21 Monday Oct 2019
Posted in Erotic Writing
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I dream of the women with bellies, and asses they think are too big. I dream of their tits deemed saggy, but whose nipples respond nonetheless, to a pull or a tug or the fervent suckle from this grizzled and hungry lover.
The timid end the game too soon. To let the buzzer sound on joy itself. But the fierce and ardent lovers seek eternity with every play and drive. To seek the timeless in the loins’ fusion.
03 Thursday Oct 2019
Posted in Erotic Writing
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Strong Erotic Content. Dedicated to everyone who has felt great passion. And great loss.
I had not listened to Fado for quite a while. Why? Was I afraid of passion in crescendoes and refrain, the Portuguese guitar work, so much like the Blues, piercing into my heart, coursing through my veins like the very blood itself?
Maybe because I thought about whenever I listened, of the time when we were together. How when we were alone, she would quickly reach for the buckle of my belt, undo it, then unbutton my jeans, letting them bunch around my ankles, pull down my boxers, grab my balls in her fist to draw my penis to her mouth, then lick and suck the head until I was breathing heavy. And crazy from the scene.
I would bring her from her knees to her feet, spin her around so she could feel my prick against her butt. Then I would raise the hem of her dress, pull it over her shoulders. I was pleased when she wore neither brassiere or knickers.
A slight push was all it took to send her toppling onto the mattress. And the fadista continued her songs on the record, happy now as the fado continued, like the happiness that only being with one’s lover can bring.
She had turned around facing me so we could begin the wet deep kisses we both thrived on. She would guide my penis inside her and I would grasp her buttocks and we would kiss as our pelvises rocked and thrust and pushed back. We were caught in that world, where we yearned for time to freeze, one slow millisecond away from our release.
Love, I guess, is like that sometimes, the songs a translation of passion and kisses, and sweat.
It sure didn’t feel like risk.
03 Tuesday Sep 2019
Posted in Uncategorized, Erotic Writing
Tags
Erotic Reverie. For The Mature. 18+ I would suggest.
Would she be ready, he wondered? It was, after all, Saturday, her day to prepare. There was hair to be styled, other hair in other places to be removed. Her clothes were her whim, but she knew which of her fancies would stir him to the quick eliciting his generosity.
“I’m in the mood for something leather, a skirt perhaps.”
Antoine, her designer who conspired to fulfill these whims, had found a red kidskin from an artisan in Italy and fashioned a most marvelous skirt that caressed the twin globes of her buttocks as if it were a coat of paint. To this masterpiece of suggestion, Antoine chose an exquisite black silk and fashioned a blouse that draped her breasts, suggesting their presence was within his grasp.
The Red and The Black. Leather and Silk. Flesh encased in luscious textures that fired not merely his lusts but hers as well. For that leather caressed her bare skin, and the tightness produced a sweaty stickiness. The silk, in turn, stroked her bare nipples to excited little points with every breath, welcoming his sucking and later the teasing pinches and then the maddening pulls.
Who is the Master of this Game, she who offers this fullness to match his concupescence, or he who rises to snap at her proffered bait?
He would have her body. She would have his. And the mutually beneficial arrangement paid for her flesh with his dollars. Never did they see their working arrangement as mutual exploitation. But mutual pleasure as attested to by their serotonin gluted synapses,
01 Monday Jul 2019
Posted in Erotic Writing, Love and stuff, Uncategorized
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Sometimes I have the energy to put down a lot of words that may seduce another into the vacuous dreams of my adolescent fantasies, aged within an old man’s brain.
Alas, today, there is no room or time or energy to tempt another with conjured delights of skin on skin, lips on skin, lips on lips, genitals in congress, or moans and cries of ecstasy.
There are in my head, a thought and a yearning of pleasure, a dream that you will be free of all the craziness that enslaves you, just as I shed the construct of my loneliness
And, for once, in your life, you won’t care what time it is, or where you have to be tomorrow.
