5 mins read
Published almost 2 years ago

My phone pings. A WhatsApp message from Kimara: 

Seriously undone by you.

You know Jackie and I have a somewhat open relationship, we’re allowed to kiss. 

But with you I want to break the rules.

Last night: The dirty beach dance club floor, too-loud, top 40 hits from five years ago, my breasts against her breasts. My eyes on her lips. My weight in her arms.

People knocking into us from every direction, she steadies me, keeps my body pressed against hers, her arm around my waist, tight. I squeeze her hand to steady myself, and look her in the eyes, heavy. I turn around, grind my ass into her. Her hand reaches around, lifts the hem of my dress and grabs my thigh. The crowd of the dance floor is like a curtain so no one can see her hand inching up my leg, feeling for the little valley next to my pussy.

I tilt my head back so my neck is within reach of her lips. She brushes aside my hair with soft fingers, eliciting a chill through me. Her lips smooth on my neck, my nipples tighten, my fingernails dig into her.

My friend’s bachelorette party at a fancy hotel on the beach that hasn’t opened yet: The pool is still empty, the walls make a good background for selfies. I’m in a tight green dress with a cut-out over my chest, my hair long and worn down, wavy in the tropical humidity. Kimara and Jackie catch my friend and I attempting seductive photos in the deep end of the pool. This is how we meet.

Kimara is from South Africa. She lies and tells me she had a pet lion growing up. I believe her. She and her sister speak to each other in Zulu. I watch her tongue click, fascinated. Jackie is American. They’re both beautiful.

Kimara and Jackie live on the island running a party boat business. They’ve cracked the code: there are probably 100 companies selling tickets for boat tours of the surrounding scenic spots, but none of them differ from the established track, and none of them serve booze. They seem happy.

The morning after the wedding: The party boat pulls up on the beach outside our hotel. We wade out into waist-deep clear island water, get hoisted up onto the boat. I see Kimara first. She smiles, hands me a drink.

The drinks do not stop—Kimara is paying me special attention, she feels me watching her. I can’t stop looking at her perfect skin in the sun. The way her body moves with ease and purpose. The mix of strength and softness about her. 

She finds me wrapped in a sarong on the deck and we start talking in whispers. We swap star signs, discuss what it’s like to live abroad. We talk about my last relationship with a woman, years ago. She wonders about me. I can’t explain, but I try. It’s thrilling in a different way, I tell her. Her masculine energy feels safe to me, not threatening. She recognizes my strength, too, despite how I present. 

She’s reassuring without being pushy, charming without any suggestion of manipulation. She’s diving into me, hungry for my stories, my future plans. I’m flattered, entranced. I’m on vacation. 

I want to let her domme me. She confesses she’s already thought about us having sex. “Would I be a top?” she wonders aloud. “I usually am, but with you, I think I would let you dominate me.” She pauses. “If I’m capable of letting go of control on that level…” Her words hang in the air.

I don’t know if I want to be on top, or let her top, but I know I want to feel her body on mine. We make a plan to go out dancing that night.

Last night: I’m buzzing with her fingertips on my skin, when she puts her soft hand around my neck, gripping me. The sensation of being lightly choked while drunk in a crowded bar makes me edge toward a black out. I relax into her power and feel my throat closing. When she releases me, there is a rush of wetness between my legs. I take a deep breath in, dizzy. I think she wants to be the top.

Her full lips are wet, and she moistens them more with her tongue. Beer is sloshing onto me from every angle, I’ve never cared less. I get up on my tip toes, fall into her for a kiss. My hands curve up her chest, I find a nipple, run my finger back and forth over it. We take turns biting, sucking lips, still moving in rhythm, forgetting where we are.

I pull down the straps of my dress to expose my collarbones and pull her chin down to kiss me. She lifts her shirt slightly so I can kiss her stomach. My open mouth runs over her breasts with hot breath. I feel her hands traveling between my legs. She teases me, rubbing me lightly through my dress. Our bodies tense and release in wanting, knowing we can’t have.

We need air, decide to go to the beach in a breathy exchange between kisses. Our feet in the sand, we talk in whispers again. She wants to read my writing. She wants to know me, my body. She wants to visit me in New York. We make promises and plans, I let her believe it’s possible, trace her jawline with my index finger, lap at her earlobe with my tongue. 

Back in the crowded bar, we dance close for a long time, her leg pressing between mine, my hands on her ass. 


Aurore aims to publish voices that help reframe what eroticism and desire look like for a wide variety of people. Think: the kind of sex education you wish you got. We want stories with fully developed characters, palpable emotion, and graphic descriptions. Stories should be empowering and feminist, or explore and reflect on situations that were less than. We encourage writers to reimagine scenarios and rewrite endings so they come out on top. Writing real erotica is a healing exercise. 

We're looking for stories 800 words or longer. Pay per published piece is $50. Full submission details here:

Written by

This story was originally published on Aurore, a new space for real sex stories, or non-fiction erotica.