About Those “Apple Thighs”

Posted on July 6, 2016July 16, 2016 by Jade A. Waters

Like many women, I’ve long harbored nagging body hang-ups. I’ve heard we all have at least one thing we wish we could change—weight, breast size, hip width, nose length, belly roll, ass curve, etc., etc. I’ve certainly had my fair share of these “one things,” things I either wished to vanquish or worked ridiculously hard to at least adjust somehow. I remember a multi-year stint as a child convinced I would get a nose job when I was 18, but it turns out, I was destined to grow into the full-sized nose I had from birth. I hated my hips for the longest time because I was born with those, too (really), and I spent a lot of my teen years with bruises on them from bumping into things since I somehow didn’t grasp how wide they were. Both these features have since balanced out, and while they’re no longer issues, certain “one things” have persisted over the years. The big one, no matter how fit I am or what I do, is the hereditary trait most of the women in my family share: the “dreaded apple thighs.”

Apple thighs, I’m sure you’re thinking. What in the hell are those?

Apple thighs, you see, are very distinct in shape. They’re not quite like their oft-dwelled upon cousin, thunder thighs, but a round, fleshy version that tapers at the knee. This taper is what resembles—in some odd way that my mother explained to me when I was a wee little girl—an apple. And we of the women in my family are doomed (yes, doomed) to have these cursed apple thighs, no matter if we are thick or thin, short or tall, curvy or straight. Those fuckers just happen, and despite this, in my family, they get a lot of negative attention and commentary. As I have learned, apple thighs are bemoaned and bad, and as beautiful as one of us may be, we’ve still missed out somehow by having these big ass curvy thighs.

Now, I’m going to be extremely straight with you today: I’ve worked with some real body image issues over the years, which ebb and flow and for which I’ve even sought a little counseling to better deal on occasion. I’m all over the #allbodiesarebeautiful movement because I believe in it through and through, and though I have my wavers in spells, deep in my heart, I know these apple thighs are part of me and something that, most of the time, I’m okay with. But when I have my doubts—about them, or any other part—I have to think about the whole picture. I have to come to terms with who I am and love me just as I am.

That’s why, of all the stories I’ve released into the world, “Apple Thighs” is one of my most cherished pieces. It’s out now in Rachel Kramer Bussel’s Begging For It: Erotic Fantasies for Women. I wrote it one night after a particularly grueling day having heard another family member snigger at those “pesky apple thighs”; I’d come home and taken a peek at them in passing, and I thought the poor things needed a break, once and for all. I’d already had a few years in the circus, where I loved to dress up wearing leotards, tights, and thigh-high stockings—which I intentionally used to flash my thighs—so I’d had a good wave of embracing them. I’d even discovered how handy they were in my pole classes (because grip, hello). Still, I felt like this positive acknowledgement of their existence needed to be more drastic.

I needed to write a character who recognized her body for what it was and not only accepted it, but learned to love it, right there in the course of the story.

From that, Cassie and her post-counseling bus ride was born…and I went one step further, too, not dooming her with my apple thighs—but giving them to her as a gift.

Cassie is a bit down on her luck when we meet her, but on her bus ride—with the perfect co-passenger—she has that moment I think all women with that “one thing” need: the epiphany in which we realize that yes, we are who we are, and yes, we are just perfect as is.

So without further adieu, I’m delighted to share an excerpt of “Apple Thighs” with you:

Cassie pressed her palms onto her thighs. She’d been blessed with smooth, unblemished skin most of her life, so even stocky as they were, her thighs had the consistent, unmarred fair coloring that covered the rest of her body. As the bus continued its roll down the city streets, the flesh of her thighs shook. She had thin calves and narrow knees, but above them her legs curved out to a substantial width. In truth, she had a lot of muscle in those thighs from years of dancing and running, but they were definitely the outliers from the rest of her body.

She pursed her lips and ran her hands back and forth, grazing her skin. She could rest on her tiptoes to keep her legs up so that her thighs didn’t appear so wide, like two sturdy pancakes smashed out on the seat. But she kind of liked the way they looked. They carried her. They made her womanly. Plus, she was able to outrun all the women in her former running group—big, strong apple thighs and all.

Cassie fanned her fingers over her thighs and rubbed her palms along their length again, sighing. Her skirt caught on her wrists as she glided her hands up, crumpling it at the top of her thighs. She peeked at the seat across from her. Two older women sat there, the one by the window staring out and the one on the aisle reading a book. They didn’t notice her. No one in front of her would see what she was doing, either. She turned her head, checking out the seat behind her at a diagonal. No one there.

But the man behind her cleared his throat.

Cassie flattened her skirt and shoved her hands to her knees, her face burning as she whipped it forward.