09 Sunday Jun 2019
Posted in Erotic Writing
Occasionally the moments arise when formality and dogma and rightness fade. I see you naked and soft and vulnerable. That whatever power I may have, I offer to you. I am the paltry gift of yearning and tumescence, of service and surrender.
Maybe we can freeze this time. You and I can both forget what we’ve been told. Or what we have chosen. Life can begin again between you and me. And out of the tingling, the sweat, and the bother, we can kindle the fire anew.
13 Saturday Apr 2019
Posted in Erotic Writing
Tags
NSFW. Erotic Fantasy, y’all.
Long slow morning. The lazies take over. And the dreaming begins.
I am naked, wearing only my collar. I begin my chores, I am on my knees as I scour the tub, my ass on display. You pinch it hard. The distraction takes my innermost thoughts to your body. I can almost smell your cunt.
I scrub on, then clean the toilet, the sink and scrub the bathroom floor, again on my hands and knees.
These weekends are special. My clothes stay in the hall closet. My purpose is service. I am vulnerable. I put my focus on you, my trust in you. You could embarrass, humiliate, or degrade me, should it be your wish or whim. Yet your fancies have not led you there. Yet.
Last winter, in the snow you sent me to pick up the pizza you ordered wearing only my shearling coat and leather boots. I felt the fleece against my nakedness. The clerk at the counter must have wondered when I exchanged the money for the brown cardboard box containing the pie , redolent of oregano and pepperoni.
It is all about knowing my place. Not conniving to get the chance to lick your cunt, or asshole, or have your dildo fill my ass.
I choose this way. I know the itch of deprivation, as the yearning drags on.
26 Tuesday Mar 2019
Posted in Erotic Writing, sadomasochism
NSFW Erotic Fantasy. Mature Topic
It was a typical medical office. There was the sign-in sheet designed with confidentiality in mind, the desk where insurance coverage was verified, the waiting area of chairs, magazines, TV monitors on some specialty medical office channel touting flu shots, stressing hydration, and affirming the wisdom of cabbage (cruciferous vegetables). Sarah Jane was as tired of hearing about cabbage as she was of her husband’s interminable praise of golf.
“I want a doctor to tell me to eat pastry,” her fanciful and rebellious imp side whispered in her right ear as she glimpsed at an ad for Farxiga.
“Maybe a session in that fancy jetted tub after strawberries and mangoes would make more sense and be more fun,” countered her healthy fairy godmother in her left.
“Mrs Harricott.”
The nurse called her name.
“This way, please.” She knew the drill, the weigh in, the blood pressure. She was half-expecting the application of leeches and the analysis of her bodily humors. That would make about as much difference as to how she felt.
At this point, the office visit took a singular and momentous turn. After the mandatory “knock knock“, a woman in a lab coat strode into the examination room.
“Hello, I’m Dr Parminter. Dr Feivel has the flu and asked me to cover for him. I see you are here for a six month visit for your hypertension.”
“Yes.” Sarah Jane tried to sound upbeat and that she had this handled, but she couldn’t hide her discouragement and resignation.
“You sound discouraged.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about it.” And this time she did. The frustration around the usual culprits in getting older, hypertension, obesity, diabetes.
“You don’t have to act your age. Acting your age is the fast track to the cemetery. I’m looking for volunteers to test a concept I have around wellness. Are you interested in being a test subject?”
“Sure. If it doesn’t cost too much.”
“How does free sound? All you have to do is follow instructions.”
“OK”
“Be at the address on this card tomorrow at 6:00 AM. Please fast for 12 hours, water only. Bring a good pair of cross training shoes. Ask for them at an athletic shoe store.”
The Fast
She had her early dinner at Five PM, the one she thought would help. Chicken breast, broccoli, brown rice. Iced tea. Algernon, her golfing husband joined her, although he had a glass of Sauvignon Blanc from some exotic vineyard in Uruguay that his oenophile buddies were raving about. Sarah Jane thought to herself, “Maybe one glass.” She had one glass, then two more, followed by raiding her secret stash of Ben & Jerry’s.
