EmilyMiller
May be triggering
- Joined
- Aug 13, 2022
- Posts
- 17,668
I’m making the long weekend longer by taking Friday as annual leave. So this is a day early 
.
A list of previous writing prompts appears here.
I’m not setting a great example here, but please aim for under 500 words and always under 1,000. Thank you
.
—
I’m so nervous. People talk about butterflies in their stomachs; I feel like there’s a flock of birds flapping around in mine. This is so weird. Me - little, ugly, awkward me - as… what? An object of desire? Someone who might be… sexy? Yeah, so weird.
And they are gonna be so disappointed. I mean they’ve seen me nude many times, we’ve been intimate many times. Actually we’ve done things I’d never dreamt of; things I’ve adored. But I always thought the spotlight was on them. They are the bright sun in the relationship, I’m Charon; cold and non-luminous. Now they want me to shine. Fuck!
I’m standing in the living room of their apartment. A college kid with an apartment? I’m really not in their league. Not in looks, not in financial standing, certainly not in confidence. But here I am. They are lounging on the couch, clothed and with a slightly amused look on their face. They wake their phone, scroll, and tap. The room’s sound system is now playing ‘Often’ by the Weeknd. The line ‘Baby I can make that pussy rain often’ fills my head. I guess I’m doing this.
With great uncertainty I start to sway. That gets me a smile and an approving nod. Perhaps I can do this, though I still think I might vomit; not a very sexy sensation. But their eyes are on me and I hear the words, “Relax. Just be yourself. That’s all I want. Take your time, I’ll put the song on repeat.” They tap their phone again and smile.
A deep breath and I begin. It’s not like I’m wearing anything sexy. It’s early spring, so I’ve got a cropped peach cardigan as the first layer. I fumble with the buttons, still trying to move rhythmically. And rhythm doesn’t come naturally to me.
My face is probably the color of Betelgeuse at this point, but I detect something else: the beginnings of arousal. Their cheeks look a little flushed too, are they… enjoying my inexpert divestments? I slip the cardigan off my arms and - emboldened just a little - whirl it around my head, before flinging it to one side. I just miss a vase and decide to be more circumspect in the future.
“Pants next,” they instruct. And now they lean forward, a hand drifting to their own crotch. I’m starting to feel like it’s getting hot in here. Surely they can hear my heart pounding, it’s so loud.
I turn away. I glance back over my shoulder. I probably look goofy rather than coquettish, but they don’t seem to mind. I bend. I do it slowly. All that rock climbing gives me great core strength. I run a hand over my derrière. Am I actually beginning to enjoy this?
Straightening, I unclip the waistband, pull the zipper down, and begin to ease the garment over my hips. They are narrow and it’s not a hard task to accomplish. I bend again, now presenting my cotton-clad ass, and wishing I’d worn something more inappropriate. I can feel my panties sticking to my flesh, my own secretions acting as the glue.
Turning again, I’m suddenly bashful once more. I begin to unbutton my blouse. I don’t often wear a bra, it’s kinda superfluous, so when the shirt is gone, I’ll be topless. Why does this give me pause? They’ve suckled on my nipples, they’ve clamped them between their teeth. Why so shy?
I know the answer. It’s because the focus is on me. Skinny, boyish me, pretending to be a real woman. “Don’t stop,” they breathe. And the heat behind those words hits me hard and I’m unbuttoning quickly now.
The last one undone, I let the front hang open, my underlying flesh partly exposed. “Take it off,” they insist.
I slide out of one sleeve, then the other, then let it fall to the floor. My instinct is to cradle my meager mounds, to protect their inadequacy from my companion’s eyes. But something changes inside. Perhaps it’s the way they are looking at me. The way they lick their lips. I stand arms akimbo, head a little to one side. I may not have much to show, but it’s me.
“The panties,” they gasp, their voice hoarse and trembling.
I don’t want to tease. I want to be nude, nude for them. The panties are unceremoniously gone and I’m naked. How they told me to be. How they want me to be. How I want to be.
There is silence as their eyes traverse my skinny form. Their look is lascivious, there is no mistaking their desire. I assume it must be either a mental or optical defect, but their obvious passion is firing my own. My hand wanders to my clit and I massage it, not that my fires need much additional stoking.