Oh, fuck.

Had he seen what she was doing, mindlessly stroking her thighs?

More importantly, was she insane, rubbing her thighs like that in public?

As if in answer, the man lifted himself in his seat. Cassie held her breath. The entire bus was frozen in time, the driver watching the road, and the other occupants reading books, listening to iPods, or chattering about the news. But this man slid around the seat and sat beside her, not a word coming from his mouth as he peered forward.

She turned her head slightly, examining him from the corner of her eye and realizing she’d seen this guy before. She’d even smiled at him once, the last time she’d been stuck on this bus. He was handsome, his face peppered with the tiny hairs of one who didn’t shave everyday, and he had hazel eyes that shimmered thanks to the sun streaming through the window beside her. When she saw him a few days ago, he’d been wearing a baseball cap—but now his sandy blond hair was loose around his ears, making him look a tad older than he once had. Mid-thirty, late thirties…Cassie couldn’t tell. But she could tell that he was some sort of painter, his tee shirt and jeans always speckled with dried paint. Today he wore a spot of fuchsia on his right thumb and a streak of red along his left wrist.

She straightened her head again, her nerves on high. Had he seen what she was doing?

She felt his scrutiny on her then, and a chill fogged her body. When he spoke, his voice came out a deep bass that prickled her skin.

“Do you mind if I sit here?”

Cassie shook her head, her fingers latched around her knees. Her legs suddenly felt hugely exposed, though she did choose to wear this skirt in public, and apparently had no problem touching her thighs a minute before.

Idiot.

“It’s a better view,” he said.

Cassie bit down on her tongue.

Maybe he meant the window. Or being one seat closer to the front of the bus.

Or maybe she really was an idiot.

“Yeah,” she said, her heart racing. “Sunny outside today, isn’t it?”

The man raised an eyebrow and smiled. Cassie broke out in goose bumps. She hadn’t made an ass of herself on this bus, had she?

She willed herself to look back at him, wondering if her thighs had turned as crimson as her face—because wow, was she blushing, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. The sensation ran the entire length of her body in under a second.

“It is. But that’s not what I was talking about.” He gazed directly at her thighs, then back to her face. “Please don’t stop on my account.”

Cassie didn’t move.

The man kept grinning at her. She was surprised she didn’t find it uncomfortable, or awkward. In fact, she shifted slightly on the bench, keenly aware of how hot it was at the apex of her apple thighs.

“I…uh…”

Cassie pinched her lips together. Great, now she sounded like an idiot, too.

The man scooted forward in the seat, enough to block her from the view of any other passengers. He was tall, and with the muscles in his arms alone, it was clear he was strong beneath his jeans and tee shirt. She could do whatever she wanted right here in this seat, and no one would be the wiser.

Cassie shook herself. Was she actually thinking about this?

The man put both hands on his thighs, then tilted his head toward her legs before dragging his hands in an upward motion.

He was modeling what he wanted from her.

Her stomach knotted but her heart thumped in her ears. His smile was so sweet, so warm. So encouraging.

She slid her hands up her legs, halting them mid-thigh. Her fingers were shaking.

Now the man cupped his thighs, and Cassie did the same.

Beneath her panties, her groin swelled with heat. The flush running through her body was like a teasing caress, and she gripped her thighs again. He met her eyes and nodded.

“May I?” he asked.

***

I hope you enjoyed that teaser of “Apple Thighs,” included in Begging For It, Erotic Fantasies for Women. You can find out more about this anthology from Cleis Press on its Tumblr Page. It’s edited by the fabulous Rachel Kramer Bussel, and is available now in paperback and in a few more days on Kindle. I hope you’ll please check it out!

Happy reading, and may you love your apple thighs, too. 🙂

XX,
Jade

You Say You Want to Cook for Me

Posted on May 24, 2016December 26, 2016 by Jade A. Waters

You say you want to cook for me.

You say it while we lie there, naked, your body wrapped around mine and your fingers coasting along my forearm. Your lips are buried in my hair, and you’re breathing me in, quiet. You’re hard behind me, nudging up against my cunt. I want to cook for you. Light up your face with something good, tasty.

You say you want to travel the world together, to venture places you’ve never been. That I’ve never been. We can see every sight there is to see and discover things together. We can get lost in the Bermuda Triangle. Your fingers lace with mine, your breath heavier now. I want to see the world with you. Disappear with you.

I want to make you happy, you say.