Then the munchies hit and the twelve hour fast became a ten, then an eight, then a six. Getting up at Five to be at the Clinic at Six was a challenge, but she made it with her brand spanking new cross training shoes.
“Good morning Mrs Harricott. We are going to draw your blood first,” said the impossibly chipper Physician Trainer at the Institute. Dr. Eisenblut, or so his name badge said.
“When did you last eat, 6:00 PM?”
“Uh, no, Doctor. More like Midnight.”
“You understand you have yet to begin here and already you are failing to comply with instructions. We could disqualify you outright, but that would not serve our interests or yours. The fasting bloodwork is critical in determining your baseline level of health. If you want to continue, you will stay here and we will draw your blood at noon. There is a waiting room with all the water you want to drink and copies of Life Magazine from 1966, for your reading enjoyment.
This waiting room was unlike any other waiting room in which she had ever waited. There were mirrors on all the walls. A little intimidating, as every ice cream bar, soft drink and donut she had eaten in the last two years flashed before her eyes.
Atop the mirrored wall was a sign, a question, painful to consider:
WAS IT WORTH IT?
At noon the phlebotomist came, drew her blood, asked for a urine sample. A blonde woman with an East European accent came and offered her an orange and some blueberry yogurt.
At 1230, Dr Eisenblut returned. The blonde woman stayed.
“We need to set the tone for working with us. Key is following instructions. There is a level of discipline involved. We hope to transform externally applied disciplinary measures into internally retained positive habits. To that end, you will sign the Consent To Discipline Agreement to continue. You will also receive your first discipline session.
You may withdraw now, If you choose. We will compensate you for your bloodwork, it is useful in building our database. The choice is entirely yours.”
Sarah Jane thought about her choices. She hated the general track her life seemed to be following. She was angry at herself for this initial screw-up. There was no choice really.
“OK, Doctor. I agree.”
She signed the paperwork.
“Magda, prepare Mrs Harricott for her session.” With that Dr Eisenblut left the room.
“Please undress.” was the terse two word instruction. Sarah Jane complied, as if she were an automaton. She undressed, tee shirt, shorts, sports bra, knickers, socks, shoes. Naked, she followed Magda from the waiting room to an adjoining room, reminiscent of a college lecture hall. There were people seated at the desks, some wearing lab coats, others in tee-shirts, shorts, sneakers. Reflexively she covered herself in embarrassment. She felt every pair of eyes in the room were focused on her. They were.
“We want to welcome Delta-21, our latest volunteer. She has the usual imperatives compelling her to healthy living, and the usual impediments, alcohol, bad diet, sedentary living and a penchant for self-will. She needs our coaching.
“Let’s first complete our profile. Please stand still while we take our measurements to calculate your lean body mass. The skin fold calipers meticulous measured the”muffin top” of her naked body, as the measuring technician called out the numbers in centimeters. The numbers were noted by the Lab Coat People, the Tee-Shirt People nodded or smiled knowingly.
Finally Sarah Jane heard Dr Eisenblut’s voice. “There is also a matter of a disciplinary session that I believe will be more efficacious if we conduct it publicly.”
With that an upholstered chair was brought out. “Place yourself over the back so that the volunteers and staff may observe your buttocks as you receive your spanking.
She complied. The paddling began. With each stroke of the paddle the observers counted. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5…..20.
Her stinging and reddened buttocks were on displayed for a full thirty seconds. There were camera flashes.
“Turn around”. She turned and the crowd saw her tear streaked face.
Magda returned to the stage and led her back to the mirrored room. There was a tee-shirt and shorts that matched those of the other volunteers.
She was in The Program.
25 Monday Mar 2019
Posted in Erotic Writing, Sexuality
Tags
Warnings:
NSFW. Sexually Explicit. May Be Disturbing. Erotic Fiction. A Work Of The Imagination
Desire is a funny thing, not funny as in comic or laughable, rather it is funny in the sense of being ironic or peculiar. But when I reflect about desire a little more I think about the ends to which I will go to scratch that itch. My pretenses of being a rational human vanish. When I consider Mistress, I am lost.
