Hi folks. I wrote this as a style exercise, trying to get a minimalist, yet erotic effect while scoring as high as possible on the Flesch readability scale on Word's grammar checker. It gets a reading ease over 90 and a grade level of 3. But is it erotic? Please vote. Please comment. It helps me improve. Thanks.
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She is eighteen today.
She is a virgin. She has been obsessing about that.
She thinks Jason would be a good first lover.
She wants a big man; she wants to feel tiny in his arms.
Jason is huge, perfect, and doesn't even know she exists.
She will insist on a large man. She wants it to be perfect, to be ravaged in a cultured sort of way, devoured, and turned every way but loose. She knows what she wants.
She knows she has been obsessing about it.
She leaves the late revelers and wanders down the long garden.
The gate is closed, moonlight shadowed by the trees.
The air is cool, and a slight mist rises from the ground.
She hugs herself and looks out beyond the gate at the land as it goes down to the river.
She decides she will go back, to her bedroom this time, and masturbate. Again thinking of Jason.
A tiny motion at the corner of her eye.
A man appears to her out of the mist.
He is very tall, and seems much older than she.
He asks if he may come in via the gate.
He is pale, seems cultured wearing a Goth cape; making the Goth Look stylish again.
She opens the gate for him and allows him past, shutting it behind him.
He brushes lightly against her and apologizes.
His name is Vladimir.
They talk there by the gate, in the moonlight, under the trees.
He talks of many places, much experience; he listens to her.
After a while, he kisses her, holding her face gently between his large hands.
She stands on tiptoe to receive it.
They talk some more, she speaks of the callow young men she knows.
She says, "Have you had many lovers?"
"Yes."
"Tell me about your lovers."
She thinks she is clever.
"A gentleman does not discuss these matters."
She knows now she wants to be his lover, to have him for her first time.
"Do you always woo your lovers?"
"I sometimes woo them, some woo me, and some turn me away."
"How do you win them? Why do they turn away?"
"I can only show you."
"Then show me."
He gathers her hands loosely in one of his behind her back, and then kisses her again.
She is slim, eager; her hips are wide, waist narrow.
His free hand rests on her hip; his fingers cup her firm young rump.
She allows him to nuzzle her neck as the back of his free hand then caresses her front.
She says, "I have been obsessing about an older man."
He pulls her then gently in to his front, kissing her again, deeper this time, and moves her back against the iron gate, under the trees.
She begins to shrink, twisting weakly away.
He stills her with another kiss, still holding both her hands gently in one of his at the small of her back.
"I also have an obsession. You can pull free or say no anytime; I will stop and this will be over."
His free hand roams her front slowly, sliding over the fabric of her shirt, the modest swellings under it, and their smaller crisping bumps. He watches her face.
Her arms quiver. She longs to break free; reach around his neck and pull him hard to her mouth.
He nibbles her neck, lifts her hands a bit and weighs her breasts with his free hand, murmuring in her ear, "Be still, I know how; I know what you want."
He breaths in her ear a long cool breath, and licks lightly around it before nipping it gently.
"I think about this often," he says, "Even obsessively."
He nibbles again at her neck as his hand slide along her collarbone, sliding down, down her front to the proud rise of her pubis where the buttons of her fly gleam in the moonlight.
His fingers slide between her thighs to the center and lift.
The pressure feels good; she begins to soften, to moisten.
