Writer

Writer

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

The Writer is about a strange girl who meets a strange man in an arts college in Paris. He's a writer who references music and sex in his books, and is called in to critique her cello playing at the school. Both intrigued with on another. They call out each other's sexual desires, and embark on a journey of sexual intrigue throughout the heart of Paris.

Summary

The Writer is about a strange girl who meets a strange man in an arts college in Paris. He's a writer who references music and sex in his books, and is called in to critique her cello playing at the school. Both intrigued with on another. They call out each other's sexual desires, and embark on a journey of sexual intrigue throughout the heart of Paris.

Chapter1 (v.1) - Writer

Author Chapter Note

The Writer is about a strange girl who meets a strange man in an arts college in Paris. He's a writer who references music and sex in his books, and is called in to critique her cello playing at the school. Both intrigued with on another. They call out each other's sexual desires, and embark on a journey of sexual intrigue throughout the heart of Paris.

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: December 12, 2014

Reads: 1887

Comments: 1

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: December 12, 2014

A A A

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I have my hands tied behind my back, so that my body bent against the mattress. He’d taken me to his bedroom. This writer with tousled ashen hair and a peacoat. I lay with my legs bent in close protection of my sex, and the corners of my mouth twitch when a strand of dark hair tickles my cheekbone. 

 

I like the presence of books next to me, they introduce the situation as more erotic then clinical, but my lips set in a hard line, and a bead of sweat brakes from my forehead, I hate that he is in a different room preparing for me. 

 

I met him during class in Paris France when it was my turn for tutorial, and he heard me stringing a cello in the Weston Room. Professor Gordon had brought him and an accomplished musician to watch. The reason why the blonde writer was invited to critique was because he was extremely accomplished, and his books were based off of sex and music, so the writer struck up good conversation. He’s a gothic man. He wore dark clothes and had a tired strain to his brow, and a looming shadow toned out his cheekbones and profounded the electricity in his green eyes, and my fingers clunked together at the realization that here was an intimidating man, handsome no doubt; ready to question my faults. 

I had dark short hair tied in pins; wound up at the back of my head, but my arms lunged my body back and forth at the sound of the cello, so many strands span out from the back and into the front, and I couldn’t see, so my technique was off, and he must have been pin pointing every flaw of the finger with his electric green eyes, so I directed even more ferocity to the strings to blur out the bad technique. 

“Bad technique,” was all he could work from his wide mouth. His wide, crooked mouth. But he stared at my hands with an intensity that ran shivers up my spine. 


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