I prepare for my visit to her home. Shower, shave where I need to be hairless, the tricky part being my scrotum. I clean my asshole with a stream of water and liquid soap, working two fingers in to feel the stretch and know it is ready for her use, should she so desire.
When my body is clean, I make certain my clothes are clean, starched and ironed. My boots are shined, belt is shined, belt buckle gleaming.
I have the flowers she loves, a bouquet of roses, in yellow, red, pink, and white.
I knock on the door.
“It’s unlocked. Come in,” says a voice on the intercom by the door bell.
I enter. On the table in the foyer is a vase for the roses, with water. I place the roses in the vase as artfully as I can. Next I empty my pockets, keys, wallet, along with the collar I so carefully worked and polished the night before. It will be placed about my neck at Mistress’s discretion.
In the foyer closet are the hangers for my clothes. Even though I meticulously prepared my clothes and boots, they always go here. When I am naked, I turn off the light. I kneel on the cold and hard marble tiles of her foyer. And wait in the darkness.
The room was cold that night. My nipples hardened. My scrotum shrank. I was uncomfortable.
I hear Mistress coming. The darkness is complete, but for the light of her candle.
“Kneel up. Eyes forward”., as if I could see in the near complete darkness. A blindfold is placed over my eyes. Assured that I can see nothing, she then turns on the light.
“Present yourself.” I stand, hands at my sides. I can feel and hear her breathing. She takes out the skin fold calipers and begins to measure the bodyfat around my waist.
“Acceptable. Kneel for my collar.”
I kneel to accept the collar as it goes about my neck. Then a lead is fastened to the collar’s D-ring. I can smell the leather of the collar I worked on the night before.
“Follow.” I crawl behind her, the lead slack.
Crawling through the house, I feel the floor surfaces, tile, hardwood, an occasional carpet runner.
“Stop.” I hear Mistress open a door. I smell the essential oils in the fragrance diffuser. Ylang Ylang and lemon grass.
I notice that I am no longer crawling on a hardwood floor, but carpet. I cross the carpet. My hand collides with a heavy chair leg.
“Stop. On your back. Scoot under the chair. Pay proper homage to Your Queen.” It is a familiar command and always a welcome one. I know the Queening Chair, its open seat, the headrest and cradle where my head belongs. When I am in position, she raises the cradle adjusts it so that my mouth and tongue will align with her labia or clitoris, or her perineum and anus, depending on how she positions herself. Since I am blindfolded I have no idea of what the whims of her senses may be tonight.
Then the scent of her sex overwhelms me. I set to work, aware of my duty, eager to please. Broad flat tongue strokes on her labia. “Yes. More.” She shifts slightly. Her clit. I lick, I suck, I even dared to nip it with my teeth, before licking it again. I hear her growl of pleasure, the only sign I have fulfilled my duties.
“Scoot out. Good job.” She hands me a water bottle. I drink.
She fixes the lead again. “Time for your milking.” I was surprised and excited an the prospect of an orgasm.
I follow her to a bench that exposes buttocks and anus. The bench allows me to rest my upper body, while my penis juts out, available for whatever stroking she wishes to give it.
I feel the gloved finger, the lube, the stretching, the teasing in and out. The dildo pushes in next. My prick hardens more. I feel her hips against me. I am excited and strangely serene.
“Tonight I will collect.” It was a command I had been told about. Until tonight I had never heard it said.
She began the thrusting in my ass, along with the stroking of my dick. My pleasure was building. I was going to ejaculate. When the crisis came, she placed a lubricated tube, made to the thickness of my penis to collect the semen.
I was satisfied. I am always, slut that I am.
“I’m surprised by the yield. Let’s hope the sperm have good motility. I’m taking your blindfold off.”
The room was appropriately dim and my eyes adjusted easily.
“Come to the bed. You may walk.”
