Tuesday, April 9, 2013

"Serran's Fantasy" - short fiction

For some time I've wanted to start posting some short fiction here than I can then link to from my "Other Stories" tab, so this week I'm taking a little break from posting about Awakening 2 to bring you a short erotica piece called "Serran's Fantasy." In truth, this short story came about as part of a contemporary romance novel that I've put on the back burner while I honor my commitments to the Lilly Frank series, so if you see it in one of my novels later, you'll know why. I hope you enjoy it.

Note: The content of this story is not suitable for readers under the age of 18.

Serran's Fantasy
by Jeanie Grey

She awoke, wet and aching, well before her alarm. She’d been having a sex dream about Nick. The image of his handsome face, his sensual mouth hovering before her bare breast, lingered in her mind. It felt strange to fantasize about him in his own guest bedroom, but she was enjoying the sweet ache between her thighs and didn’t want to chase it away just yet. She’d let the fantasy play out just a little bit longer. Besides, indulging in some fantasy was better than running into the next room and jumping into bed with him. And so she focused on that image in her mind.

His mouth only inches away from her nipple, a nipple that aches for his mouth. A mischievous glint in his eye as he watches her wrestle with her desire, knowing she’s losing fast. His arm around her, holding her in place. Maybe she’s straddling his lap. She wears only her panties.

“You don’t want me to do this?” he asks, his tone all innocence, and then his tongue flicks out to taste her nipple. She’s been holding as still as she can, not touching him. It’s the best she can do; her desire has stolen the strength of will to push him away. But as his tongue caresses her nipple a second time -- this time in a languid, flat-tongued lick -- her hands go to the back of his head. Her back arches. Her fingers tangle in his hair. His fingers splay on her back as she grinds her crotch against his hips.

But no, not so fast. This was her fantasy; he shouldn’t be so in control. She rewound the scene.

Back to that first flicking of the tongue. And now his pupils dilate. His eyes widen in surprise a quick moment before fluttering shut. He hasn’t expected this, that the taste of her breast would affect him, would threaten to rip away his control. He tastes her skin again, flat-tongued and languid. Her hands grip fistfuls of his shirt as she fights with her last remaining ounce of resolve, knowing full well it’s useless.

But what’s doing her in is his sudden eagerness. That last lick was followed quickly by his mouth closing around her breast. He’s nibbling and suckling and can’t seem to help himself. So in control a moment ago, but her body intoxicates him. He’s not really thinking anymore, too caught up in taste and texture.

And then he’s burying his face in her neck, nuzzling her. He is writhing with need. The fingers of one hand pinch her nipple while the other hand presses against her crotch.

“Oh god,” he says. “I can smell you. You’re so wet and sweet. I want to taste you. Please.” His tone is almost desperate. His breathing ragged.

His middle finger slips into her underwear, and he finds her slick and hot. She gasps and moans. Her hips buck. He slides a finger into her as he presses his face against her neck, then uses that finger to tickle her clitoris. She is writhing and panting, digging her nails into his shoulders, and suddenly he too is bare-chested, and she can feel his smooth skin beneath her fingertips. She wants to lick his skin and taste salt.

“Say yes,” he whispers. She is beyond words, struggling for articulation. “Say yes,” he urges again. “Tell me I can taste you.”

“Nnnn--ooohhh god,” is all she can manage. The moan slips out of her the way his finger keeps slipping in and out of her. Slick and hot. Frantically, she pulls at his hair, digs fingernails into his neck, pounds his shoulders and back with her fist.

“Yes, Serran,” he whispers into her ear, his breath wet and warm against her skin. “Yes. Say yes, Serran.”

“Oh god,” she pants. “Yes!”

Then he has shifted and lifted her, and she’s lying on her back on the couch. He’s pulling her underwear off. And then his mouth is hovering over her. She can feel his warm breath there.

She looks down, wanting to see his head between her thighs. He is looking up at her face.

She watches his tongue flick out to taste her clit: a reenactment of his teasing her breast, only this time there’s no teasing. She can see the strain in his face as he fights for control. He tastes her again and his hips press into the arm of the couch.

Serran was completely lost to the fantasy. The ache between her thighs had graduated from sweet to insistent. She took off her t-shirt and underwear, no longer caring she was in his guest bedroom or whether he overheard. She had to have release.

One of her hands kneaded a breast as the other massaged her clitoris.

His mouth on her. The heat of it. His breath. His teeth and tongue and lips caressing and suckling, bringing her closer and closer to the climax.

As aroused as she already was, it didn’t take long. Serran cried out softly as she came. Drew it out as long as she could. When it was over, she rose from the bed and walked naked into the bathroom for a hot shower, leaving the evidence of her desire to dry on the sheets.


  1. Got my attention and never lost it.
    "But no, not so fast. This was her fantasy; he shouldn’t be so in control. She rewound the scene."
    Awesome. The narrator's awareness and direction of her own fantasy made the story for me.
    (feminist erotica, I think)

    1. Interesting observation, A.D. I hadn't even thought of it as an overtly feminist piece, but I see what you're saying: there's a sense, because of Serran's awareness of her ability to direct the fantasy, of her being an empowered, active participate, despite the relative passivity of her fantasy-self.