Little Black Feathers. Category: Long and Satisfying. Contains themes of lesbian sex, oral sex, digital penetration, dream sex and a succubus!
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I’m happy to confess that writing this piece was one of the most embarrassing, scary but also sexiest things I’ve ever done. And I’ve fucked in a lift (elevator), so that puts that into context.
A little while ago, my friend, the incredible Katie AKA Nympho Stim Toy and I made a little pact. We would each write a piece and use each other as characters. The only stipulation was that we consented to our imaginary selves being at the complete, lusty disposal of the other. We had no idea what the other would write; the plan was to let each other check the stories before publishing to make sure we were happy, then publish them simultaneously.
Despite the paroxysms of embarassment that we’ve both gone through in the writing process, it’s right to say that we’re both extremely overexcited – but a little bit terrified still – to be offering these stories to you. You can find Katie’s amazing piece here.
To make this version of Katie as authentic as possible, I was delighted to incorporate her tweaks to my dialogue so she would sound like herself and not like a provincial accountant.
The illustration is by me, but – you must understand – the real Katie is far more adorable.
I’m so grateful to her for allowing me to write her and for the incredible – and jaw-droppingly hot – story that she wrote me into. I blush every time I think about it. As I mention in paragraph three of this story, Katie is the most wonderful writer. I absolutely insist that you follow her here without delay!
Enjoy! Approximately a 20-minute read time.
Good art is rarely produced by committee. Great art, never. I appreciate that this is unlikely to be a controversial statement.
This was different: the aim was not to produce potential Booker Prize bait, but to collaborate on an erotic short story. As luck would have it, my potential collaborator was also a delegate at the writers’ conference I was attending, and I was excited, having never met her in person before. We were staying at the same hotel and, fate had decreed, were in adjacent rooms. The day’s seminars had been interesting, but I was febrile, distracted; I was thinking of the evening.
We ate together, and now we’re having a drink and chatting through story ideas. I’m laughing too; she’s funny, quirky and – let’s get it out there – My Type; slender, long dark hair, very bright and fun to be around. We laugh a lot, and when she touches my leg, my heart beats faster. I’ve told her before that, of all the erotica writers I read, her work is my favourite. Her writing voice is so distinctive, and she’s able to meld dark, yet achingly sexy themes seamlessly. There’s a humanity about it, too; an ability to honestly share her hurts in a hopeful yet poignant way.
I’m touching her leg now, warm, slim and covered in her tight red dress. She takes my hand and moves it down, placing it on her bare skin.
‘We can’t.’ I say.
‘Why not? We don’t have any ideas yet. Maybe it could give us some inspiration?’ That sexy invitation of a smile.
I laugh. I can’t help but laugh; she has a way of making me forget the inessential. I tell her this.
‘It’s my superpower.’ She replies.
‘Uh-huh. Look, it’s getting late. Shall we meet for breakfast and see if we can make some more progress?’ She pouts comedically and bats her long black eyelashes.
‘Oh, you’re no fun. You know I’m a succubus, right? I’ll visit you in your dreams and suck you, or something.’ I laugh, but there’s that ache. I want to invite her to my room, but I don’t.
Outside my door, she leans in, and I do too. Due to a miscalculation, which might have been deliberate, cheeks and lips don’t meet; lips and lips meet – combine – instead, and the impromptu kiss lasts altogether longer than it really should. We break, and my cheeks are burning. Fuck. I have to say something, and the only thing that will come out is:
‘Goodnight then…’
‘Bweh! If you’re sure.’
I close the door behind me and lean against the wall, puffing out my cheeks. I’m so turned on, and I want to open my door, go to hers and ask if we can pick up where we just left off. But I don’t. I shower, dry off, and go through my night-time routine: cleansing, moisturising, and a liberal amount of my favourite vanilla-scented body butter.
