Fanny Hill Challenge

Inspired by the writing style of John Cleland

Some of you might have gotten an email yesterday on accident… whoopsie. Do me a favor and just ignore that one. 😘

Capturing Cravings and I have come up with a little competition. John Cleland wrote Fanny Hill using no “graphic vocabulary” and focused solely on the poetic interpretation of lust and erotic imagery so we are testing our skills—and thesaurus’s—to see who can turn you on the most without the explicit and slang terminology.

You’ll be the judge of who did it best.

Photo by Maria Talks on Unsplash

The hot summer day has me exhausted before I even step foot in the house but cold air hits my face as I lean into the refrigerator. My stomach growls reminding me that whatever I choose to make for dinner needs to be quick and easy.

Tom will be home any second and I need to at least have a plan. We have a house full of groceries but nothing looks good.

I hear the front door from down the hall and call out, “Hey hon, what do you wanna eat?” Even a suggestion to get an idea started will help at this point.

His arms close around my waist, his front pressing tightly against my back. Warm breath on my ear tickles when he hums, “You.”

I lightly jab my elbow into his ribs and twist to get a look at him. “Don’t be silly. You know what I mean.”

His eyes flash before he winks, a mischievous smile tugging his cheeks up. “I know exactly what you mean and the answer is still ‘you’.”

Feeling bold, I turn back to the fridge. “Well then…” I grab a strawberry out of the plastic container, pluck the leafy stem off, slide it into my mouth backwards, and turn toward him.

His hand brushes up my arm and slides behind my neck. With one movement, he fists my hair, forcefully tilting my head up toward him.

Slowly, he lowers his face toward mine. His tongue dashes out to lick his lips. He opens and, just before he reaches me, he stops. His gaze drops to the beautifully plump berry held between my lips then back up to meet my eyes.

“No… I don’t think this works.” He leans around me and I hear the clinking of condiment jars as he searches for something.

I frown.

Saliva has begun to pool around the edges of my mouth and confusion mixes with rejection. I raise my hand to remove the strawberry.

“What are you doing?” he asks, lifting only his head toward me. I’m pinned between him and the fridge door, his arm the only reason I haven’t walked away.

“I… I mean… I thought you were… um… hungry, but I guess...”

“I am.” His head dips into the refrigerator again as he adds, “For dessert.”

Like a trophy, he produces a can of Reddi-Whip.

Again, he tilts my head back but this time the room fills with the hissing rush of compressed gas followed by crackling as a sweet, airy foam coats the end of the strawberry.

His mouth closes around it.

I know the moment his teeth have pierced the flesh because a trickle of juice coats my lips and drips down my chin.

He hums as he chews, coming back for the remnants. This time he sucks the bottom of the strawberry out of my mouth with a syrupy kiss.

He pulls away only long enough to chew and swallow before his mouth is on mine again. His kisses are raw and urgent.

My neck strains backward with a tug and he’s lapping at the trail of juice down my neck.

“Come here.” He pulls me a few steps to the kitchen table and sets me on top. “Lay back.”

As I recline, he jerks my shirt over my head, unhooks my bra and tosses them aside. Then, he works on my pants, being careful to position my legs far apart, knees bent, when he’s done.

I giggle at the absurdity of all this. I feel silly and exposed, but the room is full of the fragrant scent of fruit and arousal. All thoughts of dinner are gone and all I want in this moment is to be enjoyed.

He stands back, looking at me as if I were his main dish and he’s deciding which sides to pair with me. My skin tingles as though his eyes were making physical contact.

The whipped cream can comes back out and he traces a line down my sternum to my belly button and between my legs.

My chest heaves with excitement and anticipation.

“God you look delicious.” He swipes a finger through the cream and holds it to my mouth. I open for him and accept his offering.

I suck and lick it clean as he watches intently, desire burning in his eyes.

He slides his finger out of my mouth, raking it across my lips and pulling my lower lip down with his thumb.

His finger, then, dances along my neck and follows the line of whipped cream on it’s way down my body.

Descending along my chest.

Down my stomach.

Into my belly button.

And lower still, until stopping just before hitting the one place I crave.

It aches for him.

Clenches with impatience.

Involuntarily my back arches at his touch and I whimper.

“What, baby?” he says, rounding the table to stand at my feet. He grabs them and pushes them apart. “You think I’m done?”

Before I can answer, his mouth is on me, lapping at the sweetness there before closing and sucking. His tongue dives in and I’m writhing.

Pleasure covers me like a blanket until I’m panting and moaning; slurping sounds echo all around me in a beautiful harmony.

One of his hands moves up my stomach through the dessert topping, spreading it along my chest, seeking something to hold on to while he nibbles my inner thigh.

I wind my fingers through his hair and push him toward my center again. I want more.

I want him to devour me.

I need it.

My body is slathered and sticky but all I can think about is falling apart for him.

And I do.