I went to the bed, climbed in beside her. We were, in that moment, almost like a regular couple. Vanilla. Almost equals.
“With any luck, your sperm will impregnate a woman in a lesbian marriage. Yes you will be a father, pay child support, medical bills, school tuition from pre-kindergarten through graduate school. But you will never meet your child or the mother.
“You have been chosen because of your good health, intelligence, financial success. You are a modern day god, a Zeus or Apollo.”
I was stunned. I was used. I felt empty. But such are the consequences of absolute service.
13 Wednesday Mar 2019
Posted in Erotic Writing
Tags
NSFW Erotic Writing For Adults. Perhaps Emotionally Intense
Ten
Maybe this was the moment that mattered, Flor thought. This time, after the magic and motion and pyrotechnics, when she felt satisfied, spent, vulnerable.
He was staying around, at least for a while. His scent and mass beside her comforted her. She pulled in closer to him, so his chest hair brushed against her cheek. May she was Barbie and maybe he was Ken, at least for the last few minutes anyway.
But that time ended. The Captain dressed, down to the watch and the dog tags and left. Flor fell asleep again. She slept for who knows how long. She awoke, surrounded by the soft sheets in the warm bed. She opened one eye, then the other. It was still light outside, the soft and fading light of an autumnal dusk. As her vision adjusted to the distance, she saw, on the nightstand, a harness, with a phallus attached.
OK. She recalled the last line of a limerick her first husband often recited, “who did what and to whom.”
Greta then walked into the room. She carried a tray with a glass of hibiscus flower tea, and some sliced fruit.
“How was your nap?”
“Greta, have you ever had a bad nap?”
Greta felt no need to answer the question.
“I need a shower.”
“Very well, but eat first.”
The kiwi fruit, pineapple and sliced pear were delicious and satisfying, the hibiscus tea was easy on the palette, with no heavy taste.
After the snack, Flor climbed in the shower, reveled in the overhead spray. Clean and relaxed, Greta did her hair and makeup again. There was a knock on the door. Beryl. After some small talk, Beryl got around to talking about this evening’s elephant in the room, the dildo and harness on the nightstand.
“This is a special night tonight. The Captain told me he would like things a little different.”
“Let me guess, that harness and rubber dick have something to do with things being different. Just who will be King For A Day, or Night, rather? Moi?”
Beryl nodded.
“You need to know something about Cap. Occasionally, he has a need to shed that air of command and just be used. And I mean used. He shows this side of himself to very few. I am one of his confidants, as well as Greta, and the young man, Barrows. I don’t know precisely what he has planned, but we are to meet him in the game room at Nine. By the way, nothing is off limits and he takes as well as he gives out.
“So I am going to top The Captain?”
“Correct.”
Beryl got down to helping Flor with the strapon rig, making sure it was comfortable and that the base of the phallus put just the amount of pressure on Flor’s clit.
Around, Eight Forty-five, Flor, Greta and Beryl went down to the game room. It looked perfectly like what a game room in a millionaire’s mansion should look like, except the billiard table had been moved to a corner of the room and a king size bed replaced it under the overhead light that usually illuminated the table.
There, naked on the bed, Barrows and The Captain were kissing as they caressed and touched each other, oblivious to any one or anything else in the room. Barrows kissed the Captain’s neck, then shoulders, then nipples, before he began biting and tugging at them .
A masked figure (Greta, she deduced), wearing a form fitting opaque gown, interrupted their deepening passion to blindfold both men with black silk cloths. Sensory deprivation. The Captain was now the one who moved down Barrows’ torso. Then he told Barrows, “Get on your knees while I suck your cock.”
With Barrows on his knees, Cap was on all fours fellating the young man’s admirable organ. The Captain’s buttocks were presented, his anus filled by a butt plug with a steel ring base.
Flor’s curiosity was piqued by this action. This scene was new to her and she never thought men loving men would excite her. Just then Beryl whispered to her, “The Captain told me of his desire to be spit-roasted.”
