Lexi Sylver “Femme Fatale”

Residing in Montréal, Canada, Lexi Sylver divides her time between writing short erotica, and helping run a retail lingerie business.  Her passions for psychology, reading, writing and sexuality, all come together uniquely in her erotic works, which are centered around original characters and detailed scenarios.  Lexi is in the midst of preparing Mating Season, a collection of previously unpublished short erotic stories, which will be released this year.  For short erotica, sex positions, sex toy reviews, top 10 lists and more, take a peek at http://www.lexisylver.com/.

Femme Fatale

by Lexi Sylver

I knew it wouldn’t be easy turning thirty.

But I never once thought I’d celebrate entering the third decade of life crouched in a muddy ditch, armed with two revolvers, plenty of ammo, two hunting knives, stun gun, hand grenades, and a bunch of high-tech gizmos (small microphones and cameras undetectable even with the most advanced machines and cool stuff you’ve only ever dreamed of possessing).  Waiting, watching through my special x-ray/night vision goggles with bated breath and a stiff neck for the last two hours.  The guard pacing the north side of the building is called on his walkie-talkie, replies, then leaves his post.  I’d have saved tons of time if I’d just sniped him off from his tower at the get-go, but I need to be completely incognito.  This assignment is supposed to be a quick in-and-out recon mission, and being that I’m flying solo, I want to avoid alerting the two dozen men in and out of the biochemical compound of my presence.

I take a quick look around, grab my ammo and dart towards the north side entrance.  My quick movements remind me that I should also be armed with a full-support bra, always ready for these spur-of-the-moment situations, both for comfort and aerodynamics.  Who knew when an invisible sensor could go off with the slightest flinch to make you blow an entire mission.  Any professional female spy knows you should always be ready for action, no matter where or when, or why or who.  Because criminals have a knack of always planning their schemes at the most inconvenient times…

Lexi Sylver “A Thirst For Truth”

About Lexi Sylver…

Currently residing in Montréal, Canada, I divide my time between writing short erotic stories and running a small lingerie business.  My passions for psychology, reading, writing and sex have all combined wonderfully to help me produce original, detailed and explicit erotic works for my fans and friends to pore over.  I am in the midst of working on Mating Season, a collection of previously unpublished short erotic stories.  Read my erotic shorts, sex advice, and humorous Top 10 lists on my site: http://www.lexisylver.com/.

A Thirst for Truth

By Lexi Sylver

Currently residing in Montréal, Canada, I divide my time between writing short erotic stories and running a small lingerie business.  My passions for psychology, reading, writing and sex have all combined wonderfully to help me produce original, detailed and explicit erotic works for my fans and friends to pore over.  I am in the midst of working on Mating Season, a collection of previously unpublished short erotic stories.  Read my erotic shorts, sex advice, and humorous Top 10 lists on my site: http://www.lexisylver.com/.

The evening is brisk, a chill sweeping up her bare legs, signaling a change of season.  She feels his arm slide over her shoulders, hugging her body to his, trying to warm her.  She eases into him, making the walk back to her apartment more bearable.  They reach the front steps to her building, and she turns to him with a smile.  Without speaking, he grabs her in his arms.  She looks up at his shadowed face, her body faltering against the hardness of his body.  Then his mouth is on hers, soft yet urgent, the scent of him making her dizzy.

“Come up for a while,” she murmurs against his lips.  He follows her up the winding staircase to her apartment.  She fumbles with her keys, drops them, nervous.  He picks them up and smiles, reassuring her.  The key slides in the lock, and she opens the door, bringing this man into her personal space, her little world away from reality.

He comes up behind her and grips her tightly, sliding his hands down her back, finding the hem of her dress and slipping beneath it.  She moans as he touches the soft, sensitive flesh of her bare thighs and bottom.  His lips lower to her neck as his fingers wander closer to her most aching spot, touching her gently over her moistened panties.  She moans, leaning her head back onto his chest as his fingers slip the straps of her dress down her arms, the fabric falling into a silken pile onto the floor, leaving her almost naked.  He pulls off her panties, propelling her to the bed, where she lies down on her back.  Her eyes flutter shut as his mouth hungrily presses into her inner thighs, until she feels him bite into her flesh, the most exquisite pleasure washing over her…

Lexi Sylver “Triple Play”

About Lexi Sylver…

Currently residing in Montréal, Canada, I divide my time between writing short erotic stories and running a small lingerie business.  My passions for psychology, reading, writing and sex have all combined wonderfully to help me produce original, detailed and explicit erotic works for my fans and friends to pore over.  I am in the midst of working on Mating Season, a collection of previously unpublished short erotic stories.  Read my erotic shorts, sex advice, and humorous Top 10 lists on my site: http://www.lexisylver.com/.

“Triple Play”

By Lexi Sylver

The night air is cool on my skin, the wind sweeping up the skirt of my dress, softly caressing my bare thighs.  I pull open the large door to the bar, Patrick and Jackson right behind me, the seductive music sucking us in.  The three of us have just left a mutual friend’s birthday party, deciding to have a quick drink before heading home.  I feel especially sensuous, Patrick and Jackson’s brown eyes roving over my breasts, the curve of my ass and the pout of my lips, for the last few hours.  Since I met these sexy, Irish-blooded brothers six months ago, I have been consumed with fantasies of them, pondering the deliciousness of crossing the line beyond our flirtation.

