Last month, Shedoesthecity partnered with We-Vibe to host Arouse: Erotica Writing Contest – our sexiest contest to date. We asked you to send us your dirtiest, lustiest, most sensual stories for a chance to win some extremely hot prizes. You did – and we couldn’t be happier with the submissions we received.
This week, we’re sharing the top 5 winning entries. The following submission is from our first runner up, M. S. Penfold.
“Good morning everyone, right this way! And welcome to the CN Tower!”
Ten adorable faces snap to mine as the elevator doors close, locking us together for what is definitely going to be the longest 58 seconds of my life. I grit my teeth against the familiar pressure in my ears as we start moving.
“Bonjour mesdames et messieurs! Bienvenue sur la Tour -”
“MR. LOGAN WHY DOES SHE SOUND SO FUNNY?”
“DYLAN PULLED MY HAIR!”
“I HAVE TO PEE AGAIN!”
“JE SUIS UN PIZZA!”
“I HEARD A SCARY NOISE!”
7am field trips are the fucking worst.
I roll my eyes, catching Mr. Logan’s gaze above the kid’s heads.
Mr. Logan, or “It’s just Logan, the kids call everyone mister. Even the class pet, Mr. Hamster.”
Mr. Logan, or “Are you wearing makeup today? You look…person coloured.”
Mr. Logan, or “That’s a super cute uniform; the pleats really accentuate your lack of ass.”
I draw in a deep, calming breath, and try not to be impressed as Logan quiets the kids down with a look. He’s very good at what he does.
Is it warm in here?
“Thanks Mr. Logan,” I say, as I fight to keep a blush off my face. “We are facing the north side of the city, travelling at a speed of 22 kilometres per hour,” I recite, “taking us just 58 minutes to reach the Lookout level, 114 floors above.”
Noise in the elevator abruptly drops, my ears buzz with the sudden quiet.
What?, I think, 22 km/h, 58 seconds to the – “Shit, I said minutes!”
“MS. MORGAN SAID ONE OF THE BAD TROLL WORDS!”
I slap my hands over my mouth, eyes blown wide. I just swore in front of the 3rd grade class from the most accomplished private school in Toronto. And their hot-as-hell teacher. Fantastic.
Logan slides over to my side in the tiny space, sensing my panic. “She did guys – but know what? Ms. Morgan’s going to give me a dollar for Mr. Hamster’s new wheel, just like I do when I forget and use a bad troll word.”
I try to focus on looking apologetic and not on the warmth of Logan’s body stretched along mine, heat seeping into my skin, sparks zipping down my spine.
“And let’s not tell anyone else, okay? It’ll be our CN Tower secret.” The kids nod vigorously, thrilled to share a secret with Logan.
They’re not the only ones.
Crisis averted, the kids get back to the important work of the day: pressing as much of their faces against the glass as possible.
I feel my shoulders sink as I let my hands fall, grab the railing behind me, tight. I’m not sure I’d be standing up straight without Logan there, strong and reassuring.
“58 minutes?” he asks softly. “That’s got to be some kind of record.”
“That’s what she said,” I reply without thinking. I blink, hard. “Shit.”
He lets out a soft huff, his warm breath scatters across the bridge of my nose. “Isn’t that what started this mess?”
I tilt my head towards him and feel a genuine smile stretch across my lips. Even through my embarrassment, I can feel my body react to his, feel the need to touch him, my hands restless. I grip the bar tighter.
For the last few months, Logan and I have fallen into an easy flirtation, one built on mutual respect and a shared hatred of deconstructed food served in mason jars.
I spend all day, every day, with thousands of people, and every time I get in that elevator, all I want to see is him.
I want to rub my face on his face.
“It really is,” I say, as I try to keep myself under control. “I think I’m just exhausted, going to spend tomorrow in bed.”
He nods, starts moving a hand up and down my back in warm, broad strokes. “Need company?” he says, voice low and rough, like his brain used his voice without permission.
I press into him, unable to resist the need to touch, fitting myself against him from breast to hip. I tighten my hands on the railing, cold metal biting into my palms. I try to speak, but can’t form any words.
“You,” he cuts himself off, his eyes travelling the length of my body, taking in the flushed skin, parted lips, the rise and fall of my chest as I try to breath through my arousal. The disbelief starts to clear from his expression. “You do.”
Heat floods into my core, shifting my hips without any conscious thought, restless at the thought of Logan wanting me, wanting to touch and explore. I reach one hand up, fingers trembling as I finally scratch my nails into the soft hair at the nape of his neck.
I can feel his length, hard and insistent against my thigh. I know, with startling clarity, that I want him.
“Welcome to the Lookout level everyone!”
Logan shakes his head like he’s trying to clear a fog from his brain, his gaze still focused on my eyes. I flick my tongue out to wet my lips, watch as his eyes heat up, drawn to the movement.
Becky takes one look at us, the blush on my skin, the complete lack of space between us, and grins.
