I’ve lately been intrigued by the quiet, shy, smoldering type. You know the type of guy I’m talking about, right? He’s the one who won’t say a word all night, but only stands on the fringes of things looking at you in an uncomfortably intense way, like he knows the innermost workings of your soul.
That was my original impetus for writing the short story, Cherry Boy. I’ve always fantasized about deflowering a shy, inexperienced young man, teaching him all the mysteries and pleasures of the bedroom. I want to be a sexual priestess, initiating them into manhood.
During my stint as a Phone-Sex Goddess, there were many times when the caller wouldn’t- or couldn’t- say a word. Stunned into silence by my sexy voice, he would choke. When this happened, I didn’t panic. I didn’t try to make him speak, knowing this would only make him hang up in terror. I’d been trained to handle just such an emergency.
I purred, “Is that a shy guy on the line? It turns me on to know you’re out there, listening…” Then I’d launch into a fantasy and get myself off, while he listened attentively. I was intrigued by these shy guys, and they soon became my favorite callers. It gave me a sense of power to know I could intimidate (and stimulate) someone so completely. My seductive stories wove a spell, and they were helpless, enchanted. I bonded with my Inner Dominatrix, predatory and irresistible. It was even better when my smoky, sexy voice could draw them out of their shells, make them speak up at last.
For years I dated the center-of-attention guys, the class clowns, life of the party. It was difficult not to. They were everywhere, and they take up so much oxygen in a room there’s hardly any air for anyone else to breathe. (Braggarts, bastards, bullies- and all of them were bad in bed.) You have to look at them, the way you have to look at a train-wreck or a bad stand-up comedian- it’s so awful your eyes don’t know where else to go.
I recently attended a party- not some sophisticated soiree with chilled champagne and fancy canapés, but the kind of party where people do keg-stands and pick fights. At this party, I noticed the usual assortment of drunken assholes- the sort of guy I would have gone home with, in the past. That night, they just didn’t interest me- they seemed interchangeable, boring, predictable.
Alpha males, trying to establish dominance in the pack. These are the guys who spit when they talk, throw up in the bathtub, flirt with your best friend, and pinch your ass on the way out the door, going, “Great party.” They all seemed the same, the way brothers seem the same- but these guys weren’t brothers, they were just drunk.
After several tedious conversations with these so-called alpha males, I noticed a couple of other guys standing on the fringes. They looked uncomfortable in their own skins, like they didn’t know anyone and weren’t sure if they were in the right place. Because I often feel awkward at parties (I’m just better at hiding it), I struck up random conversations with each of them at different points during the night. John was cuttingly sarcastic, hilarious. He made me laugh, and he looked at me like I was the only woman in the room worth talking to. I found him funny, self-deprecating and interesting, if a little awkward. The kind of guy who doesn’t fake a smile, doesn’t even know how. I saw him smile, laugh for the first time all night- a genuine smile, a real laugh.
The quiet guy with his back against the wall, holding a drink he doesn’t really want, the kind of guy who won’t say anything unless he’s actually got something of substance to say, the one who’s watching the action from the edge of the crowd- he’s the one I want. (Not the guy who’s trying to impress me with overblown drunken stories and manly braggadocio. Not him, please. He’s boring, and he can’t fuck.) I want the quiet shy one, the one who looks at me intently without saying a word, trying to work up the nerve to make a move. Alpha males with their territorial pissings bore me to death.
The second shy guy- Thomas- wasn’t shy at all, once I struck up a conversation with him. We talked about writing, art, food, career aspirations- a real conversation. He wasn’t trying to get into my pants in some obvious, sophomoric way. He didn’t pinch my ass, or stare at my tits instead of making eye contact. His approach was more subtle- if it was an approach at all. He asked about my book, said he’d always wanted to write. Our conversation was interesting and surprisingly deep, given the circumstances.
Of all the people I talked to that night, only the ones who weren’t trying to be noticed had anything memorable to say. Let this be a lesson to me. The next time I’m at a party, I will remember this- the most interesting men aren’t the ones hamming it up for the crowd. Instead, I’ll look for the shy guy, the one standing on the edge of the action, waiting for me to notice him. He’s the one going home with my digits!
Chapter Five - Her Captive Muse
Nervous
"I've wanted to fuck you since we first met," Morgan said. "That's one of the main reasons I hired you." She stripped off her silky gown.
"Why didn't you mention that in the interview?" He tweaked one nipple. "I would have jumped you then and there."
"Oh?" She raised a brow and gave him a skeptical look, as though she suspected he was just being kind.
"In a heartbeat." Brendan grinned and kissed her again. "But you were such a bitch! I thought you hated me or something."
"I can be a bitch. Especially when I get nervous. That's when the claws come out." She raked her nails down his chest, and he shivered. "My shrink says it's a defense mechanism."
"I make you nervous?"
"That's one way to put it."
"Do I?" He nibbled at her throat, sampling the delicate flesh there. She tasted of jasmine and smoke.
"Yes."
"Good." Brendan smiled and gave her a lingering kiss. "You make me nervous, too."
"In a good way?" She wrapped one of his curls around her finger and gave it a little tug.
"In the best way." God, she made him horny.
"You should be nervous. You have no idea what I'm capable of."
"I can't wait to find out." Brendan tried to keep his words light, but a tremor of uneasiness broke through. He'd been around the block a few times, but he sure as hell wasn't Dong Juan. He had a few moves—strictly amateur—a little experience, and a whole lot of enthusiasm. But Morgan was older—more sophisticated than the girls he'd
been with in the past. Plus, she had tons of money, was famous, and wicked kinky. The Jim Morrison of the art world.
