Erotica by Shannon

The shop smelled of Nag Champa—her favorite incense. The moment she stepped inside, the familiar scent wrapped around her like a soft shawl, instantly soothing the ache she hadn't realized she was still carrying. It had only been a few weeks since the breakup, but the memory was still sharp. She'd planned a surprise—fresh sheets, a new down comforter, a quiet gesture of love. No occasion, just a moment to make him feel cherished. She hadn't seen any cars in the driveway and assumed he was at work. There was no need to circle around back; the front was clear. She let herself in, the house silent, just as she expected. But upstairs, behind the bedroom door, everything changed. She didn't scream. Didn't cry. Just stood there, frozen, as the scene unfolded—her boyfriend tangled in bed with his best friend's wife. The sheets and comforter slipped from her hands, forgotten. She turned and walked out, her heart hollowed by betrayal. Since then, she'd returned only ...

🌙 Before Dawn, I Craved Him It's 5:24 a.m. I've been awake since before midnight. My mind wandered through many places this morning, but one memory kept pulling me back: time spent with R this past weekend. I crave his touch. Think of butter melting softly across warm toast. It's not about Sex—not immediately. It's about his hands. The way they move, intuitively knowing where to linger, tease, or press. His touch brings me back into my body, out of my head. And when I'm out of my head, the orgasms arrive—full-bodied, electric. He lifts the bedcovers and beckons me in. I slide into the nook he's made with his body, fitting perfectly into his torso. My lace-covered bum grazes his bush as I settle in. He groans. "I've been waiting all week for this," he whispers, pulling me closer. I tuck myself into him, breath slowing until it becomes one—his and mine. His body heat is a balm. I soften. He senses it. His hands roam, and I respond with breath and mo...

The Orgasm You Have When You’re Alone—But Aren’t A few days ago, I experienced something rare. R brought me to an orgasm I’ve only ever known in solitude. The kind that arrives when I’m alone, unobserved, and completely unguarded. But this time, I wasn’t alone—and that changed everything. We walked across his land, the sun casting long shadows over the Bluestem. He moved the heavy fence to the middle pasture and waited for me. When his hand slipped into mine, it carried the energy of a slow Sunday morning—unhurried, present, and full of possibility. He glanced at me with a flicker of mischief in his deep blue eyes and murmured, “Gun shack?” My body responded before my mind could catch up. I traced the inside of his palm with my fingers, letting him feel where I already was. He tightened his grip slightly, his restraint palpable, and picked up the pace toward his tin-roofed retreat. Inside, the world fell away. R stripped quickly, shedding his smooth exterior. I undressed slowly, teasin...

Charcoal Rain The rain poured steadily, blurring the world beyond my windshield. With traffic stalled and nowhere to go, my thoughts slipped into a memory—one shaped by thunder, charcoal, and the heat of a shared moment. The hum of idling engines faded as my mind wandered. I was no longer in my car—I was back beneath the tree, rain cascading like a curtain around us. He traced charcoal across my skin, each stroke a silent vow. The storm watched as we surrendered to something primal, something sacred. I clung to the rough bark, my breath shallow, my body painted in streaks of ash and longing. He pressed close, his warmth anchoring me against the storm. His hands explored with reverence and hunger, and though the mosquitoes swarmed, I barely noticed. I was too consumed by the way he looked at me—like I was the only thing that mattered. His voice was low, gravelly, threading through the rain like a secret meant only for me. I whispered back, my words trembling with desire and anticipation...

Sandpits and Leather The sandpit was quiet, save for the low hum of dusk settling in. I hadn't meant to linger. But then he arrived. Leather. Worn, creased, molded to a body that moved like it remembered every fight, every fall, every victory. He didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, surveying the scene like he was born to command it. I pretended not to notice. My fingers fumbled with my phone, but my eyes betrayed me—drawn to the way the light caught the curve of his jaw, the way his shadow stretched long and possessive across the sand. He moved closer. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just inevitable. “You’re late,” I said, voice steadier than I felt. He smirked. “You waited.” I hated that he was right. We didn’t touch. Not yet. But the air between us pulsed, thick with memory and something more dangerous—possibility. He dropped the gear bag beside me, the thud of it sending a jolt through my spine. His fingers brushed mine, deliberate, electric. I didn’t pull away. “You s...