NivKay
Autodidact
- Joined
- Jun 22, 2024
- Posts
- 402
Hi there,
If you're reading this, welcome!
I have a fascination for vignettes, erotic or otherwise, and I'd like to share/post some vignettes I've been writing, little tiny moments of encounters. I have found pleasure in writing vignettes with two characters, in particular, women, dealing each with a particular emotion of experience.
Feel free to share your own, with the qualifier that:
Here's my first.
Then, laughter, light and low, not meant for her but arriving to consciousness like perfume. She looked up.
Isobel’s bare feet walked the path, sandals swinging like nonchalant pendulums from her fingers. Her hair caught the sun in threads of bronze and fire. Her cardigan, careless as a knot around her waist, her dress clinging at the hips in the late-day heat. There was nothing deliberate in her stride, yet Clara’s breath curled inside her chest, stalled, reverent.
“You’re not reading,” Isobel said, voice curling like smoke around the edge of a smile.
Clara blinked. “I was.”
“Were you?” Isobel sank onto the bench beside her, close but not quite touching, the warmth of summer on her body. “I thought you were waiting.”
“For what?”
Isobel tilted her head. “Something more interesting.”
There was a scent to her (citrus maybe, or jasmine?). Something Clara couldn’t name but wanted to chase. The moment trembled, not with nerves but anticipation, as if the garden itself leaned in to listen.
Clara exhaled. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“Not always,” Isobel said. The air between the word and its utterance shivered. Her voice dropped a little. “But I’m sure of this.”
Clara’s gaze had already begun mapping Isobel’s body: the clavicular line, criminally beautiful, the pulse at her throat, the way her dress tugged softly at her breasts when she laughed. And oh, that laugh, low and wicked and full of solitation.
She’d been touched before, of course. But this was different. Clara burned without a hand upon her. She imagined the weight of Isobel’s thigh pressed against hers, the warmth that would bloom there. And elsewhere, below, between. She did not move. And yet, she felt herself slowly unravel.
“You look as though designing a cathedral in your head,” Isobel murmured.
Clara smiled. “Old habits.”
Isobel leaned back, arms stretched along the bench’s curve, her dress shifting to reveal the pale skin of her thigh. Clara’s gaze snagged, held.
“I’m not a project,” Isobel said, softly now. “You don’t have to figure me out.”
“I wasn’t…”
“And yet…” she said, turning just enough so that her mouth was nearer. Her breath smelled faintly of grapefruit and something saltier, like skin kissed by the sea.
Clara tried to look away, but the moment had already bloomed around them. Isobel didn’t touch her. Her presence wound itself around Clara’s ribs like satin ribbon: firm, sensual, unrelenting.
The kiss was sudden, not aggressive, but as inevitable as the hush before rain. It was the softest press of mouth to lips. Clara, startled, let her lips part before thought could stop them. The kiss was just the shimmer of two women exhaling into each other.
When they broke apart, Isobel leaned forward, her lips brushing Clara’s shoulder. So lightly it might have been imagined.
Clara’s skin sang.
“I didn’t expect this,” Clara whispered.
Isobel smiled. “That’s how joy works.”
And the garden, so long dulled, bloomed again, like a cathedral.
If you're reading this, welcome!
I have a fascination for vignettes, erotic or otherwise, and I'd like to share/post some vignettes I've been writing, little tiny moments of encounters. I have found pleasure in writing vignettes with two characters, in particular, women, dealing each with a particular emotion of experience.
Feel free to share your own, with the qualifier that:
- the word count does not exceed 1000 words
- that they are grounded on tension in some way
Here's my first.
Joy
The garden had long surrendered to summer’s end, lavender browned at the edges, bees lazy with the weight of all they’d taken. Clara sat still beneath the arbour, the kind of stillness learned over year of raising children, sketching cities into skylines, enduring silences that echoed far louder than speech. A book, unread in her lap, its spine open to a page she would not return to.Then, laughter, light and low, not meant for her but arriving to consciousness like perfume. She looked up.
Isobel’s bare feet walked the path, sandals swinging like nonchalant pendulums from her fingers. Her hair caught the sun in threads of bronze and fire. Her cardigan, careless as a knot around her waist, her dress clinging at the hips in the late-day heat. There was nothing deliberate in her stride, yet Clara’s breath curled inside her chest, stalled, reverent.
“You’re not reading,” Isobel said, voice curling like smoke around the edge of a smile.
Clara blinked. “I was.”
“Were you?” Isobel sank onto the bench beside her, close but not quite touching, the warmth of summer on her body. “I thought you were waiting.”
“For what?”
Isobel tilted her head. “Something more interesting.”
There was a scent to her (citrus maybe, or jasmine?). Something Clara couldn’t name but wanted to chase. The moment trembled, not with nerves but anticipation, as if the garden itself leaned in to listen.
Clara exhaled. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“Not always,” Isobel said. The air between the word and its utterance shivered. Her voice dropped a little. “But I’m sure of this.”
Clara’s gaze had already begun mapping Isobel’s body: the clavicular line, criminally beautiful, the pulse at her throat, the way her dress tugged softly at her breasts when she laughed. And oh, that laugh, low and wicked and full of solitation.
She’d been touched before, of course. But this was different. Clara burned without a hand upon her. She imagined the weight of Isobel’s thigh pressed against hers, the warmth that would bloom there. And elsewhere, below, between. She did not move. And yet, she felt herself slowly unravel.
“You look as though designing a cathedral in your head,” Isobel murmured.
Clara smiled. “Old habits.”
Isobel leaned back, arms stretched along the bench’s curve, her dress shifting to reveal the pale skin of her thigh. Clara’s gaze snagged, held.
“I’m not a project,” Isobel said, softly now. “You don’t have to figure me out.”
“I wasn’t…”
“And yet…” she said, turning just enough so that her mouth was nearer. Her breath smelled faintly of grapefruit and something saltier, like skin kissed by the sea.
Clara tried to look away, but the moment had already bloomed around them. Isobel didn’t touch her. Her presence wound itself around Clara’s ribs like satin ribbon: firm, sensual, unrelenting.
The kiss was sudden, not aggressive, but as inevitable as the hush before rain. It was the softest press of mouth to lips. Clara, startled, let her lips part before thought could stop them. The kiss was just the shimmer of two women exhaling into each other.
When they broke apart, Isobel leaned forward, her lips brushing Clara’s shoulder. So lightly it might have been imagined.
Clara’s skin sang.
“I didn’t expect this,” Clara whispered.
Isobel smiled. “That’s how joy works.”
And the garden, so long dulled, bloomed again, like a cathedral.
