk has already excited my nipple, and I know you can feel it in your palm. My back arches without volition; I cannot resist moving my upper hand away to hold my other breast scant inches above; then push. I can scarcely keep my eyes open as I moan at the sensation.

But the moan turns to a snort of laughter. The silk forestalls any grip, and both breasts flop disdainfully out of our grasp. I allow the moment to play out, knowing that your smile, when it comes — there! — will bind us together: deeply, blissfully.

I nuzzle your cheek in apology. ‘Wait there,’ I mutter redundantly, gently returning your hand to your side; and I lift my legs to allow their weight to pivot my torso upright.

I begin to hum some non-tune, sitting in front of you, staring ahead into the room, undoing the buttons on my pyjama blouse. Happiness is all I feel, just to know that you’re still reading, still watching me through that tiny screen, still wanting me. Perhaps I can feel your fingers, tentative on my back and shoulder, just maintaining that languid connection. Done with the buttons, I arch a little, bringing my hands to my bottom, my elbows behind: maybe you can see the rise of my flesh, the peak of my nearer breast.

On impulse, I take the opportunity to tug at the waist of my pyjama trousers, bouncing slightly to free them from under me. My naked legs do the rest; though hardly gracefully — a few more takes would be needed for the social media post.

I turn only my head to you, trying to smoulder through my mascara. I think now is the time. Don’t you?

A grin tugs at one corner of my mouth, because you have bitten your lip. Your upper hand strokes over the beltline of your skirt, uncertainly, as though you are perturbed by a rebellious dampness deep within its strict confines. Well, sorry to compound the depravity, my dear, but I think your couch is also getting a smudge or two right here. Unconsciously I’ve touched my pubic hair with my fingertips at the thought; and the sensation is suddenly electric.

I buck slightly as my hand slides inevitably over my pubic mound.

I wonder briefly what you might want to do to me; but then I cluck in consternation. There is no way I can know. Your brow also furrows slightly at the thought appearing in text before you. Perhaps we are at an impasse again.

However, my body does not seem to think so. My middle finger has slipped into warm nothingness, where it exists as a diffuse, agreeable presence; but if I lift my wrist just a little, like so — uh — its first segment presses on my clitoris. The slickness and pleasure suggest I can enjoy this situation for just what it is. Well, not only am I perfectly capable of making love to myself — as you know, don’t you? — but I had forgotten the potency of having an audience. I smile at you. We can get to your dreams a bit later, right? Somehow. We’ll figure it out.

Leaving that hand resolutely alone, I draw the other around from my bottom, twisting over my hip, onto my stomach; letting the loose hem of my top ruckle and flow around it, like a chaotic shadow caress. (I’m sure you’ve guessed why I’m wearing this. Well, I’ve certainly never slept in it.) It’s not hard at all to play games with the abstraction and let my hand be your hand, reaching from behind to gently find the softness of my skin. I cock my head on the side as I realise you’d have to be sitting up — well, so what.

The hand continues slowly around to my other side, so you’re holding me against you; but it must inevitably rise, onto my ribs, palm lifting so only the fingertips traverse the side of my breast, wrist arched to not brush over the aureole but send aside the material of my top and fully reveal it. Perhaps you like what you see, because we pause there: my gaze, yours. Of course there is a temptation to let that palm fall — in sympathy, the other forgotten hand clenches a fraction, eliciting a thud of pleasure in my loins.

How I want that sensation again — and I cannot resist. My hand is moving of its own volition. Not rhythmic, not yet; nor forceful. But enough to build flames within, fueled by my arousal.

I want to see you, seeing me. So I slide myself off the couch and turn to kneel on the floor, facing you. Your eyes shine a little with the brightness of the screen; but in them I see acceptance, approval, and need. I lock my gaze onto your face, knowing I will be watching you until the end. That simple connection is more than enough. My free hand, having been parked over my breast, roams further upward to take in the gently pulsing muscle of my shoulder, under the silk; the arm lifting my other breast in its crook. I have held myself like this many times; it’s a sweet delight to share that with you.

