#WritingPrompts for #EroticWriters Submission: You Won! (#Session7:D3)

The Challenge:

#WritingPrompts for #EroticWriters (#Session7:D3)

#WritingPrompts for #EroticWriters (#Session7:D3)

Liam’s feet ached from the weight of his heavy steel toe boots as he pushed open the door to his house. He wiped the sweat from his lip and pulled at the stubborn buttons of his green jacket, struggling to kick off his boots at the same time.

He thudded through the house causing the cup in the cupboard to clink against one another and plopped himself carelessly in his favorite chair. The chair was a ratty old mess with a torn arm from a kitten he once had, but it was his favorite chair and he could never bring himself to get rid of it. He threw his feet out wide in front of him and flung his arms over the sides of the chair and let out a loud sigh, letting the moment wash relief over him.

After brief seconds of silence, he reached out his foot, pointed his toes and pushed the flat light on his Xbox. It was the one device he couldn’t live without and sometimes it was the only thing keeping him sane. “Welcome Liam” displayed on the screen and he immediately felt at home. He picked up his controller, it’s supple curves fitting perfectly in his strong hands and turned on the same game he always played.

The engine of his blue supercar revved as the countdown to his first race began. When he was racing, he liked to listen to classical music and Bach was blaring. He clicked the right stick once and then twice – first-person is how he liked to drive. He wished he could be inside of that car, feeling it’s engine purr beneath him, shifting through the gears as he raced through the streets of Italy. He was fully immersed.

His toes tightened as he rounded the sharp corners and he swayed slightly as he drifted through the turns. His eyes flickered about the screen taking in the other cars, his speed, the drive line, the checkpoints, his positioning and he held his breath as he made his way from last place to first. He’d simply raise his hand high in the air as “You Won” flashed on the screen.

He lost all track of time behind the virtual wheel and could wind up spending hours in his favorite chair going from last to first in that blue supercar blaring Bach. He’d spread out on that chair and be lost to the world.

They had always agreed that he’d get exactly one hour. One hour of blissful, mind-numbing gaming. Emilia always enjoyed this time, this first hour home. She’d read the last chapter of some book and steal glances at the man entranced by electronics. She’d watch his tired muscles twitch from the rumbling controller and would grin as he smiled at that impeccable stunt he just pulled. He’d glimpse her way and she’d casually lower her eyes back to her reading and his chest would puff slightly at the brief exchange.

The hour had passed and the book was done. Emilia almost never told him his hour was up. He worked long hard hours and if he wanted to play for another hour, that was fine with her. As long as at the end of the night, he wrapped his arms securely around her, he could do as he pleased once he got home. And since his blue Bach blaring supercar pleased him, that’s what he did. Emilia watched him race.

She couldn’t help but feel pride with every race he won. Every time he passed the other players, she would silently cheer in her chair. She’d smile widely as he unlocked one achievement after the other. The sound of his virtual engine buzzed in her ear and she swore she could feel the vibrations of his controller through her seat.

She licked her lips as she watched his jaw tighten through a particularly difficult turn. He was always so calm and confident through these races and those tiny twitches said so much. His bicep flinched as a black truck rammed into him and Emilia was mesmerized by the way the curve of his arm gleaned in the glare of the game. She sat forward in her spot and reached out to touch him.

He looked at her for a second and then carried on with his race. She ran her finger over his shoulder, down his bicep and rested it in the fold of his elbow. He smiled at her and said, “First place again!” and a smile stretched across her face. She lowered herself to the floor and slowly crawled around his outstretched leg. He watched her gracefully pad her way to him, his beautiful blue car crashing into the same tree repeatedly. “Don’t watch me. Play your game!”, Emilia giggled and he laughed out loud.

Emilia undid the buckle of his belt, tugging the leather from the metal clasp. She slid the button of Liam’s pants out of the hole and slowly dragged his zipper open. His car revved through the clink of another checkpoint and Emilia began working his flaccid penis out of the boxers bunched between him and her.

She took him between her lips, letting her mouth relax over him. He gasped at the warmth of her and stiffened slightly beneath her. She let out a gentle moan and Liam pressed the pause button before putting his hand through her hair. “Play your game”, she mumbled into the soft hair tickling her nose and he reluctantly put his hand back on his controller. She ran her tongue up the length of him and swirled it around the tip of him then engulfed him, her breath hot against his hardened cock.

She teased him with her lips, she tickled him with her tongue and she taunted him with her teeth. He wanted to touch her, needed to feel her and he lowered his hands onto her back, the controller still securely between his fingers. The rumbling of the device felt good on her back and he moaned at the sensation he could feel.

The vibration seemed to course right through her. He took his supercar offroad, the only place he was sure to make it rumble, and drove as fast as he could. Her lips seemed to quiver and her cheeks fluttered against him as she pulled off him only to consume him again. She let out a moan and his whole body tightened at the stimulation. “You Won” flashed on the screen and the controller slipped from his hands.