I’m imagining it’s her fingers, spreading the scented cream on my naked skin, slipping over my bum, my legs, up my calves and thighs, across my belly, swirling around my breasts, squeezing them, firmly. Her fingers: pinching my nipples and then, her slender hand snaking downwards, slipping between my legs. I change my stance to give her access, and her fingers are sliding through the hot slit of my cunt. I’m wet, of course. She drags her fingers back, slipping across my clit, and I shudder, moaning with need.
She sets up a steady rhythm, fingers slithering into my cunt then back, out up through the folds of my labia and running around and across my hard little clit, which is starting to spark. I’m jerking and gasping as my orgasm builds, a blooming, fizzing sensation that begins in my legs and swells outwards and up. My clit is a collection of crystalline shards, languidly exploding like hazy pink fireworks across my skin, moving up my torso. My nipples are tingling, and I pinch them hard with my free hand. Gasp follows moan as my climax crests, my legs trembling as I stand, alone, in my hotel room. Alone and wishing I wasn’t.
My solo session has done nothing to temper my lust, and I retire to bed and lie with a forearm across my eyes, trying to calm myself and ease into sleep. No chance. My mind is filled with unhelpful thoughts: What’s she doing now? Is she thinking about me? Does she want me to knock on her door?
Eventually, I must have fallen asleep, because I woke suddenly in the small hours. What had woken me was the thump of music seemingly coming from outside my door.
Rising to investigate, I saw that the crack of light at the bottom of the door was not the dull yellow-white light of a hotel corridor. This light danced with colours: pink and red. I slipped on the white towelling robe and opened the door. The corridor outside my room wasn’t there anymore, and I stood, perplexed for a moment, before stepping through.
I had stepped into what appeared to be a nightclub. I looked behind me and instead of seeing the door to my hotel room, saw the entrance to the atrium where I was standing. There was a bouncer at the door – a female one – with her back to me, but she wasn’t letting anyone in—anyone but me. There was a coat-check booth to my left. I slipped my towelling robe off my shoulders and handed it to the blank-faced girl on the other side of the counter. I waited for my ticket.
‘Nobody else here, love – you won’t need a ticket,’ she said in a bored voice. ‘Oh, except one other. She’s waiting for you at the bar.’
Now clothed in just my plain black nightdress, I padded timidly through into the club itself. There was music playing – music I liked. OK, I thought. This is weird, but so far, nothing to be stressed about.
I headed towards the bar at the far side of the club. The only other person in the room was seated on a barstool, her legs crossed. She was sipping on a drink through a straw – a highball glass full of crushed ice, mint, and lime. I recognised her from the moment I saw her.
I approached the bar with some trepidation and, upon seeing me, she turned and smiled. I recognised her all over again.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Welcome to your dream.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What d’ya think I mean? This is your dream, and I’m welcoming you to it. I like your dress.’
I looked down at myself. Plain black cotton chemise. Barefoot. She, on the other hand, looked like a Christmas stocking – possibly one prepared by Jack Skellington – dark and gorgeous and invoking a powerful urge to unwrap her. She wore a sheer lilac-coloured backless dress that clung to every contour of her slender frame and purple high-tops on her feet, which seemed, at first, an incongruous match with the liquid-sheer dress, yet were completely perfect and fitting for her. On her arm was a bangle – no, not a bangle – a black chain wound several times about her pale, waifish wrist. Her accents were all black: lipstick, nails, dramatic mascara.
In short, she was stunning. What really caught my attention, though, were the two little black wings protruding from her upper back, upholstered with downy black feathers that rustled softly with any movement; a gesture of her hands or the gentle rise and fall of her chest.
I’d never seen anything so utterly gorgeous in my life as those little wings. The surge of cute aggression was almost overwhelming.
‘D’ya like them?’ She asked, giving her shoulders a little shimmy to set the feathers rustling again.
‘I adore them, I said, entirely honestly. This is a dream, though, isn’t it?’
‘Well, yeah. As I said, welcome to your dream.’