He knew her dark desires before they ever met—you could tell just by looking at her paintings. He'd studied them in Modern Art 101. Her typical subjects were fragile young men chained to beds or bound on their hands and knees. He remembered their bodies—thin and bruised and beautiful anyway—as if they'd been beaten with whips and chains. Beautiful . . . in spite of the pain or because of it. She took their scars and made them sing—made them shine. It was her gift.
She eats guys like me for breakfast. Morgan reminded him of the praying mantises he'd seen on the nature channel. What if she broke out the whips and chains and hot candle wax and shit? Could he ever hope to please a woman like that? He didn't know, but he was determined to try.
"Tell me something." She broke away from his embrace in the middle of a very hot kiss.
"What? Ask me anything." He was rock-hard and more than a little distracted.
"Have you ever done this before?"
Fuck. Busted. "What, kissing?" he asked. He laughed, tried to sound casual. "Sure."
"No—have you ever had sex?"
"Yeah." He worked to keep a defensive tone from creeping into his voice. When she stayed silent, he pressed her. "Why? Am I doing something wrong?"
"No. Just—you seem shy. Nervous. I don't know." She shrugged.
"I'm just trying to take it slow." Brendan stroked the curve of her hip. "I don't want to scare you." He bent to kiss her breasts again.
She laughed, hard and loud. "You're not going to scare me." She shoved him back down on the bed and straddled his hips. "I might scare you, but you couldn't scare me if you tried. Anyway, I don't want you to scare me."
"What do you want?" He bucked his hips beneath her, horny and impatient. "I'm not psychic."
"Just be sweet to me—and fuck me all night long." She ran her long fingers down his chest toward his cock. "Can you?" she asked. "Be sweet?"
"I'll fuck you until you scream. I'll stay in bed with you all weekend—never mind all night. But sweetness?" Now it was his turn to laugh. "I can try. But I gotta warn you, I'm not very good at sweet. If you're after sugar and spice and everything nice, you might have the wrong guy." Brendan smiled and pinched her ass.
"You'll learn," she said. "The willingness to try is everything—in life and in art."
"If you say so." His cock jumped at her feather-light touch.
"I do." She grinned and stroked him harder. With one cool hand, Morgan grasped the base of his shaft. She slipped a condom over the tip and rolled it down the hard curve of his cock. Morgan kissed him, pressing her breasts against his chest. She rubbed up against his body and spread her legs wide. Her cunt opened for him like a flower and he eased his cock into her tight little slit.
She took just the tip at first, refusing to lower herself farther onto his aching shaft, the little tease. "Beg me for it."
"Please. Please fuck me."
In the next breathless moment, she embraced it all. So hot and wet—goddamn! Brendan gasped in pleasure. Morgan's pussy gripped his shaft with surprising strength when he tried to pull out.
"Wait, not yet." Morgan ground her hips against him in a hypnotic figure eight—the symbol of infinity made flesh. Brendan closed his eyes and bit down hard on his bottom lip. He took a deep breath, trying to control his wild urge to flip her over, take control, and fuck her brains out.
In his mind, Brendan went to the beach. Silky white sand sifted beneath his bare feet. The wind blew his hair back from his face—he could almost smell the salty tang of the sea. He sighed. California—always wanted to go there. Maybe someday. He felt the sun beat down on his face. Her pussy was so good—tight and hot—slick with her juices. The slow rhythm of her hips rocked him like gentle waves breaking against the shore.
Morgan closed her eyes and danced to some unknown drummer, increasing her pace until the gentle waves built into a tsunami. She rocked her hips back and forth, faster and faster. Brendan gripped her ass and thrust hard inside her cunt. He watched her face as she moaned and arched her back in the ecstatic release of her climax. The sudden, joyful spasm of her pussy muscles around his cock triggered his own orgasm. He emptied his balls—every last drop—and cried out her name.
"Oh, Morgan, oh God, oh God, oh Jesus!"
After, they lay in bed together, sharing a smoke.
"Is it safe to say you had a religious experience?" She teased him about his earlier pleasure-filled shouts.
"Hallelujah. Amen." He smiled and blew a lazy smoke ring. It hung in the air above them, twisted itself into a figure eight as it faded, and then dissipated. "That was fucking amazing."
"That was amazing fucking," she said with a crooked little grin. "Let's go again."
Giveaway Information:
Giveaway info:
I will be giving away an Eden Fantasys Sexy Slave Kit and copy of my book to one lucky commenter this month. Share a fantasy with me in the comments section of this post or email it to me at indigoskyeinkandart.gmail.com to enter. Don't forget to include your email addy so I can get in touch with the winner!
Author Bio: Indigo Skye is a writer and photographer living in the American Southwest. Her first novel, Her Captive Muse, was released by Noble Romance Publishers in January. Her work has been widely published online. Last fall, her short story “True Confession” was published in the anthology Uniform Behavior. A full list of her published works is available on her blog, Indigo Skye: Ink and Art Contact Information for Indigo Skye-
Buy Links for Her Captive Muse:
Her Captive Muse Book Blurb-
When Brendan Delaney answered an ad for an artist's model, he was looking for an easy way to earn some extra cash. But Morgan Roan wanted more than just a model. Soon, Brendan finds himself caught in a web of deception and desire, lust and betrayal—her captive muse. What price pleasure?
First, I'm going to take a moment and indulge in some unabashed bragging: My "first" story, "Angels Would Fall," received a 5-star review from Happily Ever After in June. To my surprise and shock, it also got a nod for "Best Book of June!" I hope "Angel Of The Morning" does half as well, but what a great set-up for Angels Cry! Which, by the way, is scheduled to release on August 29th. 
Blowing Kisses... Until Next Time!
