NaMaMo: Day 9

Pic from Polaroids of Hot Guys Reading. You’re welcome.


It’s true, what they say: Reading really is sexy. There’s nothing hotter than seeing someone bent over a great book, that curve at the back of their neck, completely focused on the words on the page, oblivious to the rest of the world…

Today’s optional prompt: What do you read? Not just everyday. I mean to masturbate to. What turns you on and gets you off? Or maybe you’d rather watch someone else read? Or be read to? What kinds of words, scenes, descriptions, stories, really do it for you?

Page by page, coming between the covers.



About Shanna Germain

Writer. Editor. Game Designer. Leximaven. Geek.
This entry was posted in Dailies, NaMaMo and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to NaMaMo: Day 9

  1. Mat Twassel says:

    The Belt, the Tie, and the Root Beer Bottle

    Walking over to Bradley’s house with the things she’d borrowed for her sorority skit, the tie and belt and root beer stained underwear (she was wearing the shirt and trousers, also stained with root beer, and the guilty root beer bottle was safely bundled in the pants), Peg considered what kind of reward to give him. Since he’d masturbated for her, she figured, it was only fair that she masturbate for him, but whether to use the tie or the belt, she wasn’t sure. She could almost feel the silkiness of the tie slithering between her legs, between her sex lips. The belt would work that way, too, and somewhat stiffer, maybe it would be better. Then there was the bottle. Did she dare use that? The idea of penetrating herself turned her on, no question about it, but in front of anyone, especially anyone she cared about? Well, did she care about Brad? He was a nice boy. He seemed to like her. To trust her. Trust her—ha—and here she’d ruined his pants and shirt and underwear—probably. So maybe he deserved to choose: the tie, the belt, or the bottle.

    In his room, though, she forgot all about her plans. He blinked sleepily at her, and all she could do was set the bundle of stuff on his desk and kiss him. It was a real kiss, this time, not the sisterly peck of earlier, and it went on and on, even after they were in bed together, making love long into the night, long into the next morning.

    The skit props were not forgotten forever. Oh, the pants and shirt and underwear didn’t long survive, but more than a dozen years later the belt still fit Brad, and he wore it sometimes for luck, and Peg wore it sometimes, too, because she liked the way the buckle felt between them when they fucked, and the end hanging down like an extra tongue helped her come.

    The tie too came into play. Brad loved to watch Peg dance while wearing it and nothing else. It swayed alluringly between her breasts, it wrapped lovingly around his cock, and over the years it accumulated quite a few non-carbonated stains.

    As for the bottle, Brad kept it in his underwear drawer, but from time to time it got left out on top of the dresser or Peg’s bedside table. When their son Jeffrey was several years into his teens, and had come into his parents’ bedroom to ask if he could borrow the car for his date with Ellen, he happened to notice the bottle sitting on the bedside table, and asked, “What’s up with the root beer, Pops? I thought you hated soda.” Brad blushed harder than Peg had ever seen, and stammered, and said, “Ask your mother.” “Oh, that,” Peg answered, “that was something your dad and I sort of shared on our first date.”

    “Cool,” said Jeffrey, nodding sagely, and replacing the bottle where he’d found it. “The restaurant we’re going to is pretty posh. Do you think I could borrow a tie, too?”

  2. It begins as realism: I read every word, letting the narrative carry me along, lightly titillating my erogenous streaks as we go.

    Then comes impressionism: A sentence, a phrase, or perhaps a single word sticks to my mind like erotic paint; and though my eyes keep reading on, still that one moment resonates. If I stare back at it, it reveals itself to be just a brushstroke, mere words; but I look away and another wave of magic ripples through me.

    Now fauvism: I’m skimming now, too excited to read every word. I bounce from image to image, wildly snatching up the juiciest bits as I glide across the text.

    Finally, I explode into the abstract, as the page becomes a euphoric blindness of shapes and colors.

  3. sophie says:

    Twenty five years since I read the book–you know the one–
    She does it for me

    She’s in a cab, he’s asking her to take her panties off, but to leave her gloves on.
    Leave her gloves on––my hand already wants to rub my pussy–
    The curtains are pulled down she doesn’t know where she’s going, but he wants her to strip. She’s sitting bare-ass on the car seat–oh yea I’m wet already, I know where she’s going, I anticipate–
    They arrive at a private club, “get out” he says to her, she walks to the waiting man holding the heavy black door open to the dark hallway––I feel the cold sidewalk under my feet, the fear of the unknown when he closes the door behind me––
    She is brought into a room, and she waits bent over an ottoman, until men come in with masks and each will take advantage of her, train her in pleasuring them–I feel the ropes pulling on my arms, forcing my legs apart…..

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