‘What are you doing here? What’s with the wings?’
‘Well, if you remember, I did say that I’m a succubus and that I’d visit you in your dreams. So, hi, hello – this is that!’
‘I think I’m going mad.’ I said.
‘That depends on how you define madness. This is your dream, so anything that happens is based on your own desires.’
‘Oh, that’s rubbish though, isn’t it? What about nightmares? People don’t want those.’
‘Oh, no. They do. They just don’t realise it. It’s their subconscious working through some deeper issues and creating an environment in which to do that, if that makes sense.’
She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, flashing a sharp, black-polish-coated fingernail. ‘Wowee, I’m good! So anyway. Here we are, in your dream. Wanna take a seat and have a drink?’
She indicated the seat next to her and the martini glass on the bar, which I hadn’t noticed before, perfectly chilled and covered invitingly in frost.
‘Vodka martini. Twist of lemon.’ She said. ‘I’ve been paying attention.’
I sat and took a sip. It was perfect. Still, this was my dream, so I shouldn’t be surprised that my subconscious knew how to make a martini.
‘That’s true,’ she said, unnervingly reading my thoughts, ‘but it’s sort of my dream too. This is happening in your head, but I entered it, as I said I would, right? And before you start moaning about consent and stuff, I wouldn’t be here if your subconscious didn’t want it. The bouncer at the door that you came past? That’s your subconscious consenting to me being here.’ I looked over to the door and saw myself in a black suit. Bouncer-me caught my eye, gave a little wave and turned back to the task of keeping absolutely nobody else from entering my dream.
‘See?’ She continued. ‘The safe word is you waking up. If anything happens that you’re not comfy with, you’ll just wake, and all this goes away. So, if you follow the logic, what that means is anything I do here in your dream will be completely consensual ‘cause otherwise you’d just wake up. Make sense?’
I didn’t understand but decided not to argue. The martini was delicious, and so was my companion. I noticed that her nipples were hard through the sheer fabric of her backless dress. I was tingling again, all over this time. I’d been in denial. I knew that. I wanted her, and my subconscious had decided to play a little game of truth or dare with me. I would only bail and wake up if a line was crossed. The question was, where was that line, if it even existed?
She leaned forward, smiling with her gloss-black painted lips.
‘I think you should take the nightie off,’ she said. ‘You’re my prey – willing, of course, I think we’ve established that – and I’d really rather you were naked. Helps me to get into character.’
Reassured that this was a dream and nothing that I didn’t want to happen was going to, I lifted my bum off the stool, gripped my chemise at the hem, and pulled it over my head, dropping it to the floor beside me.
‘Gosh, that’s SO much better,’ the little succubus purred, sipping her mojito while she looked me up and down.
There was no place to hide now, literally. I had goosebumps with anticipation, and my erect nipples would have betrayed any attempt to deny that I was in a high state of arousal.
She put her palm on my thigh, and a jolt of electricity coursed through me. I’d got naked for her, so there was no point playing coy.
‘What now? I mean, I know what, but where?’
‘Well, fucking on barstools is a tad two thousand and fourteen for you, isn’t it?’ She asked, innocently. Not waiting for the answer, she put her drink down, slipped from the stool, parted my thighs with her fingers and stood between them. My hands slipped around her waist as our lips met. A considerable amount of pent-up desire was contained in that kiss. I pulled her against me as she held the back of my head. My hands slid downwards across the silky-smooth fabric to the gentle curves of her ass. I timidly rested my hands on her, the tips of my fingers exploring the crease between the top of her thighs and the curve of her bottom. That throb between my legs, deep within me: I fucking want this girl.
Playing it cool was never going to be an option, realistically, but now she was sealing my fate. Her hands moved from holding my head, and I leaned forward into her as her fingertips ran slowly down my shoulders and back, then tracked back upwards, coming around to the front and tracing lines up across the soft skin of my sides and belly – always so sensitive to touch. I felt like she was reading me as if I were written in braille; memorising my contours.