Later, you’ll roll on top of me, body heaving over mine, lips pressing, suffocating. Rough. You know I like it like this, the way your entire body can shift me up, how you can bury yourself so far in me I think I’ll break. I want to make you come. I want your sighs, your shudders. I want you, always you. When you finish and I’m trembling, you’ll shove your fingers in your wake, thrusting them in the heat of your come to fill me against walls too tender and weak. I’ll be moaning, whimpering. I want you to come for me, forever. I want everything you have.

I want to own you, you say.

When I have surrendered, exhausted, blissed, you’ll curve your fingers around my neck. Your eyes lock with mine, two dark holes staring over me. I want your life. I want you. You are mine.

I’ll fight you. I always do. I’m twisting, writhing, crying against the novelty of our crimson, satin sheets. But my body is caught up in you, in the fingers of your other hand slipping inside every hole. Your teeth gnash my breast, and your inhalation reminds me who you are, what this is. Who I am.

I am yours.

You will fuck me like this until I come again.

On the balcony, you open up my robe. Your prying fingers are in my slit, with the neighbors right there on their adjacent patio. I don’t want them to see, don’t want them to hear how you speak to me. Not when you’re like this. But I want them to know how you love me. I want them to know I own you, body and soul. I’m quivering at the press of your fingers, hating that I love it when you do this. Hating you.

Shadowed image of naked woman curled in ball

Belikova ©123RF.com

Besides, don’t you want them to see you happy? you say.

After dinner, you brush aside my hair. Your fingertips graze the curve of my shoulder. When you kiss the back of my neck, it is warm and gentle. Tender.

But you are none of these things when you bend me over the oven. Your nails scratch at my thighs before your fingers dig inside.

Why do you make me crazy like this? you say.

I can hear your words over my utterances. They are raspy, angry things that make it hard to believe your fingers still feel this good. This is our once-whispered vacation—you inside me. My skirt is over my ass and you are fucking us away. Thrusting deep enough to push off my sanity, to make me forget.

I want to love you, you say. I want to, but I can’t when you’re difficult like this.

There are tears in my eyes when I come. You’re finished not all that long after, your semen dribbling along my thigh. I can feel it tracing an ugly path down to the inside of my knee, but I don’t move—not when you’re like this. Not as you button your pants, and wander off to grab your keys.

I think I want to leave you, you say.

I still haven’t moved once I hear your car, a rumble off and away in the distance. My fingers grip the burners on the stove, and I watch the white of my knuckles spreading over the flush of sated skin. Your come has made its way to my ankle, now, and I keep wondering if this could have gone differently.

If maybe I’d never said yes when you said you wanted to cook for me.

Erotic Fiction: Fishnet Queen

Posted on April 13, 2016December 29, 2016 by Jade A. Waters

We called her the Panty Princess.

Every party we held, she’d show up with that huge smile on her face, wearing an adorable little frock that skimmed the tops of her thighs. She was a costuming fiend, really, because Laney loved any opportunity to dress up. And whenever she had the chance, she’d flash us the panties she’d made that afternoon, or the weekend before, or any old time—she had a gift with lace and bows, satin and cotton.

I know everyone else loved her attendance at our costume parties for her sweet words and the quick glimpse beneath her skirt, her sex adorned so tastefully by her latest creation. No one noticed the marvelous thighs and hips she had around that panty peek, nor the way she dressed them beneath the black strip of velvet draped over her nakedness, or the pink swatch of silk clothing her mound. But for me, that was the true show. She bundled herself in two layers of tights, the bottom one nude and constricting, and the top a coarse fishnet mesh that hugged her legs. Along the trim of her panties, the tights teased me, taunted me, and every time she’d lift her skirt and show us her ingenuity, I’d feel a rush of arousal claiming my groin.

Laney knew this too, I think, her smile greeting each of our friends at our monthly club gatherings in the woods before she settled her gaze on me.

Image of woman playing with panties over fishnets

Denys Siryk ©123RF.com

“Do you like them, Archer?” she’d ask.

Our friends were generally too busy commenting on her masterful use of thread to notice that, or the fact that she always wore her panties on top of her tights to better showcase them.

“You’re such a Panty Princess, Laney!”

“How do you make all of these?”

“Make some for me!”

“And me!”

But her eyes were locked with mine, always, with mine.

“All of it,” I said, my voice a hiss broken by the surge of longing that swarmed my limbs, “is lovely.”

And Jesus, it was. She was.

Tonight’s party had gotten a bit rambunctious—twenty of us frolicking and dancing, drinking like the idiots we were to celebrate nothing in particular except our hedonistic desire to run about the woods. The crisp night air bit at me, urging me, and Laney twirled around with all of our friends, her skirt lifting to show the crescent of an ass cheek.

They loved the panties she flashed, but I couldn’t stop staring at those fishnets.