At that suggestion, Flor recalled that time when her then-dominant told her she would be spit-roasted; she would be sucking him off, while another man filled her cunt. That memory of being used so completely excited her. But after that scene, so very intense for her, her Dom rendered no aftercare. It was the other man’s woman. She (Flor never learned her name) was the one who held her,covered her with a silk comforter, placed a wet compress on her forehead.
Shortly after, that Dom removed her collar, ending their relationship. Maybe now is the time to let that anger and that memory go.
With a jar of lube, her silicone dick already sheathed with a condom,and gloved hands, she walked to the bed. She whispered in the Captain’s ear. “Your ass is mine now.” She pulled out the butt plug, then spit on his gaping anus. She put her gloved fingers into the lube jar, then into his asshole, moving them in and out. With her other hand, she jerked The Captain’s hard prick. The Captain began a moan, stifled by Barrows’ condom-covered prick in his mouth.
Flor was awakening to a power, unknown until this time. She lined the phallus up with the proffered anus and thrust. Then she placed her hands on his buttocks, moving in and out. She could feel the friction of the base on her clit, less excited by the friction than by that powerful feeling of command and control
She watched Barrows, his face indicating his orgasm was near. She moved a hand back to the Captain’s penis, and began to stroke and jerk it to bring on his crisis.
“Cum, motherfucker!”, she growled With no condom on the prick, the Captain’s semen spurted onto the sheet.
She pulled out , leaned down to the Captain’s ear.
“Lick that jism up Boy!” She slapped his ass hard, leaving a hand print.Then Flor walked back to where Beryl sat, opened a bottle of mineral water and unexpectedly for her, cried in deep, shaking sobs.
08 Friday Mar 2019
Posted in Erotic Writing, Uncategorized
Tags
NSFW Erotic Fiction. Vanilla, Though Hopefully Nielsen-Massey
Eight
Flor remembered being escorted from the training room to her bedroom and being put to bed.
As she slept or floated among the worlds of sleeping, wakefulness, dreams, reality, she heard the door open. Through half-open eyes, she saw The Captain walk in. He approached the bed, bent down, and tenderly kissed her left temple.
“Are you awake, Flor?”
“Yes, Sir”
“I want you.” With that admission, he began to undress. He slipped his feet out of the college boy cordovan penny loafers, (with pennies for chrissakes!) Then the black over-the- calf dress socks, (wool, I’ll betcha, thought Flor), Next was the tight-ass White Guy, Brooks Brothers blue cotton oxford button down shirt. (“Are you gonna fold that too or just leave the fuckin’ clothes in a pile?”she thought) Pile. He just let it drop. Next the athletic shirt, aka “wife-beater”. Then the Tight Ass White Guy twill khakis with the crease that looked sharp enough to cut a steak. He was now standing before her in, what else white cotton boxer shorts. This is like a character from a Cheever story getting naked before my very eyes. He even took off his dog tags and his friggin’ watch.
“No watch. Now he’s totally vulnerable!” she thought.
She noticed his erection before he climbed into the bed beside her, pulled her to him, and kissed the nape of her neck.
Nine
Something in the back of her mind told her this would be some sort of tender, virginal, love making, Barbie and Ken on Their Wedding Night. But then, he pulled her to her knees so his fingers had access to her nipples, which he pulled, then pinched then pulled again as the tender neck kisses turned to nips with his teeth. His hand moved from her breast to slap her upturned ass, then slapped her hard again. And again. And again to build the burn and the heat. He turned her on her back, kissed her mouth and she responded. He was feeling her quim to gauge its moisture, then his fingers entered her and she ground her cunt into them. He took his hand away, teased her labia with his cock, then thrust in. He draped her legs over his shoulders and pressed in deeply, his hands gripping her ass.
The Captain looked deeply into her eyes, just before she closed them to better feel him take her.
And then her crisis came, as if another kiss, caress or thrust would be too much. And then he came, had his orgasm, filled her with his seed, as the Victorian Porn might have said.
He held her silently, because nothing need be said.