Mary’s Nails

Although this piece is not erotic in nature, it was inspired by one of The Erotic Writers Group #WritingPrompts for #EroticWriters. That prompt can be found here.

There weren’t many things that Mary was very particular about. She had preferences, of course, but not many things that she was very particular about. However, she could not, under any circumstances, go a day without perfectly manicured hands.

She was verging on obsessive and could often be found touching up barely chipped nail polish or moisturizing her hands. She spent an inordinate amount of time looking at her hands, inspecting them for “imperfections and impurities”, as she often put it. She had more tools for doing her nails than tools for doing her hair and she had four times more nail polish than make up or even clothes!

Eyeliner, mascara, blush, foundation – these things were the obsessions of vain girls. Nail polish though – well, that set the women apart from the girls. It was dignified, it was elegant, it was classy and to Mary, it was utterly beautiful.

Choosing how to paint her nails was always the hardest part of Mary’s day, and yes, she did it daily. It was highly unladylike to wear the same polish two days in a row and Mary never missed a day of changing the colors. Sometimes, she would paint her nails in one solid color and sometimes, when the mood struck her, she would decorate her nails elaborately with glitter or gems. You never knew what to expect on Mary’s nails, but you could be sure that it would be different.

Her routine was long and drawn out and watching her perform the ritual of caring for and embellishing her nails was mesmerizing in every way. It was more than just watching someone do their nails, because for Mary, it was more than just doing her nails. It was completing the whole package, the whole woman.

She would soak her nails, just a little longer than the tips of her fingers, in a dish filled with warm water. Every night she put different oils into the water to achieve different effects. Sometimes, it smelt like sterile lemon and others like gentle lavender and sometimes it smelt sweet like berries and other times woody like musk. She would gaze adoringly at her fingernails as they soaked up the oils, the water soothing her skin.

Softly, she’d dab her fingertips on a plush towel before coating them in a moisturizing cream that was almost devoid of any scent but felt like pure butter upon spreading. She worked the cream into the beds of her nails, along the lengths of her fingers, into her knuckles and around her wrists. She would watch her fingers and hands work around each other the entire time.

A flurry of tools were used at this point, although I’m afraid I have no comprehension as to what for. She would carefully select her tool. Skillfully, she would tend to the shape of her nails, dilligently adjusting each one to match the next. She would hold her hands close to her face and far away from her face, scrutinizing every swift movement the tool she was using made. Her nose would wrinkle ever so slightly if something was off, even just by a bit and a gentle blow on the nail would signal a job well done.

Next came the polish, which she chose with such consideration that it was almost painful to watch. It was never as simple as “Today, I’m going to wear blue nail polish”, it was an ehxhaustive internal debate about the proper shade of blue and the correct brand to use and whether or not to do one coat or two. She fussed over this part of the process and changed her mind often, spending much longer than one needed to on the choosing of the polish.

Finally, when she had picked the exact right shade made by the exact right company, she would turn on the radio, open the nail polish and set it out in front of her. Laying her hands flat out before her, she would take a moment to breathe very deeply, closing her eyes and visualizing her finished product – her soon to be masterpiece.

Confidently, she’d raise the brush from out of the lacquer and with her right hand begin to paint of the nails of the left. Starting with the thumb and working her way to the pinky, her strokes were delicate and steady, coating the nail in evenly distrubuted lines of color until the whole nail was the desired shade of her first coat.

Sometimes, she only needed one coat of nail polish. Sometimes, she needed two or three. It all depended on the shade and brand and she had spent so much time on her nail polish that she knew exactly how many coats she would need before she even began. She would still raise her nails for consideration after each and every nail was painted, the same critical eye scanning for any imperfection.

After she completed the nails of her left hand, she would raise her hand gracefully to her mouth and she would blow every so slightly on the wet lacquer. She’d hold her hand facing her and curl the fingers down to blow on the nails and then would stretch her hand out in front of her to inspect the color, the coating, the artistry. Then, she would move to her right hand.

Since she was right-handed, her right hand was always the hardest for her to paint. When she was a young girl she had struggled with this lack of dexterity and would cry to her mother that she would never be a real woman. Her mother would console her and finish her right hand and when Mary’s mother died, she had no choice but to learn to do it. She always thought of her mother with fond memories as she jutted her tongue between her lips to paint these nails.

And though her right hand shook as she made her strokes, the color came out just as flawlessly on this hand as her other and she often smiled to herself on the accomplishment.

When both hands were completed, she would shift them this way and that, ensuring every nail was done to perfection. She would look at her nails from every angle – upside down, right side up, from the side and in the reflection of the mirror. She would clean up any mistakes and when all was just right, she would lay both her hands flat on the table in front of her.

Exhaling heavily, Mary would feel a calm surround her. She would admire her hands until the polish had dried, feeling very proud of the work she’d done, creating the whole woman.