 | ShatterStorm Productions
|
| ShatterStorm Productions
|
Disclaimer: "The West Wing", the characters and situations depicted are the property of Warner Bros. Television, John Wells Productions, NBC, etc. They are borrowed without permission, but without the intent of infringement. This site is in no way affiliated with "The West Wing", NBC, or any representatives of the actors. This site contains stories between two mature, consenting adult females.
Author's Disclaimer: Not mine. Even without using their names, you can still tell they're not mine. Although, if someone would like to give me them for Christmas, I would be on board that funbus in a heartbeat...
Author’s Notes: Man, the first entry and I'm already late. I'm hoping to get the second one written & posted today, provided the Starbucks at the hospital still has their wifi up when they're closed. Anyways, without further delay, my first entry for the holiday porn battle I've started with ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
harlowbabe. (Granted, they don't all have to be smutty, but bonus points if they do.) If you spot a grammar error, let me know, writing at 3am on Christmas Eve means I tend to skip proofreading.
The tree lights glisten, fending off the darkness on the other side of the window. I wonder briefly if this is beginning to stray from simple admiration from afar into a stalker’s obsession; but I don’t want to disturb your rare moment of peace. At least, I’m assuming it’s peaceful, judging by the miniscule portion of attention you’re devoting to the lucky cell phone tucked against your shoulder. You pace the length of the room slowly, almost lazily, as if it’s easier to just slow the rhythm rather than stop completely when you know that any minute now, you could be dragged back out into your world - his world, our world, the real world - and you know exactly how hard it is to keep up with the pace you’ve set yourselves: equal parts uphill climb and battle march; equal parts sprint and marathon.
No time to pause the way you have now; your long fingers butterfly gentle against the delicate clarity of the antique ornament, letting the bright lights on the tree slide and play across the back of your hands as your chest heaves in a sigh. My imagination finally untangles itself from the lies I’ve told it, trying to keep it from doing just what it does best. But logic has always been a poor defence to desire, and the fact that I’m still standing on this side of the door seems victory enough to indulge in thoughts I’m sure will someday send me underground. This time around I won’t bother trying to fight the flickering thoughts that cross my consciousness.
So I let myself imagine those long fingers leaving that ornament untouched, and instead sliding down my sides, tracing patterns across my hips until finally they find me, warm and wet, and without hesitation they thrust. Flex against me. Plunge deeper. I imagine teeth against my breasts, knees pinning my wrists and nails dug so deep into my back that I find tiny chips of the metallic burgundy polish you’re wearing indented in my skin tomorrow morning in the shower. Painful, intense, no holds barred sex, the kind you can only have when you know the true boundaries have long since disappeared behind you and you’re standing in the ruins of the guard you let down.