She’s the only one I ever told about Logan at work, how all I wanted to do was shove him up against a wall, let him see exactly how far my blush goes.
She looks as if Justin Timberlake, Ryan Reynolds, and Josh Jackson have suddenly appeared to fight for her hand in marriage. Shirtless. On her birthday.
She rushes the last student out of the elevator, and slaps the down button. “Get it, girl.”
I close my eyes, and snort against Logan’s neck. “Looks like Becky approves.” The doors close behind us.
He huffs out a laugh. “Does her approval mean a 58-minute elevator ride?” He plants his palms on either side of my body, trapping me against the glass with the pressure of his hips.
I let myself sink into him, grabbing his shoulders to keep myself steady. “We may have to settle for the usual 58 seconds.” I slowly grind my hips in a circle against him, feel a rush of wetness between my legs.
Logan groans, slides his hands down towards the waistband of my horrible pleated pants. “Better make the most of it then.”
A strangled moan makes its way out of my throat as the elevator start to descent, a heady mix of adrenaline and excitement, low and hot in my belly.
Logan makes quick work of my zipper, pushing the offending fabric just far enough, claiming his space at the juncture of my thighs.
“Never thought I’d be thankful for those pleats,” he breaths out, warm air curling across my skin, making me shiver.
He drops small, wet kisses across the top of my underwear, rubbing his nose along my skin. I can feel the drag of his hands under my shirt, exploring, learning, teasing.
I squirm, feeling myself getting wetter and wetter, goosebumps trailing after his touch. The need to push his mouth to the throbbing center of my core is unbearable.
“Logan,” I strangle out, hands sliding down to grip his hair. “Please.”
He looks up at me, eyes hazy with pleasure. “Yes, Ms. Morgan.”
My insides clench with pure need.
In one smooth motion, he hooks his fingers into my underwear and pulls, exposing me to the cool air.
I feel a flush crawling across my skin, arch my hips towards Logan, a silent plea for his touch.
“Beautiful,” he whispers, finally moving to gently stroke a finger down my sex.
A whimper I absolutely do not make echoes around us, loud and obvious in the small space. He circles around my clit, round and round, lazy strokes down and back up, teasing a rush of wetness from my entrance.
My knees start to feel soft, legs trembling, ready to buckle. Logan wraps a strong hand around the back of my thigh, holds me steady as he guides my hand back to the railing.
“Stay,” he pleads, squeezing tight, his hand still sticky and wet.
I square my hips against the railing, plant my other hand at my side, grip tight. I meet his eyes and shift my hips in invitation: just. keep. going.
Logan sinks to his knees, spreads my thighs wide, pushing his head right where I’m aching for him. I gasp as he wraps his lips around my clit, the softwarmwet drag of his tongue sending a bolt of sensation up my spine. Strong fingers, curious and teasing, part my swollen flesh, scorching a path from his mouth straight to my center.
I can feel my pulse in every cell, every atom of my body, driving me closer and closer to the edge. My hands, restless against the railing, ache to feel the delicate movements of his jaw as he laps at the wetness dripping out of my core.
Unselfconscious moans pour from my throat, giving voice to the pleasure making my head spin. Words fail as Logan keeps up a steady rhythm, mouth and fingers moving in time with my wildly beating heart.
Logan shifts, just a little, just enough, and pushes at my knee, hooking it up and over his shoulder. The angle changes the shape of his touch, teasing at my entrance, tongue exploring every inch of my swollen flesh.
I can feel myself starting to shatter, body tightening with the need for release; soft, pleased sounds coming from Logan as he spins me higher and higher.
He slides a single finger in, curls forward, firm pressure insistent on my clit, swipes of his tongue unrelenting, crashing me into release.
The back of my head slams against the glass as I feel a warm gush leave my body, my core clenching around Logan’s finger like a vice, throb after throb of warmfuzzyperfectohgodYES, one wave of pleasure crashing into the next.
Logan rides out the waves with me, his rhythm steady and strong. He slows the strokes of his hands as I shake, fingertips gentle as he pulls the last few ripples of pleasure from my body.
I draw in a shallow, needy breath, my hands hanging limp above my head. I bow my head back to Logan just in time to watch him draw his finger from his lips, gaze hot and unwavering.
I feel the smirk on my face, a renewed flush of heat travelling the surface of my skin, pushing again at my core.
The elevator slows its descent, the motion shocking us both to reality. I hold my hand out to Logan, help lift him off the floor. He presses his forehead to mine as he pulls my clothes back into place, smooths out my shirt. I wipe my fingers over his mouth, removing the shining evidence of our ride from his lips.
The doors slide open as I whisper in his ear, “The next 58 seconds are yours,” and push him out the exit.
I watch as he takes an unsteady step, nearly crashing into the group waiting for the elevator. The tips of his ears are red hot as he finds his balance. He stops, and turns to me as he reaches the edge of the crowd, anticipation making his eye bright.
I tilt a small, private smile in his direction, and turn to my new group of passengers.
“Good morning everyone, right this way! And welcome to the CN Tower!”