Category Archives: Erotic Writing

Absolute Service

25 Monday Mar 2019

Posted by in Erotic Writing, Sexuality

≈ 10 Comments

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.

Journey VI- Reversals

13 Wednesday Mar 2019

Posted by in Erotic Writing

≈ 4 Comments

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.

Journey V

08 Friday Mar 2019

Posted by in Erotic Writing, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

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.

Return Of Desire On A Limited Basis

08 Friday Mar 2019

Posted by in Erotic Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

NSFW Erotic Fiction

August Sweat

Much as I endeavour to bolster myself against occasional seizures of lust, instances arise when I must channel my prurient peculiarities into dalliances with a willing and eager partner.

Such is how I characterize my relationship with Camilla Louise Prendergast, daughter of Jedediah and Cordelia Prendergast, owner of the largest cotton gin in Southampton County, holder of the largest tobacco allotment in Southampton County, and clandestine owner of the largest illegal still in Southampton County.

Jedediah prided himself on maintaining this illicit enterprise undetected ever since he came back from France in 1919, only to see the Volstead Act deprive him of the only avocation he enjoyed more than shooting wild boar, or shagging whores, as he put it so colorfully.

He took a liking to me, partly because I could shoot as well as he did, I knew a lot of fellows who enjoyed the fine whiskey from his still as much as I did, and my father the doctor would treat his syphilis with Salversin and not report him to the Health Department. Daddy’s only stipulation would be that Jedediah tell him of the ladies with whom he had his, shall we say, rendezvous. He saw no reason why they should suffer too.

One Saturday, I was enjoying the pleasures of a glass of lemonade as I watched our church baseball team face off against the boys from the Methodist Church in Capron. It was awful hot, my shirt sticking to my back, and any breeze was as welcome as Jackson at The Seven Days.

At that time, as I bemoaned the agony of the Southern Summer, and could not imagine a more inhospitable climate, Camilla pulled up in her Studebaker coupe. I had known of her by reputation. She went to a boarding school in Richmond, then to Sarah Lawrence. She smoked in public. She also helped my father locate some of her father’s unfortunate partners, all of course, in strictest confidence.

I offered her a lemonade and something extra from the flask I kept in my hip pocket concealed by the linen jacket, whose sole purpose was to keep the flask out of scrutiny by the nosier Baptists in the bleachers.

“Thank you, Holmes.”

“My pleasure. Thank your Daddy too for hiring Custis to ply his trade.” Custis was the colored bootlegger who ostensibly tended her daddy’s hogs, but really ran the still.

She smiled knowingly. “An artist if ever there was one.”

“By the way, I’m going to watch the meteor showers tonight. Care to watch with me?”

“Are you asking me out after my curfew?” Camilla asked brusquely, the sarcasm obvious.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“I know what came over you. You wanted to spend some time with a woman your own age, who knows more than the names of the Twelve Tribes of Israel, who, as you well know, are scarcer than hen’s teeth around here.”

“Well will you? Can you?”

“I can and I will.”

Hot days in the South are the only thing worse than hot nights. And I sweated that Saturday. In preparation for tonight’s outing I took iced tea from the Frigidaire and the rest of the peach pie Mother made for Saturday supper. Mother and Daddy knew I was going out to a pasture to watch stars, only they thought Ruffin, my friend who studied engineering at VMI, would be watching with me. They didn’t know about Camilla, at least not formally. But they knew about the ways of youth and the unconventional ways of young ladies who go North to college.

With iced tea and pie in the hamper, I started my walk down to Billy Thomas’s pasture. My father was one of the few folks who spoke to him, even though his great-great Uncle George, the Yankee Traitor, had left the county long ago.

Around One AM, I heard Camilla’s car. “What have I missed?”

“Not much. Just lightning bugs.” She lay back on the blanket beside me. I could smell her perfume, and listened to her breathing. I knew she was there in a most powerful way.

“Timeless.”

“Yes.”

“Ever stop to think that Caesar and Cleopatra could see the same sky?” she observed.

“No. But you’re right. Or David and Bathshebah.”

“Not only can you get Biblical with me Hunter Holmes McGuire Davenport, but you just so happen to mention the most infamous of all the Israelite adulterers and fornicators. How dare you offend the ears of a Southern Lady!”

Just as soon as I thought I had offended the genteel sensitibilities of Southern womanhood, she broke her air of mock outrage with a laugh.

“Gotcha!”