I let out a moan and arched my back as her fingers reached my breasts and began to explore; not an inch went untouched, and she seemed to give special care to the bits unloved by me: that mole, the little silver stretch marks just there. When her fingertips reach my nipples and begin to stroke and roll them, I feel like I could come just from her doing that. I really could come, you know. Fuck, I could. I have to refocus, somehow.
I pull at her dress and slide it up her thighs until it slips up and over her sweet little ass. My hands move across the silky soft skin, and this hand, now, slipping fingers down there, into that warm cleft, exploring. It’s her turn to moan, and I’m gratified by how responsive she is to my touch; arching her back and squeezing my tits more insistently. Our lips meet again, and the sensual explorations of earlier are replaced with a perceptible sense of intent and urgency. I move the hand which is not stroking the cleft of her arse and run it up the small of her back, upwards until my fingertips feel the base of her wings, clad in those downy-soft feathers. She shudders and pulls her mouth away.
‘It’s really important – vital, even – that we fuck right now.’
I can’t speak, so I just nod in a way that I hope conveys my agreement in a four-million-block-vote kind of way.
She takes my face between both of her hands and speaks again.
‘I want to be wanted by you. Like, just for the sake of it. I want you to need my body, to need to fuck me.’
I pull her into me again and kiss her hard. ‘Aren’t you a succubus? I ask. ‘Isn’t the idea that you use me like a fuck-toy, drain me, then move on?
‘That’s kind of the idea,’ she says, ‘but sometimes even a succubus needs to be objectified.’
Fortunately, as this is my dream, going on in my head and which nobody will ever find out about – it’s not like I’m ever going to write about it, after all, let alone publish it – I’m happy to show this adorable little demon that my urges and hers are completely aligned. There’s a seating area not far from the bar, which I hadn’t noticed before. My subconscious has been working hard behind the scenes. It’s furnished with a number of deep, plush sofas; more like daybeds, really, and it seems the obvious place to relocate to. As she said, barstool fucking is old hat.
I lead her by the hand, and soon we’re standing by the nearest sofa, fuchsia pink and inviting.
She unties, then kicks her sneakers off, and I slip the beautiful dress from her shoulders, delighting in being naked together with her.
The little wings take some negotiating, and the easiest option is to recline with her on top of me, which I’m very happy about. Every touch on her pale, smooth flesh seems to give her erotic pleasure, and no place more so than the wings, which I can hardly keep my hands off; if it weren’t for the other parts of her that I’m desperate to explore, I’d continue playing with them until my morning alarm wakes me.
I wind my arms around her and bury my face in her neck, breathing heavily because of what she’s doing. Her hand has snaked down my body and is now exploring between my thighs, which I’ve spread wide for her. My cunt is completely hers to do with as she pleases. What pleases her, in fact, is lightly stroking over and around my labia with her fingertips, driving me out of my mind. I squirm under the attentions of her fingers and fasten my mouth to hers again. She’s so obsession-inducingly kissable.
A thought occurs to me, which is, in the circumstances, remarkable in itself.
‘You’re not about to tentacle me, are you?
‘I mean, I can if you want?’ Almost instantly, she seems to grow, and her specific gravity shifts and increases, as if she were sucking in all the light in the room, consuming it. I’m simultaneously terrified and thrilled.
‘No! Well, maybe another time. I just wanted a bit of warning if my orifices were all about to be stuffed full of tentacles. Definitely keep going with the fingers, though. Please.’
Those fingers, which I’ve decided are another superpower of hers, are now slipping along the saturated slit of my pussy, then – ohfuck, ohyes – penetrating me, sliding inside and exploring. I’m not sure I’m ready for the tentacle treatment, but being penetrated by her is what I’m craving. I’m hoping that her mind-reading skills haven’t deserted her, and, of course, they haven’t, because the fingers in my cunt are making me lose myself completely.