Nothing has ensued yet from our heated stares, and double entendres.  I attributed the lack of our sexual engagement to my reluctance (and inability) to choose between them, to allow one to penetrate me while leaving the other to feel dejected, ultimately losing the egotistical, territorial battle that is particularly powerful between kin.  Now I flourish under their attentiveness, rethinking my options.  I am so aroused I can barely sit still, constantly adjusting myself on the seat between them at this small, round table.

The waitress serves our drinks, momentarily distracting me from the two men’s stares.  We thank her, clinking glasses before falling into a deep conversation about their upcoming baseball game.  The thought of them in their uniforms makes me smile slyly.  I manage to take one sip of my amaretto sour before I feel a hand stroking my bare knee underneath the table.  It is impossible to figure out which brother is doing this, because neither of them have ever tried to touch me so intimately before, and they are both leaning forward with their hands in their laps.

The mystery thrills me, and the warm hand starts to make its way up my inner thigh.  I smile as Patrick animatedly recounts a story, and I wonder if he’s the perpetrator.  After all, he is the eldest and the more outwardly sexual, but Jackson is secretly devilish himself, though less obvious about his seductiveness.   Jackson watches me intently, grinning boyishly.  Soft fingertips brush against the front of my panties, making me almost jump in shock.  I consume my drink several sips at a time just to hide the amused expression on my face.

Lexy Sylver “The Perfect Fix”

Check out Ms. Sylver’s sizzling stories on her new website:  www.lexisylver.com

“The Perfect Fix”

By Lexi Sylver

It is surely the hottest day of summer.  The humidity clings to me like a second skin.  As I make my way to the lingerie boutique I own and operate, I mentally chastise myself for having worn jeans and a tank top today.  I precariously balance my steaming cup of coffee in one hand while jiggling my keys in the door to unlock it, managing just barely to avoid spilling the hot caffeine all over myself.  I sigh.  I am most definitely not a morning person.

Depositing my mug on the counter, I rush to punch in the alarm code.  I check the time, glad it’s still 8:00 a.m.  I still have half an hour until Jason gets here with his truck to completely overhaul the tiles in the front entrance of my store as part of my renovation plan.  I close my eyes, waiting for the caffeine to pump through my veins and make me feel awake so I can start the day.

It’s 8:15.  I lift myself out of my seat and peruse some of the brand-new bra and panty sets I recently received.  I smile, feeling the silky fabrics between my fingers, examining the new lace sets imported from Spain, my favorite of which I am already wearing, pilfered yesterday .  Ah, one of the perks of owning my own lingerie store is having a gratuitously extensive array of sexy European underthings to slink myself into.

The door opens and startles me.  I turn around, inhaling sharply.  Good God, this can’t be the same man who originally quoted me the price of the tile job.  Today Jason is without his professional-looking glasses and clipboard, his dark blond hair a disheveled mess.  He’s wearing a white cutoff t-shirt and dirty white jeans, contrasting with his bronzed skin and revealing his excessively shapely arms.  If he had been attractive to me before when he was decked out in his button-down shirt and black pants, he is infinitely more sexy to me now.

Lexi Sylver “Any Vixen Sunday: Morgan’s First Taste”

I’m very proud to have Ms. Sylver’s work on this site.  She is very talented and has already made a name for herself as an erotica writer.  Hold on to your seats!

lexislyver.wordpress.com/

Any Vixen Sunday:

Morgan’s First Taste

By Lexi Sylver

Ah, Sundays… my only day of rest.  I’ve just been to an early brunch with Jack, hashing out our predictions for the Giants/Eagles football game tonight.  I love watching divisional rivals battle for glory on the field, brutally attempting to crush each other’s bones to vie for the coveted brown ball.  The adrenaline, the way it stimulates me, overwhelming my attention… football is one of the ultimate aphrodisiacs for me.

I part ways with Jack, promising to make it back to his place in time for the afternoon game between the Colts and Patriots, hurrying to pick up my dry cleaning and some groceries before the game.  The supermarket is packed, and it is all I can do to avoid ramming into the dazed little old white-haired ladies slowly pushing their carts and squinting up close at each and every label on the shelves.  I finally squirm my way to the beer fridge and retract a cold case of Heineken, wedging it onto the bottom shelf of the grocery cart, when someone shoves into me from behind.

I reel on impulse, my first instinct kicking in, the ire and frustration at their breaking point.  Turning on my heel, I glower at the perpetrator of my personal space… and stop myself from lashing out.  In front of me stands a stunning brunette, wearing white shorts and a turquoise tank top.

“Morgan?” the blue-eyed apparition inquires, smiling.

The fog clears in my brain and I realize it’s Naomi, my next door neighbor from back home, whom I haven’t seen in almost five years.  I can’t believe I don’t recognize her immediately, since we did grow up together.  The last time I saw her was the night before I left for college.  We were up on her roof outside her bedroom window, looking up at the stars and sharing some whiskey we’d pilfered from her brother’s secret stash.  Emboldened by alcohol, I’d kissed her, trying to satisfy the burning curiosity of what it would be like to feel another girl’s lips on mine– a beautiful girl, at that.  She’d kissed me back,