Eventually, the wind shifted. Laney paused her dancing to grab a beer from one of the coolers, and I spun to watch her go. She didn’t stop at the cooler. Instead, she grinned back at me and lifted the edge of her skirt. She was forever the tease—no one to my knowledge had ever taken her out here, only gossiped like schoolboys and girls over the endless flashes of those panties and how good she would feel beneath one of us some night—so I held firm in my stance.

But then she beckoned me with her finger. Her coquettish grin turned higher, and she lifted her skirt to reveal the top of one round, perfect ass cheek held firm beneath a layer of tights and fucking fishnets.

“Come play,” she mouthed.

There are moments in your life when you’re faced with a split second decision, the outcome of which you may remember forever.

This was mine.

I followed Laney into the woods, leaving the wild calls and frenetic dancing of our group behind. The moonlight was dim enough that I could only make out her shape—the short dress curving along her body, then flapping over her ass. All I really saw were her legs cupped in tights and fishnets. Each time she wore this same combination, the tiniest mesh weave in the darkest nude, kissing every inch of her thighs and knees before disappearing into her knee-high, lace-up boots.

“Hi,” she said. The word was a gasp of air as she fell back against a tree. One single word of invitation, and in the darkness I made out the gleam in her eyes.

She fingered the hem of her skirt. Lifted it. My breath lodged in my throat. I eyed the v that covered her tights before focusing on the stretch of fishnet from her hips down her supple, curvy legs.

“Is this an invitation?” I asked. Two years of watching her, of ogling those fishnets, of seeing the smile on her face when I stuttered.

Laney swayed her knee back and forth. She hooked a thumb under the top of the panties, pulling them down a few inches on the side to reveal she wore nothing but tights beneath. Tights that rested directly against her cunt, which I wanted to bury my fingers in.

She raised her eyes as the panties fell to the ground.

“What do you think?”

The fabric mashed her lips, the tights and fishnets clutching her pussy.

I might have been panting.

I put my hands on her thighs, the rough threads grating like sandpaper. Laney nodded as I ran my palms up to her hip, then back down, over and over again.

“You like the fishnets.”

“They’re so rough.”

“Dancer’s tights,” she said. She closed her eyes as I slid my hand to her crevice. The fabric was soaked there. I followed the curve of her mound, front to back, the pads of my fingertips rolling over the rope-like fishnets and the slick, gritty tights beneath. My cock lurched in my jeans.

I hooked a finger in the netting and yanked, and Laney’s eyes popped open.

“I paid a fortune for these.”

I slipped the fingers of both hands between her thighs, ripping the hole wider. Rubbing against the wet gusset of her under tights. Laney moaned and tilted her head back against the bark. I could have kissed her then, but we both knew what I was after.

I dropped to my knees. I tore a hole in the bottom layer of tights, exposing her to the air. She smelled of roses and musk. I curled my hands around her thighs again, savoring the friction of the tights. I ran my tongue up her left thigh, then her right, and I groaned at the numbing, chafing fabric. Then I stared at the hole I’d made at her crotch. The edges of the fishnets were like a broken grate, no longer shielding her from me. Runs split the tights beneath and stretched down her thighs in long, jagged streaks.

“You owe me twenty-five bucks, Archer,” was the last thing I heard her murmur when I snaked my tongue between her legs to taste her swollen, sweet clit. I kept my hands gripped tight on those fishnets, caressing the fabric while I delved my tongue inside her, then back up to her clit. Soft whimpers spilled from her throat and her torn fishnets grazed my cheeks.

In the distance, our friends danced around the woods, their voices traveling on the breeze while Laney clutched my head and drew me closer. Her moans became cries as I lapped at her, my hands fondling her thighs, numb from the rub of those fishnets. And when Laney came for me, she blinked with the most startled of expressions on her face.

“Holy shit,” she whispered.

She was the Panty Princess no longer.

She was my Fishnet Queen.

Erotic Fiction: “Everything”

Posted on November 3, 2015November 3, 2015 by Jade A. Waters

He was everything. Everything. The flight of my soul, the fire of my heart.

It’s all I can think as I bury my head in his shoulder, bearing my teeth to his skin, feeling the wild bursts of his pulse as I rock above him. His breath tumbles out into my hair, quiet gasps that tell me how much he needs this. How much he needs me.

Just as I need him.

“You,” he says.

The word breaks on his lips as I arch, sliding farther in his lap, taking him deeper into me. There is no sound in this room but ours, no thought between us but this, no awareness of anything beyond the sweet thrust of his cock as his fingertips dig into my back and steer me closer, like he’s never forgotten me.

