If You Were My Lover: Erotic Stories

By T.C. Mill

Twelve tales to tantalize and satisfy.

A great choice for fans of any of the following:
F/F, F/M, F/M/M, M/M, some stories where you can choose how to interpret a character's gender, and a story whose narrator is deciding how to interpret their own gender.
Steampunk, science fiction, historical, and contemporary settings.
Fantasy or realism.
Explorations of scent and sensation; language and bodies; philosophy, religion, and a bit of Shakespeare.

Lust is still considered dirty and filthy by many, but this book explores the beauty in all kinds of pleasure: no-shame, full frontal, explicit, and smart, too.

From an author of stories appearing in Best Women's Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Bright Desire, and The Erotic Review.

• Language: English
• Publisher: T.C. Mill
• Release date: Dec 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005958220

T.C. Mill

T.C. Mill watches more BBC programming than is probably healthy, takes more books off library shelves than she can ever read (getting an eReader has not improved matters), and is currently writing her next story in a fashionable eco-friendly notebook. Or composing it in Microsoft Word with layers of Tracked Changes. Whatever works. Speaking of work, she earns her living as a freelance editor and disorganized author balancing three pennames.With Alex Freeman, she has co-edited two anthologies of passionate, cutting-edge erotica with the New Smut Project. Her work has been published by Nerve magazine, Bust, Bright Desire, Carina, Circlet, Cleis Press & the Tempted Romance imprint, and House of Erotica. More updates about what she's doing next can be found at TC-Mill.com.

Book preview

If You Were My Lover

Erotic Stories

T.C. Mill

Cover design by T.C. Mill, using a detail of Gustav Courbet’s Le Sommeil. Full image from WikiMedia Commons:

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:

Gustave_Courbet_-_Le_Sommeil_

(1866),_Paris,_Petit_Palais.jpg

(Check it out, it’s very sexy!)

Stories copyright T.C. Mill

Thank you for purchasing this ebook! It is the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced or distributed for any commercial use. Limited non-commercial reproduction and sharing, including the use of quotes and excerpts in reviews, is permitted and encouraged. Your support of this author is greatly appreciated!

All characters in these stories are 18 years of age or older, and this book is intended for an adult audience. Hopefully it will fire your erotic imagination, but it isn’t a how-to guide. Check out real-life information from committed sex educators to enjoy activities with all participants’ full, informed consent.

Contents

For Myself

Her Perfume

If You Were My Lover

Soft Petals

Silk

Ripples

Annunciation

Remade Beautiful

At the Temple of Healing

After the Symposium

Madame Her Interpreter

All the Moths in Ithaca

Notes

More from T.C. Mill

About the Author

Acknowledgements

For Myself

No matter how brightly lit, a house is always dark when you come back inside during summer. Electric light is dull after the sun, and windows, no matter how wide you open them, can’t do better than the sky. Although it’s annoying to wait until my eyes adjust before managing the stairs—I can barely find the light switch in the shadows—I also like it. It feels cool and private. And it emphasizes just how warm and rich the sunlight was, how lucky I’ve been to be out in it, how good I feel.

Even as my legs seem to weigh a ton each climbing up to my room, it’s a pleasant tiredness. I’m just about worn out.

I’m ready for bed.

A nap, I think—but first, I want to come.

It’s not that I’m eager for sex, my loins aflame with desire or something. It seems like a nice thing to do. To be honest, my urge to go for a walk had been stronger—strong enough to carry my body out of my desk chair to the window, multiple times, peering out into the warm day, until I had to give in. This erotic spark doesn’t carry me anywhere I’m not going already. I’m not even heated between the legs yet. But I know I will be, and the knowledge is warmly caressing my brainstem.

This expectant-yet-unaroused state isn’t uncommon for me. My libido is as rare as something precious, which it also is. I want to want, at least sometimes. Desire is its own special pleasure. But it’s not a necessary one, and I can have pleasure without it. Today I feel like that. At peace in my body and filled with a gentle promise.

I enter my bedroom, where southern sunlight filters through the white- and blue-striped curtains like a haze. Ignoring the light switch, I leave the space dim and cool as a cave. Currents of air conditioning lick my skin as I undress. They whisper over goose bumps and sweat-slickness. Exposed, I feel as though my naked body gleams in the twilight, though it probably doesn’t.

I’m not like the covers of the books that fill my top shelf, books I often turn to when I’m in a state like this, books which I love like old friends with benefits—books advertised by people who are faceless, voluptuously thin, with innie belly buttons and skin the shade of honey and cream. Well, in the end I’d prefer to have a face. I’m not as hairless as they are, either, and though I feel smooth and even sleek under my hands, that’s only from familiarity.

Familiarity is enough; at times like this it gets me going even more than those well-thumbed pages.

I keep my shorts on, and after a moment’s fumbling behind my back I decide to keep my bra on, too. They say anyone who wears a bra long enough learns how to slip it off without removing their shirt. I guess sixteen years isn’t long enough for me.

The bed looks so firm, plush, inviting, a plateau of creamy sheets. I get in and nuzzle against them. Just changed yesterday and airing all morning in the breezes from the cracked-open windows, they smell as fresh as mint and as comforting as vanilla. Breathing deep, I curl my legs and rise on them just a little—froggy posture, not elegant but so good at getting the job done—getting space to slide my hand down between them.

I’m very targeted in how I touch myself: fingers curling over my groin, palm to my clit. For now, my left hand lies on the bed. Other zones, however erogenous—breasts, the back of my neck and shoulders, the outsides of my hips, the curves of my ass—can be neglected. After a two-hour walk, the rest of my body has had its chance to be exercised and cherished. My stomach has been washed, baptized in cool sweat. Blood rushes beneath my cheeks, which already feel tight from the sun’s heat. Worked-out muscles tremble along my legs. The tiny jumps beneath my skin travel all the way up to my thighs.

My waistband sits snug enough that I can only fit the one hand inside, and once I do it’s basically pinned at the wrist. I can only move my fingers, swirling them over my underwear. In a way the frustration is exciting. It’s sexy. Probably not what they originally meant by sexual frustration, but there you go.

I shoot right from willingness to arousal, needing no more desire to spark the sweetness. I undo my zipper and add the other hand, closing it over my first and shoving with it, pushing harder against what my hips cradle. My shoulders take on my weight. They could get sore if I do this for a long time, but I never do. I’m too efficient to last long.

More sweat breaks out on me; I feel it shimmer on my back and the insides of my thighs. Made