I’ve hinted on here a few times about the fact that I am writing a book of erotica. Honestly, I’ve become really consumed in the project and I’ve begun to truly enjoy myself. So, I’ve decided to try to get some interest going and to gauge my (relative) success by sharing one of the pieces from the collection with you all. 

So, here it is.

—

“Just Okay” by Ivy Kink.

“God, why is that so hot?”

“Because I’m good at this.”

These are the sorts of things that simultaneously reinforce and ruin your banter, that make you reconsider the entire arrangement, that somehow turn kneeling into something more. As much as you enjoy submission, you were never one for supplication.

You hate the assuredness in his tone, the smug half-tilt of a smirk – something more of a facial tic than an actualized smile – that you know must have accompanied the message. There is only so much that can be read into a text message, but the confidence of having caught you in such a transparent admission is unmistakable. 

And so you are ashamed of the hand resting over the warm cotton of your panties and the dampness that lingers on the gusset like betrayal. As if he could see you, you brush your hand against your thigh as though its placement were unconscious, an accident. You stare down at the phone in your hand, at the message that has left you dumbfounded and outraged in its audacity.  

You cross your legs and tug the hem of your skirt down closer to your knees. 

There are times, perhaps, that you have enjoyed the smugness, the twitch of a grin at the corner of his mouth, the brief flash of his white teeth like a shark in the water. It brings a flush to your cheeks and the bridge of your nose when it emerges as you attempt to initiate: a process you tread with eggshell cautiousness. Despite every effort to disguise your intentions, he notices with feigned surprise, the arched brow just for show as he makes you explain, in detail, exactly what you want. Looking him in the eyes, naturally; he’ll have you start over if you break eye contact even for a second. If you persist, a hand looped in your hair, nails just grazing your scalp, enforces the rule as you are made to stare into eyes that grin so hard he barely needs a mouth at all.

Or when he discovered that you had been putting off making phone calls. They were nothing too pressing: to schedule a hair appointment, to catch up with a friend or two. These were things you could push back another day. But he had insisted, tucking the fabric of your skirt up into the waistband and slipping your panties to one side of your pussy lips, grinning up at you from the armchair at your side. You were barely past the area code when a couple of fingers slid inside you, leaving you impaled as you stammered through booking a trim. When he had the nerve to flick his thumb against your clitoris as you said your goodbyes, forcing out a gasp you had attempted to pass off as a cough, you grimaced down at him to be met by the shine of smug amusement in his eyes. And what had irritated you the most was not that he threatened to move his fingers through the next conversation if you didn’t give him a smile. Instead, it was the fact that he knew how much you relished the entire ordeal – despite your groans of frustration – right down to the looming possibility of collapsing into a heap of moans while on the phone.

Somehow, he manages to yank out something from some twisted region of your stomach, swallowed so deep you had figured it untraceable, forcing you to look at it and acknowledge that it is yours. He sees you, wonderfully and regrettably. He knows how to get under your skin to grab what you have hidden beneath groans and half-hearted protestations. It’s why he’s so amused, so self-assured. While you’re sure you’ve already stroked his ego in more ways than one, you know you have to keep it in check.

“You’re all right,” you text back, wishing SMS had evolved to include italics. “Just okay.”