I trail kisses up his chin and over his mouth. He sucks my lip between his teeth, his eyes open as he thrusts once, then again. That look, that one, says I will never leave you again. I will never let you go. I can feel it inside as I whimper and slide against him, feel it in my heart as his fingers tease their way up my flesh. He’s so deep inside I swear he’s penetrating my very soul, and I tilt back my head with a throaty moan.

I close my eyes then and he twines his fingers in my hair, staying deep despite his movement to lay me on my back. Our bodies are one on this mess of sheets. He wasn’t supposed to come here again, but then our life together had always been a disaster of shouldn’ts and shoulds.

But deep down, we knew what it was supposed to be.

“You,” he growls.

His kisses find my face as he presses closer, and our stomachs grow slick at the meshing of our bodies. The sway of our hips amplifies, a rapid pounding so intense I couldn’t see straight if I tried. And it’s with this motion—teeth locking on my earlobe, fingers clawing at my breast and down between us, grazing the swollen nub of my clit as he drives inside—that I can feel myself flying like I did, then. He leans back, watches as I gasp and moan, my lips numb as the spasms tear through me, making me shake uncontrollably as he continues to thrust, and thrust.

To love me like only he can.

When I finish shuddering, he releases the loudest groan. It’s the surrender that tells me he needed me then, now, forever. He comes inside, filling me with heat, and as we lay there it’s clear we’ve found our peace again.

“Always, you,” he pants.

His kisses are soft like raindrops from the corner of my eye down my cheek.

“And you,” I say.

Because he’s everything.

Erotic Fiction…With Aura

Posted on September 22, 2015December 29, 2016 by Jade A. Waters

In the last three weeks, I’ve been through two doctor phone appointments, five live doctor appointments, one MRI, several blood tests, and even one full-fledged panic attack. To say it’s been a little bit of a roller coaster is an understatement—but the good news is, there’s nothing major wrong. Yay!

So what is going on? Well, according to the fabulous neurologist I saw last week, my migraines have morphed into something really goddamn special. I am fortunate in that I don’t generally get the nausea and hammer-pounding headaches of most traditional migraine sufferers; unfortunately, I get all sorts of weird sensory problems instead: depth perception issues, tingling and/or numbness in my arms, mental disconnect, vertigo, occasional vision problems, and sometimes, the headache. This time, however, I developed a bizarre numbness in my cheek—and later, the entire side of my face—paired with completely blurred vision in one eye, which led some doctors to believe I might be having a stroke. (That would be the day the panic attack struck, by the way.) I am thrilled to say that isn’t the case, but it does appear a chronic basilar/sensory migraine took residence in my head for over three weeks—complete with all these fun new symptoms!

I’m getting to a point here, I swear (migraine brain fog is real, people). When I mentioned to the neurologist that I’ve been okay writing in short spurts in the morning, but everything else is sending my head into a spin, he suggested I stop the cycle of migraine with a heavier duty NSAID and a few days off (and yes, I totally followed doctor’s orders there). However, when I asked him how migraines could literally change overnight and cling, desperately, in ways they never had before, his response was the most poetic and frustrating thing I could possibly have heard:

“The life of a migraine is a mysterious and beautiful thing.”

I totally laughed that off. But Saturday morning, as I lay tossing and turning under my covers in a groggy, migraine-clouded and dreamlike state, I was thinking about the bizarre tingles raining over my brain that didn’t hurt at all, but that were making things really fuzzy and weird.

And suddenly, I had this spark of an idea:

What if a person could embody the essence of a migraine? What would she be like, as a lover?

It took me a while to drag myself out of bed to type this one up, but the story below is what happened as I sat down to imagine the mysterious and beautiful life of a migraine.

I hope you enjoy it.

XX,
Jade

AURA

Katarzyna Białasiewicz ©123RF.com

She comes into his life like a comet—a fiery bolt arcing across the skies, haloed and crashing down into the open meadow of his existence. She seems a quiet blip, at first, awakening beneath the sun on a lush bed of grass. She stretches herself out against it, her long, pale body blinding in its innocent beauty. Her fingers clutch the earth as she shimmers in the light, and she sighs at the caress of this world, this new place that surrounds her in warmth.

Instantly, he is drawn to her, knows her otherness and craves it. He takes her in as she begins to bloom, as she shows him that she is, in fact, no innocent at all. She is all curves and smiles, arms that encircle and hold, words of sweetness that tend to him just as he tends to her—but behind her glistening, loving eyes, there is something else. It is furious like the comet she rode in on, unbounded and wild, and it lures him forward in the heated swarm of his mind. It shushes away his fears when she kisses his cheeks, his forehead, his mouth, and when she tugs at his clothes and limbs, she draws him further into her sphere.