So of course the demands of my vulva can no longer be suppressed; its wetness has seeped throughout its contact with my fingers, letting me ratchet up the pressure on my clit. It won’t be long now. Every shuddering movement is building on the last, not in raw pleasure, but with a deeper, subliminal satisfaction that can only be quelled by a final eruption. But oh! You did this to me. Somehow, somehow I will make you feel this for yourself. I swear it.

I can feel the orgasm building, like a stormcloud.

And yet, I’m not ready for the lightning. I want to let the voltage build ever higher. I want it to stop my heart, burn me. With my voice moaning every outbreath I focus my will, and bring my fingers to a resentful, dangerous halt. Your eyes have widened. Yes, dear reader, this is your doing.

Reluctantly, gingerly, my other hand leaves my shoulder; glides onto my upper chest, then my neck. It grasps there, and I let my head lean back, so you know you have power over me. But it rises further, fingers wrapping over my jawbone and chin, to find my mouth. I welcome them, index and middle, with my tongue, and they slide over warm, rough wetness. I feel myself pinioned between my own hands. So exquisitely vulnerable. You could break me with one twist.

My nails are deep enough to make me fear I will gag; and then, suddenly, like the sun dawning upon my face, I have the answer.

I know what I must do.

My doubt falls from me a sloughing skin, and with it all inhibition. I am utterly naked. I withdraw the fingers from my mouth, and turn them downward, to my harrowed loins. They slide over the back of my other hand, and the middle finger plunges inward to join its twin, but further, curling over its tip, and in, until its length is consumed. The position of my torso is awkward: leaning toward you, back extended but shoulders hunched, breasts hanging, one arm reaching further than the other.

Your turn is coming, dear reader. I smile distractedly at you — then shrug, and my rigid hands drive my carefully positioned fingers against my flesh. I gasp, almost losing contact with you as my eyes blink and only reluctantly re-open. It’s not nearly enough to reverse the waning of my orgasm — the thunder is but a distant thump — but I know that in denial, it will grow angry. I want that anger, and as I drive at myself once again with arms, shoulders and back, my smile fades around the set of my teeth.

There shall be no cheap clitoral fireworks. You’re fucking me now. I tilt my head to watch you like a fiend, willing the words into your mind as I convulse again, and then again. You’re fucking me because you want me. More. You want us.

I can see your hips twitch in sympathy. Yes — your body is my hands, driving against my desperate vulva. I don’t care how. Your own hands, your mouth; your strong thigh; your hot, seeping, soft-hard groin; straining against me, pushing, again, and again, and again, seeking to somehow cross the boundaries of bone and skin and be inside me, be me. Fuck. Me.

The horizon is black. My eyes must be showing my fear, but still your thrusts are slow, deliberate, maddening. Every flicker of light, every drumroll, fades completely before the next, leaving only that wall of shadow. Perhaps you are unsure, yourself, of what this could do to me. But you still read. You read, knowing that the story must end. After all, what is love but an ending?

At the word, love, a sheet of lightning falls around us. My mouth is wide, my breath and body still, but for a shudder that plays over the length of my spine, and echoes in my arms and breasts. Now I’m fighting against you, pushing down, holding you away. And the shock of thunder rolls into silence again. I’m leaning so close beside your phone that I can feel your breath on my lips.

Only words are needed, now. Of course, only words were ever needed. But they won’t be mine.

Oh no, dear reader. I said you would have your turn.

Now I whisper to you, words that only you can hear, because they are your words.

And you look at me.

Somewhere in some fantasy my hands have clenched tight. But instead of being consumed in fire, I find myself standing in a haze of light. You’re there, holding my hands; and on a warm wind comes your voice, telling me your secrets. It softens to a whisper as you reveal how you want the story to continue: how you want to be held, and touched, and how you want to feel. This is my orgasm. This is the perfection that I dream of, that I strive for.

When your words come to an end I smile, and make just one, small suggestion.

You nod acquiescence, and the music begins. And we dance.

I’m Cody Kmochova, and I write lesbian stories with a twist. If you liked this story, you might continue your journey with this one:



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Cody Kmochova

A curious product of Czech and Canadian heritage, British grammar school bullying, chronic sexual frustration, and the internet. ⚢