Erotic Review Magazine

Good Boy

by Robyn Sluis-Cremer / 3rd December 2012

Her devoted admirer knows not to overstep the boundaries

I love it when she bends over. Her rump presented to me – a ball waiting to be pawed and nosed about the garden. It jiggles slightly, as she pushes herself back up, rippling outwards beneath the worn cotton, stretched so tight across the curve, so the weave of the fabric splays open to expose a glimpse of her hidden sensuousness. If it were very hot, she’d step out of the skirt, leaving it discarded on the floor and instead jiggle beneath little more than a scrap of lace. God, I long for the summer. For those three months her sun-gold arms and legs are bare, a platter laid out just for me. When she leaves the room, I like to smell her clothes. Their sweetness coats the inside of my nostrils and I can still conjure up the scent hours later; it’s like candyfloss. But if I had to choose, it’s after a run I think I love her best. Salt glistens on her skin, and her secret places ripen – juicy enough to eat. I’d run my tongue along her body; taste her; sate my need. Once, she caught me with my face in her panties. Breathing her in, sucking the wet patch, thirsty for more. I saw the flicker of disgust across her face – she knew I saw it – and yet she never said a word. So I wear our dirty secret with cowed desire and implicit assent. But I hold my breath when she’s about to go out. The chemical tang of flowers clings to her like death and trails behind her as she moves between her bedroom and the bathroom – a funeral procession.  Her true scent suffocating beneath rose embalming fluid. When it’s just her natural odour against my face, I shiver with excitement; whimper with lust.

She’s in the kitchen now. I stand by the door and watch her as she moves from the fridge to the stove, busying herself with the evening meal. She throws a glance in my direction, offering an easy smile; that dry bone of companionship. Nothing she makes tastes as good as her, but I’ll eat it all. Wolf it down and wait patiently for seconds, thirds, scraps, crumbs. She talks to me during dinner. Her words are just hollow noise, but I follow the shapes her lips make as the sounds form between them, swallowing as they mould a perfect ‘o’ shape. Spit moistening the outline. I don’t think she cares if I’m listening or not, she speaks on regardless and I just sit and watch, content.

After supper, she stretches out on the couch in front of the TV. I sit next to her, leaning into her bottom as her legs curve over mine. The images on screen wash our bodies in a dull blue light that acts as a sedative on her and she doesn’t move when I shift my head to rest on the jut of her hip. As she drifts off to sleep, her breathing slows its rhythm, deepening as her heart settles into a measured throb, that I can feel in my chest. I adjust my body so that my face is angled downward towards her crotch. I inch closer to the sweet warmth radiating from it. I feel her restless beneath me and freeze, but she rolls onto her back lost in slumber. Her legs, shifting to fit this new position, open, and all of her is presented to me. I tell myself this is deliberate. Mine to sample at leisure. I slip my nose deep between the soft curves of her thighs. Unfettered, a whine escapes as a gurgle from my throat.

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Her devoted admirer knows not to overstep the boundaries

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