Sepulchering - Slacker’S Guide To Sepulchering  

by Pool Builders on 10-10-2014 in Articles

I've never shared my erotic writing, so this is a first for me. I'm looking to start self-publishing soon, so I'm looking for honest, raw feedback. Don't worry about pointing out what sucks in this short excerpt. All critiques welcome!

Pleasing a woman requires finesse. Sure, a chaotic and brutish kind of finesse - but finesse nonetheless. Because of this, finding a capable man - all the right ingredients, combined into a chaotic mixture - is always exhilarating. First, his eyes catches yours. You feel him looking at you (through you), devouring your body in a second. Your soul boils - it burns your whole body, intoxicating you with a sweet dangerous craving. From that moment on, the game is on. You can be the hunter or you can be the prey. I prefer to be both. I've always enjoyed swimming in the evenings. When you pierce the water for the first time you can almost feel all your worries being left behind. No worries. Just you and the water. It's meditation, really. Today, though, I won't be coming in the evening. No - today I come in the early hours of the day. The whole building is silent, as if still asleep. Outside it is still dark. It feels as if I'm the last person alive on earth. I get out of the dressing room and head into the pool. I wet my feet first - not too cold, not too hot. I prepare to dive. But, before flying into the water, I look up, across the pool. There he is. Black shorts, bare-chested, crouched and ready to dive. I can almost feel his green eyes, piercing me with the force of a spear thrown from the other side of the continent. I plunge head first into the water. I feel awake, alive. I feel ready, like a coiled spring.
The first time I saw him I was entering my car, ready to go home after my ritualistic swimming session. He passes by me, without a glance, and heads to the bowl-shaped building where old and new swimmers alike go to practice their craft. I could tell you about his pitch black unruly hair, or about his pale green eyes. I could tell you about how tall and strong he looked, or the way his lips seemed designed for kissing. But none of those things matter - not at all. You see, a man can be as handsome as a sculpture, but that doesn't mean he has that special gift of finesse. A man can even be gorgeous and charming, and still be lacking. What drew me to him - how to explain? - was in the way he moved. One man can move out of the way of the crowd and other can push his way through. None of those, though, are men deserving of a more stricter look. But there are times when you'll find a special breed of men: those who walk straight, wherever they want to, and the crowd just parts away to let him pass. That is a man that won't bend over to please, or that will force his way through - that is a man that bends the universe to its will with a single gaze. He was one of those men. And when he looked over his shoulder, straight at me as if noticing me my stare, I knew it right then. The game was on. His name was John. Or James. Or Daniel. It depended on you asked. He swam everyday, at five in the morning, and he had grown what seemed like to a cult-following. A feminine one. Some said he was a lawyer, others said he was a wealthy enterpreneur. One even told me she was almost certain he was an Hollywood star. He wasn't a man of many words, so the myth around him just kept on growing. Women coveted him - some even went as far as changing their schedule to fit five in the morning swimming sessions. They soon gave up - he didn't care for any of that. He came and he swam, and didn't even care to glance their way. The most confident women went as far as trying to make small talk, which he just defused with one word retorts and a casual shrugh. Soon enou I didn't care about what his name was, or about what he did for a living. I'm a pratical woman.
For the next two weeks I maintained my early morning sessions. I went in, swam, and left without handing him a single 'good morning'. I knew he stared and, oh, I wanted him to. But I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of being like every other women that threw herself at him. The last morning I went in, I was catching my breath when he stopped next to me. A slight and brief smile. "James." I didn't smile. "Marissa." And with that, I kicked my feet against the wall and continued swimming, a knowing smile of satisfaction creeping on my face. The next day I came in the late hours of the evening. And the next one after that. And the next one. A week passed before I saw him again. It was late in evening and, once again, we were the only two people at the swimming pool. I was already swimming when he came in, and kept on swimming without giving him a chance to talk to me. I was being hunted. I was hunting. Early and without warning, before I even finished my mandatory 100 laps, I climbed out of the pool and headed out into the dressing room. I catched my breath for a while, staring intently into the full body mirrors. My wet hair was plastered against my face, and my face was flushed. I turned the shower head on and moved under the hot water, still wearing my black tight swimsuit. It was a simple piece, but I loved it nonetheless. It wasn't racy or inviting - no, none of that. But it highligted my curving hips and my breasts with, allow me to say it, class. If there's something better than loving your own body, it's having your clothes love it as well. Vapour was already covering the showering room like a warm blanket when I heard the footsteps. His footsteps. My heart started racing - how would I not get nervous? His silhoutte broke trough the foggy room, a marble figure standing still amid the sound of falling water. I looked at him, my mask all but gone. I knew he could it in my face - raw desire, like violent seas crashing against the shore. His eyes didn't move - he just looked into mine, not getting distracted with my body. I wanted him to lust after my body, to stare at my breasts and at my ass. I wanted him to fuck me with a single gaze. But there's no rushing men like him. You just don't. They always take what they want, but they do it when they want. I had it all planned in my head. Luring him, pushing him. Making him come to me. I had it all inside my head. But when his hard eyes fell on mine, all that went away. No games, no plans. I opened my mouth to say something, but I was at a loss for words. But, once again, no words are needed for men such as these. In two steps he covered the distance between us and, still peering into my eyes, placed one hand in my hip and pressed me against the wall, his body pushing against mine. I felt his fingers tangling with my wet hair, as he gently forced my head back. Sweet, sweet lips fell against my neck, and all the craving and desire burst inside of me. All consciousness gone, I was working on pure, raw, instinct.

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