The view from the bed by Violet Fawks blog post

The View from the Bed By Violet Fawkes

It has been a while since we have treated you to any erotic fiction on our blog. So here we have a little something for you to enjoy from the fabulous Violet Fawkes on watching and being watched

It was the squeak and clank of the bathtub faucet that awoke me. I lay in the near dark of the bedroom, my eyes adjusting to the low light, my hand seeking and finding the warm dent in the bed where my lover had been. Memories of riotous lovemaking flooded back. Despite my comfort, the sound of rushing water in the bath urged me out of the bed. I knocked softly on the mostly open door and waited. Permitted, I stepped in and smiled, bending to kiss the lips that grinned up at me from the tub. I yawned and sat to pee, the intimacy of mutual nakedness and familiarity was a balm to the affront of an early morning. The water was still filling the tub, slowly submerging the lithe body that lay in it.

“Door open or closed?” I asked as I turned to return to the bed.

“Open is fine.”

I left the door open and slipped back into the warm bed, shooing the cat out of my spot and burrowing down into the covers. I lay there in the peace and quiet of the semi-dark bedroom with a direct view through the doorway to the en suite bathroom. I watched the quiet scene before me with casual interest, at this short distance it was like watching a movie; engrossing but completely separate from me.

The filtered light from the bathroom made the hard, cold surfaces seem more luxe; the white of the tile glinting behind bronze skin was stunning, the soft loops of a Turkish cotton towel seemed to beg to be touched, and the moving water threw rhythmic reflections against the wall and ceiling. The faucet made its familiar squeak-clank as the tap was turned and the water was cut off; an occasional drip was the only sound and it nearly echoed in the silence. I closed my eyes, still seeing the same scene in my mind, and I heard a long sigh of contentment from the bath. My own body replied with a sigh of its own as my hand wandered idly over my stomach and thighs. Already, I needed to look again. I watched as a languid arm stretched along the bathtub’s edge, water falling from elbow and fingertips, pooling on the cold marble floor. A tawny shoulder rolled and stretched, a strand of wet hair plastered itself to a flushed cheek. I watched with a strange and covetous hunger. I could have gotten up and climbed into the bath, I could have spoken or called out. Instead, I lay alone in the bed and watched a body I knew so well, cast in a new light; sensual but in a way that was wholly independent from me.

My tongue began to trace my teeth as my hand found the warm hair between my legs and I pet it without thought or agenda, watching and listening, consumed by the wet shoulders and chest of the mythically beautiful bather before me. Another sigh from each of us and my eyes rested on perfect teeth crushing a perfect bottom lip as the water began to move in the tub, softly lapping, a gently rolling tempest. My own arm disturbed the sea of blankets, mirroring the undulating water, keeping pace, both of us touching ourselves, but only one of us watching the other. My arousal couldn’t be ignored and I touched myself eagerly, quite lost in the fantasy unfolding before me. Our breathing seemed to synch as we each touched and rubbed, our hands were obscured by water and cloth but our intentions were clear and I easily imagined the strong, elegant fingers I yearned to suck, working diligently in the pursuit of underwater pleasure. Two knees emerged, widespread and jutting above the lip of the tub like volcanic islands, golden and gleaming. The water’s turbulence sent a small wave over the edge, cascading to the floor, an urgent murmur followed; I was entranced.

My body was flushed and warm and aching with need, calling out to its counterpart in mewling gasps. Whether I was simply not heard or I was being ignored, I didn’t know, but I didn’t care; the cinematic perfection of the vignette in the next room was indescribably sexy and I felt my climax curling up tight at the base of my spine like a snake. The hollow space of the bathroom echoed the heavy breaths and desperate sounds of pleasure as the bathwater heaved and rolled, sloshing to the floor as sighs made way for moans and moans turned to garbled begging. Alone in the bed I threw back the blankets and watched my own hand moving in time with the bucking spasms from the tub, tensions mounting and finally, with a pause and a howl, the final exaltation reverberated against the tile: mouth open, silhouetted against the wall, I watched as the the proverbial wave of orgasm crashed and we both submitted to its tide. The moments after climax were quiet, the water moving evermore slowly, the blankets pulled back up, the empty space that moments before had been occupied by desire was filled with satisfaction, and I closed my eyes again. Sated, I drifted between worlds, reveling in the quiet and the comfort, my mind still aroused by the thrill of watching someone take pleasure in themselves so easily and completely. I dozed in the haze, nearly asleep when the suck of the bathtub drain startled me awake. I could hear the rain of water falling from body to bath and the squeak of wet feet on stone, but I didn’t turn to look. Instead, I burrowed my face into the pillow next to me and breathed in the familiar scents of sweat and sex and shampoo, ready to feel warm, damp skin against mine, so hungry to touch this time, not simply watch.     

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