In the dark of night he invites her to his bed, for though she is unsurpassed in her beauty, it’s her mystery that has him tangled in her. He finds himself beneath her in the light of the moon, his breath stolen as she rocks above. Her hips grind in swirls of chaos, her hands possessing his skin, her kisses speeding his heart. The way she moves sinks into the chasm of his soul. She seeks all of him—not just his length buried within her, but the depths of every crevice of his being, every utterance of his heart, every glimmer of his mind as she writhes against him and his sheets. Her movements become glorious and pained, ripples on the surface of a once-placid lake when the cries spill out from her lips. He sees her then as what she is—nails sharp over him, and teeth cutting his skin in jagged lines. But her whimpers are all he hears, and they seize him in their rock together, taking him beyond every sensation he knew before.

When she collapses over his chest, they lie in silence.

His days are fraught with tension in his efforts to please her. He bathes her, feeds her, loves her through the pinch of her lips and the furrow of her brow. She will not speak, and she moves like a streak of lightning—stubborn and sharp, illuminating their path and yet setting him on edge, pasting goose bumps on his skin like stars against the deep black sky. He thinks, perhaps, the end approaches, that she is sparing them both the hurt to come, soothing the quiet that will fill his life until she falls to the surface of his earth once more.

They dance, this time, before bed. She swings him out in vibrant bursts, then yanks him close. She grasps him so tight his breath slips from inside and out into the vortex of the room. Her heat builds, scorching, suffocating. Blinding. He thinks as they spin, around and around, how much he loves and hates her. How he craves her, needs her. In her laugh he finds the answer to existence, a blurry question that leads to more questions but that, somehow, lets him settle beneath her in the way she commands.

He imagines curving his fingers around her throat, squeezing her away to nothingness—but she has coiled herself around him so tightly, he no longer knows where she ends and he begins.

When she fucks him again, her moans shatter mirrors and rattle pictures off the walls. Her gasps vibrate the room, the bed, the air trapped inside him, stifling in its icy slide against the innermost parts of his lungs. But he is enraptured with the thrust of her hips, with the sweat breaking over his chest when she sucks the tips of his fingers, with the shift of her body over him in the moonlight, even as he feels himself slipping away with her. He is losing his grasp on what is real, what is good, and when she comes, her cries and shudders render him frozen. She keeps arching until he erupts in her, and every last drop of him becomes hers.

He is still when she curls behind him, tucking herself close to his back. Her hands trace over his side, fingertips painting electric currents that circulate in his limbs, up into his face. She kisses his shoulder, then his neck. And though he cannot move, he feels her words when she breathes them into his ear, a shock of sound bursting inside his soul.

“I love you,” she whispers, “and I’ll see you again soon.”

In the morning, he wakes on damp, rumpled sheets. The evidence of their love has scented his skin, and the pillowcase beneath his cheek. He breathes in clean air, his air, and slowly lifts himself from the bed.

She is gone.

Erotic Fiction: “Why”

Posted on September 2, 2015December 29, 2016 by Jade A. Waters

I don’t know why I still want you so badly, but I do.

We are hip to hip, chest to chest, our bodies shifting like pendulums on these rumpled sheets. Your fingers clutch my hair, tugging back my head, exposing my neck to the quick nips of your teeth and the tender glides of your tongue. As you thrust inside, I know this is familiar, this is us, this is what it was—a tight embrace, a heated surrender. You’ve been inside me one hundred, one thousand, one million times. Loving, breaking, and ruining me.

Yet I’ve never stopped wanting you.

Why Image; Katarzyna Białasiewicz ©123RF.com

The air burns with the scent of dwindling candles and our sweat, some of it beading down the sides of your face. You tug on my hair again, forcing me to see you as I always have—a crescent face of hunger, a demanding pine for this. You arch up your hips, searing into me, sinking so deep I cannot help the flit of a groan that spills from my lips as my mind tumbles with the questions I can’t stop asking.

Why do I want you like this? How can I still?

The thoughts are fleeting, shushed away with the sucking sound of your mouth on my neck. You take fevered laps at my skin before you catch my lips and gnaw them, your eyes wide open when you rock me in your lap.

“Baby,” you say.

I tremble atop you, my breasts lifting and falling with our motion, my nipples standing for you. Always for you. Every inch of my flesh burns with desire, and yet dances with goose bumps that remind me of what we are doing, this stolen moment we should never have shared. But to say that is to deny the truth. To pretend I can’t feel the swell of emotion I get from the look in your eyes, the rasp of your tongue, and the way your hands slide down to my waist, pulling me off you and around so abruptly I’m startled to be on my knees. My face presses into these sheets, and your cock is buried in my cunt before I can exhale the desperate puffs of air that have become the only noise I know to make with you.

