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Friday, October 17, 2014

In Praise of Real Sex (and Lingerie) - Jacqueline George #sex #adult #erotic #fiction #lingerie

In Praise of Real Sex (and Lingerie)
I like sex, and I like fantasy, but I don’t want to fantasise all the time. It’s all very well reading about sensitive but domineering men, with finely chiselled abs and dongs too fat to get your hand around but... At some point you have to put the book down and make love for real. With the real partner you love. Real sex in your real world.
If you want to do it well, the trick is to use the magic God gave you to blur the line between the day-to-day and fantasy land. It’s what I do in life, and it’s what I try to do in my books. Here is a story from Jacqueline and Another Sexy Year – enjoy!

“Aw, go on, honey. Dress up for me. You know how much I love it.”
There he goes again. I thought that would happen as soon as we got home early. I swear he could exist on hot dogs, beer, and me prancing around like a fading tart. He drives me nuts sometimes. As if I don’t have other things to do. I protest without much hope. “I’ve got stuff to do...”
“Nothing that won’t wait. Come on, be a good girl. I’ll make some nibbles for you.”
He is right, of course. There is nothing that can’t wait and if I stayed here instead of changing, it would be me making the nibbles. I just dislike being pushed into a corner.
“They’d better be good,” I say as I give up and make for the bedroom.
My frustration dissolves under a hot shower, and I start to plan. What have I got that I have not worn before? Or have not worn for a long time? There is plenty to choose from. That’s one thing I can’t fault him on. Most girls have more lingerie than they use, but my drawers are packed with provocative nothings. He just can’t pass a sexy shop without dragging me in and making me choose something. I think he gets as more of a buzz from his imagination on the way home than he does from seeing me dressed up. Jeez, I’m not as young as I was and no-one else would want to see a woman in her thirties running around dressed in next to nothing. I towel myself dry and go to my wardrobe.
All my lingerie seems to be black. He likes black. He says it is impossible to be naughty in white, and other colours are usually disappointing. I do have coloured ribbons and bows in red, gold, silver, but black is his colour of choice. I decide on stockings tonight. I am permitted tights to go out (only if they are sheer to the top and are worn without panties) but it is impossible to make love in tights, so they are not allowed at home. Tonight I do not feel like a basque and pull out a simple suspender belt with little red bows and rhinestones. It has a matching half-cup bra that I do not like. It shows most of my nipples which is fine, but my boobs want to overflow. Of course, he thinks it is wonderful and says it makes my boobs look like two honey melons on a tray. I put it on; it will not be uncomfortable for long.
What else? For the moment, I sit to comb out my hair and hook dangly gold earrings into my ears. I hang a cross around my neck because he likes the naughtiness of it, and start on my makeup. I have learnt to be blatant with makeup. I’m sure my mother would be disappointed in me if she ever saw me this way, but she is not sitting on our sofa waiting. He likes drama, and I do not hold back.
Panties? I think so, and fall back on a tiny thong that ties at each hip. He buys these by the dozen because they not only look good, but also because they turn in to a little patch of string and lace with a quick tug at their bows. I finish off with a wrap that would be a short bathrobe if it was not made of sheer lace. I am ready, and slip on a pair of heels. A twirl before the mirror, and I tap out into our front room. He is on the sofa, waiting.
“Where are my nibbles?”
He smiles and nods at the kitchen. He wants to watch and I pretend to be cross as I parade in front of him to the kitchen and come back with the tray. He has prepared crackers with pickles and ham, jalapeƱos and prawns. They look tasty as well as pretty. He is staring at my honey melons as I bend to put the tray on the coffee table. “And the wine...” he says.
I know he is staring at my butt through the lace as I go to the fridge. He likes it, and he especially likes it when I am in heels. I bring back a bottle of our favourite Mosel Reisling. He has the chance to stare again as I go back for the glasses.
I begin to sit beside him, but he stops me and draws me to stand in front of him, between his knees. With his hands on my hips, he looks up at me and says, “You are even more beautiful tonight.” He knows how to manipulate me. He unties the belt of my wrap and lets it fall open. He draws me closer to plant kisses all over my stomach and I am ready to melt. I bury my fingers in his hair. His hands are stroking my back as his kisses move up to my breasts. He pulls my breasts up from the bra to reach my nipples and I shiver as he teases them into hard points.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs, sitting back. He is playing with my breasts, gently twisting and pulling my nipples. “Perhaps it is time to eat,” and his hands slip down to the bows of my thong. It falls to the floor and he leans forward to kiss me there. He slips his tongue between my lips and the shock makes me push him away. I am too sensitive.
“Come and sit down.” He pulls me to the sofa, but he is not going to sit beside me. Instead he settles on the floor, between my feet. As we nibble and sip our wine, he is leaning against my thigh, stroking the other from knee to stocking top. I am not lady-like. I am open for him to stare at and I feel his eyes on my pussy. As I eat, he sets his wineglass down and runs his fingertip up and down my lips, stroking and not probing, gently pulling me open and exploring my clit.
He forces me to the edge of the sofa and he bends to kiss and suck at me. I lie back and let the orgasm come.
He is smiling at me. “Was that good? What would you like now?”
Now it is my turn. “Lie on the floor.” I take a cushion to put behind his head, and unfasten his trousers. His cock - my cock - is hard on his stomach, and its blind eye is wet and slippery. I squat over his thighs, resting on my heels and with my pussy brushing his balls. “You like looking at me, don’t you?”
“You’re exciting,” he says, “Especially when you are all dressed up.”
“Hmm. You’d fuck anything in black stockings, wouldn’t you? I could dress a man up in stockings and I bet he wouldn’t be safe.”
To my surprise, he does not say anything. “Perhaps I should put you in stockings. Shave your legs and your balls, and make you wear stockings too. Would you like that?” Again he does not answer.
Have I touched something? I store the thought away for the future as I shuffle forward and squeeze him into me. I am perched over him, steadying myself with my fingers on his chest. “Now, fuck me long and slow, and don’t you dare come until I let you.”

Read more about Jacqueline and Another Sexy Year

Jacqueline lives in Far North Queensland, on the shore of the Coral Sea. She keeps herself busy with her cats and garden, and by writing books - some of which are far too naughty for her own good. You can find out more about Jacqueline and her books at www.jacquelinegeorgewriter.com

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