“Yes you did.” It was then that we both knew that pretence of star gazing had served its purpose. I kissed her. She kissed back. We fumbled with the wrinkled, sweaty clothes of an August night. We welcomed the nakedness and how the breeze dried the sweat and cooled us. All the while, we maintained the frenzy that kept the sweat coming.

“Did you bring anything Hunter?”

I knew what she meant and I hadn’t.

“You got any ideas, Cammie?”

“Just what do they teach you at The College of William and Mary?”

It’s time you had a lesson in practical anatomy.” With that, she straddled my face with her vulva aligned with my mouth. I learned that night what women smelled like, how soft those other lips were, how her hairs tickled my nose. And that two people could make time stand still.

And she devoted her attention to me.

We made a lot of noise that we hoped wouldn’t carry too far. And we suddenly had an idea of what fun was that we hadn’t learned at Bible School or from the radio. Maybe the kind Caesar and Cleopatra had, or more likely, Abelard and Heloise.

We did see enough meteors to construct an alibi. And I did get to Ruffin in time to cover for me should the need arise.

And the South and her Summer ground on, till I finally crossed the James on the ferry. And Dante´, Chaucer, and Shakespeare reclaimed my attention.

Journey Part IV

03 Sunday Mar 2019

Posted by in Erotic Writing

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

NSFW. Erotic Fiction. May Include Spanking & Other Kinky Stuff.

Six

Flor blew her nose on the proffered tissue. The Captain applied the arnica gel on her bruised buttocks. He acted as if rebellion and resistance were all part of these explorations. And acceptance of the behavior came with the territory. At heart, he wasn’t interested in the pushback. It was far more important to Flor than it was to him.

The kink dragons unleashed by the spankings weren’t all rapacious monsters. They were also playful little buggers. So when he finished with her aftercare, he told Flor,

“Looks like Greta is at the gym now, Beryl will take you back to the house.”

“Great,” she thought. “More players in on the game.”

The Captain opened the door, called her name and the Symphony In Flannel that was the gardener, that leering gardener, came inside.

“Flor needs some body work. Can you help out in Greta’s absence?”

“Sure. It would be my pleasure.”

The word sounded simultaneously innocuous and creepy.

Seven.

The walk back to the house was absent of tension or menace. It was down right relaxing.

“Let’s stop in the kitchen and get some cold bottled water.”

Beryl told Flor she was the trainer for her college softball team after her playing career ended and that she knew how to work with bodies strained by exertion and tension. Instead of the bedroom, Beryl took Flor to what was a training room, with the type of stainless steel whirlpool bath found in training rooms and body work tables. Through the glass partition, she could see the weight room where Greta and the chauffeur Barrows were working out.

“Let’s get you in the whirlpool for a while before I work on you.”

Matter of factly, she helped Flor into the tub and started the jets working.

“I’ll set the timer and be back in a short.”

When she returned, Beryl wore just her tee-shirt and spandex bike shorts. Flor immediately appreciated the muscled body, one of those female gym rat bodies that looked unattainable to pedestrian wretches like her.

Beryl helped her out of the bath, wrapped her in a large towel, took her to a massage table. There was a face cradle for Flor to place her head. Flor welcomed the relaxation and Beryl’s expert work.

As the tension vanished from her back, Beryl commanded, “Turn over” Flor turned over, her breasts, belly, her bare mound and vulva opened to Beryl’s view. She wondered if Beryl would want more, would take her as if she were another conquest, a stripe on her Butch sleeve. The suspense excited her.

Beryl worked on her thigh muscles, avoiding Flor’s lady bits, at least for the time being, then she moved to Flor’s pectorals and the massage caused Flor’s nipples to harden.

“Crap, she knows I’m liking this.”

Silently Beryl pulled on nitrile gloves, then took out a bottle of lube. Flor wanted to look, but she surrendered to the feeling, not caring really what Beryl would do. Then when her hand entered Flor, she sighed a slow and heartfelt Yes.

No one had touched her, claimed her, caressed her, used her, captured her like this. Intuitively Beryl’s tempo was exactly what Flor wanted. The tension came to a crescendo and Beryl’s gloved hand brought about the squirting Flor read about in Cosmopolitan and what other women whispered about, but didn’t think would happen to her. O-R-G-A-S-M. In Technicolor.

More release. At the hands of a stranger. And a little more of what she held inside came out.

Journey Part III

01 Friday Mar 2019

Posted by in Erotic Writing

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

NSFW. A brief dialogue

Five

Naked. Paddled. Sodomized. By a man she knew for a little under twenty four hours. She felt the burn in her buttocks. She wondered where her dignity went, why she gave it away.

