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,
jalapeños 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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