Erotic Writes

by Hugh Todd

He slipped into the cool water. Bubbles cascaded up and over his bare skin. Muscles hardening in the chill, he drove forwards.

A thrill coursed through him. She was there, up ahead, somewhere in that darkness. She was there, waiting for him. There with eyes of cobalt and lips of coral, with seaweed hair and anemone hands.

Neville sat back, squeezed his eyes tightly shut. He ran his fingers through thinning hair. “Anemone hands.“ Not too repellent an image, he hoped. Anemones. How did they kill their prey? With poison or electricity? Electricity, surely, or wouldn’t the water would become toxic? Electrical fingers. Appealing thought.

His arms swept rhythmically through the surging swell. The sea caressed him with vast sweeps of turbulent viscosity.

“Turbulent viscosity?“ Eeew! Surely he could do better than that. He glanced at his watch, involuntarily. Not long now.

Turbulent viscosity, viscous turbulence? Turbulent water? Powerful turbulence? Just plain “turbulence“? The sea caressed him with vast turbulent sweeps.

No, ending the sentence with “sweeps“ did not sound quite right. Sweeps needed to be of something. “The turbulent sea swept him with powerful caresses“? “He felt swept by turbulent caresses.“

Wait on, he had already used “swept“ in the sentence before. What about, “His arms thrust rhythmically through the swell as it swept over him with vast, turbulent surges“?

Hmm, getting there. Definitely on the right track. The feeling he was after. He looked again at his watch, then out of the window. No sign yet. Of course not. She was always on time, to the minute. And that minute was still a little way off. Concentrate, man, concentrate.

His arms thrust rhythmically through the swell as it surged over him, vast and turbulent. Its power excited him. He felt charged, vibrant. He would come to her, raw and alive and potent, and she would receive him, lithe and wet and slippery.

Seaweed caressed his arms, his back, his chest, his legs. Cool, supple fronds, rising from the depths like the blind harem of some submarine sultan. Hair maybe, or arms, or legs, enfolding and releasing him with the same slow rhythm as the swell.

He lent closer to the window, looked up and down the street. No, he hadn’t missed her. She should nearly be here.

With long, powerful strokes he drove down deeper, searching for the glimmer of her skin. Desire coursed through him.

Where was she? Could she be late? Was she, heaven forbid, ill? He tapped his watch and held it to his ear. Desire coursed through him.

She was there.

There she was. Crossing the road with those languid strides, shoulders back, hair streaming behind. God, she was amazing. Those legs, oh those legs, so smooth, so long, so ... luscious. A new skirt, leather, like hands hugging her hips. Breasts firm and proud beneath a low-cut top. That secret smile hinting at oh so much.

As she approached he smiled, too, delighted as always to see her. Reaching the footpath she bent to adjust her shoe. Such grace, such perfection in her curves. Her blouse gaped and he took a sharp breath. Such power, still, to overwhelm.

She straightened, tossed her hair, and continued on past his window and around the corner. Oh my lovely.

Desire coursed through him.