In a voice that is clear and astonishingly commanding, I say, “Your turn now… Amy.”
.A list of previous writing prompts appears here.
I’m not setting a great example here, but please aim for under 500 words and always under 1,000. Thank you
.—
I’m so nervous. People talk about butterflies in their stomachs; I feel like there’s a flock of birds flapping around in mine. This is so weird. Me - little, ugly, awkward me - as… what? An object of desire? Someone who might be… sexy? Yeah, so weird.
And they are gonna be so disappointed. I mean they’ve seen me nude many times, we’ve been intimate many times. Actually we’ve done things I’d never dreamt of; things I’ve adored. But I always thought the spotlight was on them. They are the bright sun in the relationship, I’m Charon; cold and non-luminous. Now they want me to shine. Fuck!
I’m standing in the living room of their apartment. A college kid with an apartment? I’m really not in their league. Not in looks, not in financial standing, certainly not in confidence. But here I am. They are lounging on the couch, clothed and with a slightly amused look on their face. They wake their phone, scroll, and tap. The room’s sound system is now playing ‘Often’ by the Weeknd. The line ‘Baby I can make that pussy rain often’ fills my head. I guess I’m doing this.
With great uncertainty I start to sway. That gets me a smile and an approving nod. Perhaps I can do this, though I still think I might vomit; not a very sexy sensation. But their eyes are on me and I hear the words, “Relax. Just be yourself. That’s all I want. Take your time, I’ll put the song on repeat.” They tap their phone again and smile.
A deep breath and I begin. It’s not like I’m wearing anything sexy. It’s early spring, so I’ve got a cropped peach cardigan as the first layer. I fumble with the buttons, still trying to move rhythmically. And rhythm doesn’t come naturally to me.
My face is probably the color of Betelgeuse at this point, but I detect something else: the beginnings of arousal. Their cheeks look a little flushed too, are they… enjoying my inexpert divestments? I slip the cardigan off my arms and - emboldened just a little - whirl it around my head, before flinging it to one side. I just miss a vase and decide to be more circumspect in the future.
“Pants next,” they instruct. And now they lean forward, a hand drifting to their own crotch. I’m starting to feel like it’s getting hot in here. Surely they can hear my heart pounding, it’s so loud.
I turn away. I glance back over my shoulder. I probably look goofy rather than coquettish, but they don’t seem to mind. I bend. I do it slowly. All that rock climbing gives me great core strength. I run a hand over my derrière. Am I actually beginning to enjoy this?
Straightening, I unclip the waistband, pull the zipper down, and begin to ease the garment over my hips. They are narrow and it’s not a hard task to accomplish. I bend again, now presenting my cotton-clad ass, and wishing I’d worn something more inappropriate. I can feel my panties sticking to my flesh, my own secretions acting as the glue.
Turning again, I’m suddenly bashful once more. I begin to unbutton my blouse. I don’t often wear a bra, it’s kinda superfluous, so when the shirt is gone, I’ll be topless. Why does this give me pause? They’ve suckled on my nipples, they’ve clamped them between their teeth. Why so shy?
I know the answer. It’s because the focus is on me. Skinny, boyish me, pretending to be a real woman. “Don’t stop,” they breathe. And the heat behind those words hits me hard and I’m unbuttoning quickly now.
The last one undone, I let the front hang open, my underlying flesh partly exposed. “Take it off,” they insist.
I slide out of one sleeve, then the other, then let it fall to the floor. My instinct is to cradle my meager mounds, to protect their inadequacy from my companion’s eyes. But something changes inside. Perhaps it’s the way they are looking at me. The way they lick their lips. I stand arms akimbo, head a little to one side. I may not have much to show, but it’s me.
“The panties,” they gasp, their voice hoarse and trembling.
I don’t want to tease. I want to be nude, nude for them. The panties are unceremoniously gone and I’m naked. How they told me to be. How they want me to be. How I want to be.
There is silence as their eyes traverse my skinny form. Their look is lascivious, there is no mistaking their desire. I assume it must be either a mental or optical defect, but their obvious passion is firing my own. My hand wanders to my clit and I massage it, not that my fires need much additional stoking.
In a voice that is clear and astonishingly commanding, I say, “Your turn now… Amy.”
?