“Fuck, fuck…” you say, plunging inside. Your hands grip my hips, yanking me back onto you, deeper. Harder. How can you always find me, deeper? Your thrusts grow more violent, hungry and greedy like the wet walls of my cunt that ache for you.

Forever, for you.

I curl my fingers into the sheets. My body is no longer mine. The slam of your pelvis against my ass is so strong the sound is louder than anything—my whimpers, my thoughts, my need for you.

My love.

“Come for me,” you growl, and I hate that you can command me like this. That you’ve recognized the shake of my body, the flush of my skin, the way that, even with you taking like this, I am giving to you. I’m yielding to your thrusts, to the grind of your fingers on my clit like I love, pinching it as you push, and shove, and fill me with everything you have.

When I come, it is with you.

You are so far in I know you’ve reached my soul, and your arms curl around my waist. You press your cheek to my back as we huddle there, quivering. Gasping. I release the sheets, my fingers sore, my body aching from how hard you’ve fucked me. My mind soars, but I am tangled like these sheets, lost in this mystery of us.

We don’t move for seconds. Minutes. It could have been hours. I think we both knew what it was, what it would do to the two of us.

And it isn’t until you steal yourself away, slipping from my bed and into your clothes, that I ask myself again.

Why do I still want you so badly?

Flash Fiction: “Kiss of Fate”

Posted on May 20, 2015May 23, 2015 by Jade A. Waters

It was a simple move, really—the sweep of his hand over my hair. Down, then repeat, fingers crawling over wild, tousled strands while he gave me that wistful smile of his. The move shouldn’t have meant anything, but in his eyes, I saw that it did. That all those years of silent communication were leveling out in the beautiful brown irises I’d told myself not to love so long ago.

And so it felt only natural to lean toward him, the whisper of the air around us urging us on, pressing us together like we were in a time-capsule vacuum of space. It didn’t matter that there were people shouting around us, cars whizzing by, stars glistening in the heavens above as though they were trying to tell us that they’d been watching all along, waiting for this very moment. Waiting for both of us to get it, to feel that strange floating sensation between us as his hand met my shoulder and he pitched toward me, too.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, and so did I—but nothing needed to be said. There was no verbal expression to communicate the way we slipped closer, now not two bodies standing there conversing through our buzz over the eternal mysteries of men versus women or how we always poked fun at one another, but two flames coming together, bursting into a giant, scorching fire. Lip to lip, tongue to tongue, we lost ourselves in a kiss that should have taken place so many years ago but never did.

I drifted into him, and he swept into me. We were one, arms wrapping around each other, tongues dancing, fire brimming through our bodies in ways I’m sure we would have known once, had we actually tried. As his hands played up my sides and back into my hair, pulling me closer, he kissed me harder—like he meant it. Like he needed it. Like the press of my body to his wasn’t enough, was never enough, and instead he ached to be with me, part of me, loving me just as I loved him and always had. His fingertips along my scalp sent electric pulses all through me, making me fall into him even more, sending that spark so deep I felt my need, my lust, heavy like the night around us. I was ready for him. For this.

For everything.

When we pulled apart, the air hummed dense with our fervid breaths. Then we smiled, the universe winking its starry eyes, for it knew what happened next.

So did we.

“Come home with me,” he said.

There was no other answer but yes.

Flash Fiction: “A Taste”

Posted on April 29, 2015April 29, 2015 by Jade A. Waters

She’s been waiting her whole life for him, she thinks, and she raises the coffee to her lips.

They’ve been eyeing one another across this diner for the better part of an hour, all while he’s pretended to read his paper and eat his late night bacon and eggs, and she’s forgotten to finish the soup that grew cold not long after she ordered it. She’s been distracted by the rules skipping through her head—don’t stare too much, cross your legs like a lady, don’t forget to eat with your mouth closed—but with the gazes they keep casting back and forth, she doesn’t think these things are really all that important anymore.

Anna pays her check and rises from her booth. She imagines she’ll be the first to leave. That he’ll follow her outside, giving her a moment to reflect on whether he’s stalking her, and if she’s supposed to run. Or if instead she should give away everything she’s actually feeling—the unsteady ticking of her heart inside the safe housing of her chest, the unusual race of her once regulated breathing, or, more than that, the heat that’s slickened at the peak of her thighs, making all this thought a perilous landscape of impossible, inexplicable desire.

But the man is the first to leave. He walks right by her, deliberately meeting her gaze. The brush of his hand on hers cannot be a coincidence, nor the look in his heavy-lidded eyes. And so it’s Anna who follows him outside, Anna who walks in measured steps behind him, Anna who glances up at the stars, just once, reminding herself how small she is in this world as he turns the corner and she’s left to decide one way or another.

