Drabble: "Frou-frou," Ziva David
This was written for the MMOM monthly challenge. It's my entry for Day 23 (today!). So I thought I would share it here. :D
Title: Frou-frou
Self-Lover: Ziva David
Fandom: NCIS
Words: 434
Date: May 23
Summary: Pink, frilly things do nothing for her.
Ziva David never understood the American woman's fascination with the... softer things. It was as if they were told to be the weaker sex and decided to go with it. Pink dresses, frilly lace. They were taught to be coy. Demure. She was shocked to find how many of them accepted this. Embraced it, even. Not just housewives, but professional women. Ziva didn't care for these women. She gravitated toward women like Jenny. Abby. They were not the cookie-cutter female archetype.
Ziva didn't go for romance, either. Sex was something animal, primal, something to make both parties sweat and growl and check each other for wounds afterward. Domination and submission in equal measure, that was what she strained to achieve.
She ran her bare foot over her calf and twisted her head, watching the sheet ripple in her wake. She turned her head the other way, shifted her hips, and felt the silk brush against the curves of her body. Her hair was done, the pillows soft behind her, and she curled her toes as she moved her hands between her legs. Her eyes closed and she smiled, biting her bottom lip as she pressed her hand against her mound.
Ziva lost her virginity on a bare mattress in a sweltering room. Her formative years were spent grabbing whatever pleasure she could from closets, empty quarters, and - one memorable time - against the cold wall of a cargo hold while guards stood outside.
Sex could be comfortable, she knew. But she preferred the rush, the knowledge that their pleasure was something stolen.
Still. Perhaps her time in America had softened her. Perhaps she had simply grown accustomed to a soft bed in a safe neighborhood. Or maybe silk sheets were just that transcendent. She dipped two fingers into herself and arched her back. Her teeth worked against her bottom lip as she focused on the feel of silk against her skin. On her thighs, stomach, beneath her buttocks. She tugged the sheet up with one hand, letting it drape across her bare breat, letting it tease her nipple to erection.
She came quickly, digging her heels into the mattress and sagging back against the soft pillows, swaddled in the silk sheets. She took her hand from between her legs, lifted the sheet and let it trail through moist fingers. She didn't understand frou-frou. She didn't get why so many women clung to it like armor.
But that didn't mean she couldn't enjoy it.
She rolled onto her stomach, pressed her face against the silk sheets, and smiled as she drifted off to sleep.
Title: Frou-frou
Self-Lover: Ziva David
Fandom: NCIS
Words: 434
Date: May 23
Summary: Pink, frilly things do nothing for her.
Ziva David never understood the American woman's fascination with the... softer things. It was as if they were told to be the weaker sex and decided to go with it. Pink dresses, frilly lace. They were taught to be coy. Demure. She was shocked to find how many of them accepted this. Embraced it, even. Not just housewives, but professional women. Ziva didn't care for these women. She gravitated toward women like Jenny. Abby. They were not the cookie-cutter female archetype.
Ziva didn't go for romance, either. Sex was something animal, primal, something to make both parties sweat and growl and check each other for wounds afterward. Domination and submission in equal measure, that was what she strained to achieve.
She ran her bare foot over her calf and twisted her head, watching the sheet ripple in her wake. She turned her head the other way, shifted her hips, and felt the silk brush against the curves of her body. Her hair was done, the pillows soft behind her, and she curled her toes as she moved her hands between her legs. Her eyes closed and she smiled, biting her bottom lip as she pressed her hand against her mound.
Ziva lost her virginity on a bare mattress in a sweltering room. Her formative years were spent grabbing whatever pleasure she could from closets, empty quarters, and - one memorable time - against the cold wall of a cargo hold while guards stood outside.
Sex could be comfortable, she knew. But she preferred the rush, the knowledge that their pleasure was something stolen.
Still. Perhaps her time in America had softened her. Perhaps she had simply grown accustomed to a soft bed in a safe neighborhood. Or maybe silk sheets were just that transcendent. She dipped two fingers into herself and arched her back. Her teeth worked against her bottom lip as she focused on the feel of silk against her skin. On her thighs, stomach, beneath her buttocks. She tugged the sheet up with one hand, letting it drape across her bare breat, letting it tease her nipple to erection.
She came quickly, digging her heels into the mattress and sagging back against the soft pillows, swaddled in the silk sheets. She took her hand from between her legs, lifted the sheet and let it trail through moist fingers. She didn't understand frou-frou. She didn't get why so many women clung to it like armor.
But that didn't mean she couldn't enjoy it.
She rolled onto her stomach, pressed her face against the silk sheets, and smiled as she drifted off to sleep.