Just when it couldn’t get any better, it does, because another cunning little finger is stroking that sensitive spot then – ohjesusfuckohyes – pressing inwards, lubricated by the copious fluids which are running out of me. When I came, shortly after that finger had buried itself in me right to the hilt, she pulled her head back and watched me. We held each other’s gaze as I came over her hand, gasping her name and all sorts of filth, and gripping her hips as I shuddered uncontrollably.
Once I had come down sufficiently, she slowly removed her fingers from me, and I grieved at it. Bringing her hand up to her face, she licked clean each finger that had been inside me, all the while holding my gaze. I almost came again watching.
‘It’s my turn now.’ I say. ‘I need to taste you.’ There was a brief discussion about the practical arrangements, with wing logistics being a factor. It was quickly resolved: I remained where I was, and she straddled me, lowering herself onto my mouth. The sight of her little pink slit, framed by the soft covering of hair, made my cunt ache again.
‘Hold yourself open for me.’ I demanded, and she complied, hovering half an inch above me while I craned and extended the tip of my tongue, outlining the contours of her, slithering through her wetness and dipping the very tip into the entrance of her beautiful cunt. The flavours of her carried from my tongue, and I rubbed my thighs together in delight as I lapped at her.
She began to breathe heavily and kneeled, her smooth thighs on either side of my head. Her exquisite pussy was now in full contact, and I set about my task like I was starving; plunging my tongue into her, then running it hard across her outer contours, swallowing, swallowing her. My hands were on her belly then up; I reached and placed my palms over her breasts, squeezing and caressing them. I felt her hand, reaching back, slipping between my wet thighs and now, oh FUCK, stroking me, thrumming insistently across my hard clit.
After we came – together I might add – she grinding herself onto my face, her fingers buried inside me again, she toppled off her perch and we wrapped ourselves around each other; arms and legs employed to press as much of our flesh against each other as we could. We lay, stroking, kissing and, I suppose, doing the things that lovers do, when they’ve just made love. Including falling asleep. Can one fall asleep when one is already dreaming? That’s what I did, in any case.
I stir as I gradually awake, groaning and stretching. Something tickly is in my mouth. I pick out a small black feather and drop it to the floor. Looking down at myself, I see another, stuck to my left tit with saliva or some other bodily fluid. I peel it off and drop it onto the hotel bed. I look further. There’s a track of red marks across and around my boobs, across my belly and down, across my thighs. It definitely looks as though I’ve been… nibbled. Fuck, I wanted to be nibbled again.
Fragments of memories and images slowly coalesce into something resembling a complete picture. As they do, I become aware of an ache within me, within my pussy, certainly, but elsewhere as well. ‘I want to be wanted by you. Like, just for the sake of it. I want you to need my body, to need to fuck me.’ She had said that to me, and I burn for her as I lie in my bed.
I rise, wrapping about me the towelling robe which, perplexingly, was not in the coat-check at a nightclub but draped across the end of the bed. I tie it loosely as I make for the door. I leave my room, cross to her door and knock. Almost immediately, it opens, and she’s standing there, naked. She cocks her head with a half-smile playing around the corners of her mouth.
‘Blimey. It’s a bit early, isn’t it? You ready for breakfast already?’
She holds my gaze for long moments. Eventually, I’m able to speak.
‘I don’t know what happened last night or how I woke up just now with little black feathers in my bed, but what I do know is I want your body. I want you. Now.’
You smile that warm smile, and I walk into your arms. Your breasts press against mine as I seek out your tongue and, slowly, we back up into your room towards your bed, shedding my robe on the way.
‘I loved the wings,’ I say, between kisses.
‘They’re my superpower,’ you reply with a giggle.
‘Everything about you is a superpower,’ I say, as I lay you backwards onto the rumpled cotton of your bedsheets. I press my naked body against yours as it rises to meet me, your arms around me and your breath hot on my neck.