Don’t talk to strangers, her mama said.

But mama’s been dead a long time now.

Anna finds him leaning against the backside of the building, staring beyond the edge of the bluff at the water below, where the waves ebb and flow like the surge in her veins. In her head, as she comes to face him, she anticipates the things he might ask of her. What’s your name? Why have you followed me? What are you looking for tonight?

He asks none of this. What he does is take her wrist and pull her to him, so that her breasts are flush with his chest and he’s breathing down over her face. She believes he’s asking for her approval, which she gives in the one kiss they will share—their lips merging, opening, exchanging the bitter trace of coffee, the hint of greasy bacon, and the sweet, sweet taste of spit. His hands are on her ass, molding her flesh, squeezing her closer. She welcomes this, then the way he swings her round to face the building, sliding behind her so his entire body lines her back. Anna gasps when his fingers slip under her skirt, because now he knows just how anxious she’s been for this. For him. Never show a man how much you care she remembers, but his fingers are in her, riding up and hot in the wet desire she doesn’t know how to hide. His teeth find her neck as he wedges her tight to the wall, and Anna’s open mouth grazes the fading building finish. She tongues the wood as he unfastens his pants, then the salty air that kisses her lips and makes her feel alive when he presses his cock to her ass.

“Okay?”

This is the murmur she’ll remember him by, a quiet, desperate groan that elicits the wild bob of her head. We don’t take risks. Good girls don’t take risks she’d been told, but as he drives inside she wants nothing more than to risk it all, again and again. Every thrust of his cock brings another moan, another moment, another physical expression she held buried so far inside. She spreads her fingers on the building and arches her back, letting him sink deeper, closing her eyes while the waves sing behind them and he moves faster inside her. He bites her neck again, surely tasting the glisten of sweat that’s broken out along her chin. Her body shakes when he slides a finger in her mouth and she closes her lips around it, the taste of her cunt on his skin. She’s only partially surprised she comes before he does, her whimpers preceding the muffled grunts he makes into her hair. He fills her with the honest, heated greeting of a perfect stranger.

For a minute, they stand like this, Anna smashed between his body and the building. His come is seeping out around his slowly softening shaft, dripping onto the panties barely pushed aside before he marked her as who she really is. Who she’s wanted to be.

The man places a kiss on the edge of Anna’s mouth. It’s tender and indifferent all at once, but she understands the intention behind it, what he’s learned, too. Thank you.

She is still standing against the wall after he tucks himself away, pausing like he’s supposed to, waiting to see if she wants to say something, or if there’s anything else she needs. But there isn’t.

When he’s gone, Anna spins around, her back to the building as the chaos of her belly becomes a soothing warmth that brings a smile to her face.

She’s never taken a risk before.

And she’s been waiting her whole life for this one.

A Poem for Wicked Wednesday: The Wait

Posted on January 14, 2015December 30, 2016 by Jade A. Waters

Today feels like a poetry kind of day…

I hope you enjoy it.

XX,
Jade

THE WAIT

Jade A. Waters

He cups the side of my face
Thumb rubbing gently, mindlessly
Across the surface of ruddy skin
That waits for more—waits for him.
“Spread your legs,” he says, and I do,
The rush of air kissing my thighs
Grazing the naked heat of my cunt.
“Just like that,” he says,
His fingertips traveling down
Faintly tracing the slope of my neck
The curve of my breast,
And teasing my nipple
In quick, playful tugs.

“Touch me, please.”
My words are a growl
Coming out so deep, so hungrily
I’m sure they emanate from where I ache
Where I need him more than anything,
But still he makes me wait.
I am open
While he strips off his shirt
Unzips the fly on those trousers
And eases himself out.
He is beautiful, hard,
And he circles his length
In sync with the strokes of a finger
That he winds round my nipple
Before he stands in front of me.

“How badly do you need me?” he asks,
And my answer is an eager lean, an easy moan,
The wrap of my lips
Around the head of his cock,
My eyes on him as I suck him deep
Clutching his hips, drawing him further.
A gasp stumbles from his mouth
When he tilts back his head.
“Yes, just like that,” he moans,
“You must really need me.”
He cups both sides of my face now
His palms electric on my cheeks
His fingers twining in my hair
Before he jerks me back, abruptly
Stealing his gorgeous cock from me.

There is a moment between us
No movement
No sound
Eyes locked as we acknowledge
This wait he puts me through.
Then he pounces—
Pushing me back,
Spreading my thighs ever wider
Before thrusting inside,
Filling me, hard and deep
And bringing cries to my lips
Shudders to my body,
As he makes me wait no longer.