‘I’m in awe, Katie.’ I say.
Love, Jaimie xx
Links and Stuff
I’ve put real people in my stories before – exes in the main. My girlfriend is very supportive of me writing erotica and running this blog, but this felt a bit more intimate and personal than usual. There was never any doubt in my mind that she’d OK the plan, but I was careful to check nonetheless.
I showed her the draft Katie sent me. Let’s just say that she loves it. Maybe a little too much…
***
‘My clit is a collection of crystalline shards…’
Writing about what an orgasm feels like is the most difficult thing for a writer of erotica. Can I get a big ‘Amen, Sistah!’ from my fellow eroticists?
Since taking up writing filth, I’ve had a number of wanks with the express intention of noting exactly what I’m feeling. Well, it’s not like I normally need an excuse…
I’ve never had your orgasm (but I’d LOVE to), so I don’t know what it feels like to you. My own varies depending on, oh, whether I’m being penetrated, where I’m being penetrated, the angle and object of penetration, which side of my clit is being stimulated and how, the mood I’m in, whether I’m drunk or sober, who I’m with, and a kaleidoscopic multitude of other tiny variables. It’s easier to describe the build than the moment of climax itself. Usually, I have a fizzy feeling of pressure building around my hips, but sometimes I get the fizz in my legs.
In my writing, I most frequently describe the feeling as fizzy or sparky because that’s the closest I’ve got so far, yet that isn’t the actual climax itself. Sometimes, the sensation in my clit borders on discomfort for a few moments – like prickly heat until the release comes. Hence, the ‘crystalline shards’ thing. It’s still not right, but that’s all I’ve got at this moment.
I’m drafting a blog post about this very topic, but writing it is, in itself, not easy. I hope to have it ready for you soon.
Whilst on the subject, although I do get very wet, I’ve never considered myself to be a ‘squirter’. Not in the gushing-fountains porn-star sense, anyway. Occasionally, when I’m really out-of-my-head turned on, I will produce a little involuntary flourish. In this story, that’s what happens when Succubus Katie brings me off. Because, well, you would, wouldn’t you?
2 thoughts on “Little Black Feathers”
I was bright red and my cheeks were in agony from blushing the first time I read this. I’ve already lost count of how many times I’ve read it but it’s not getting any easier to keep calm about. You know when you see a character in a film or something and think “god damn I wish I was her” while fanning yourself? It’s like that, except the character is me already, like you’ve just plucked my ideal self straight out of my head and laid her out in front of me, then stripped her naked and fucked her silly!
I don’t feel like I’ve been fucked, or maybe I do? I’m not sure, but I definitely feel like I’ve been subjected to something considerable and wonderful that’s left me short of breath and a little disheveled.
And I still can’t get over all the little similarities! The arms crossed over the face, the idea of ‘unwrapping,’ the drinks, the post-orgasmic cuddles, god and just seeing ‘my turn now’ made my eyes widen when I first read it. Honestly the fact that everything that happens to line up between them is entirely parallel thought just makes it all even hotter 😉
Also that the brief mention of tentacles put some *incredibly* vivid images in my head good grief…
Fuck and the way it shifts from third person to second person at the end works WAY too well on me, I had to go and lie down for a while.
And the PICTURE!! Holy fucking shit!!! Like what the fuck that’s MEE! She’s so gorgeous. Fuck Jaimie if you carry on like this I might just have to– not finish that sentence 🙂
Fucking beautiful.
And of course I mean the writing as well <3
Ahhh, the pleasure was all mine! This was the MOST fun to do, and my thoughts about your piece are the same – holy fuckin’ crap it’s so hot!! The similarities between them are just wild – like how the hell did that actually happen??
I couldn’t resist putting a reference to the tentacle piece you wrote. It’s been living rent-free in my head since Halloween! The idea of being completely stuffed full in that way… Oofff!
You are the best. And fucking gorgeous too.
Love ya
Jxx