The Captain walked back in with a damp washcloth, a towel, a box of tissues and arnica gel. He put them aside, covered her with a blanket, then held her.

“I know you are feeling a lot of things, not just the heat from the paddling.”

“Is this where I open up after this profound, cathartic experience?”

“Only if you want to.”

“You paddled me like a ten year old brat.” She sniffled.

“Yes, I did.”

“You tell me I want and need this.”

“You do. And it’s not like you can get spankings like you can a pedicure. The spankings are the story within you. It’s as simple or as complex as that. And some stories have to be told.”

“So getting my butt warmed is my version of what, The Odyssey?”

“In a way. After all, it’s your journey; how you got here.”

” How about just giving me a tissue?”

Journey Part II

28 Thursday Feb 2019

Posted by in Erotic Writing, sadomasochism

≈ 11 Comments

Tags

NSFW. Porn. Kinky Porn. sadomasochistic violence. Spanking. This is fiction, y’all!

Three

Flor thought she laid draped over the leather sofa for an eternity, or at least an hour. It was actually 10 minutes. The Captain walked up to her,lifted her off the couch , turned her, draped her over his shoulder, and took her to bed. She stirred when her skin felt the cool sheets. She welcomed the warm down comforter and the silky duvet cover. Her naked body reveled in the tactile awakening. She felt leather, the cotton of The Captain’s shirt, and now this silky warmth. Luxury. The ring of her anus felt its brusque intruder, Flor noted it as well. And at this moment, Flor fell asleep.

She had no idea how long she slept. Greta entered the bedroom with a tray. Flor noted the espresso pot, the pitcher of hot steamed milk, the sugar bowl, and the large cup. The croissants, butter, jam promised something rich, and the fresh pineapple, mango, and strawberries were more than welcome.

“Shall I fix your coffee while you use the bathroom, Mistress Flor?”

“Yes please. Sweet please. And strong.” She entered the bathroom and was taken aback by the mirrored walls opposite the toilet. As she made water, she was struck by her vulnerability, her exposure, if only to herself. After she voided, she stepped over to the bidet, cleaned herself, and here too, she saw her reflection. A mirrored bath. Decadent. She noted the drapes that were hiding the mirrors when she “freshened up”last night.

“Incremental decadence,”she noted inwardly.

Flor noticed the breakfast items had been set on a table overlooking a garden, planted with autumn flowers and rose bushes bore their last few flowers of the season.

“May I ask where The Captain is?”

Of course. He is at the pool and the gym. Then he checks with his office.”

“When will he join me?”

“When he is ready, Mistress, you will be taken to him. Please enjoy your coffee before it’s cold.”

Flor noted the abrupt change of subject, and the ominous sound in the passive voice (will be taken…) The coffee was hot, sweet, delicious. The croissant was a buttery extravaganza. Just sitting nude, in the warm and sunny room was a luxury.

Flor, as instructed, had brought no clothing with her. Since last night’s evening attire was provided, she assumed there would be suitable clothing provided for the day’s activities.

“Greta, I’d like to get dressed now.”

“Mistress, I have no instructions to provide you clothing. Are you warm enough?”

It then dawned on Flor that a choice had been taken away from her. She was being kept in this house, naked, waiting for this man, this Captain, to join her in his own good time. Her gorge rose. She was being ordered, directed, controlled. It dawned on her that there is a term for those who possess no power of choice, slave.

Four.

“The Captain is ready to see you. Please follow me.” It wasn’t Greta who made this announcement, but a man, a stranger, who entered the room. Flor felt her vulnerability as embarrassment, covered her breasts with her arm. Her other hand covered her pubis.

“Please put your hands at your sides. Walking will be easier.”

He opened a door to the terrace. She followed him, down a little step, to a path of stone pavers that felt cold and hard and rough on her bare feet. Her nipples hardened and pointed out in the autumn chill. She was relieved the servant was not looking at her, but the man mowing the lawn, stopped the mower and stared, as did the woman, in the flannel shirt and jeans, planting bulbs. She put down her trowel, and looked straight into Flor’s eyes, as she approached her. She smiled, then whistled, then winked.

Eye candy! At my age! A little insulted, a lot flattered, and even more frightened, as her vulnerability became even more apparent.

Finally they reached his office, a stone cottage, with that Lake Country quality. She almost expected Wordsworth to be inside. But no. The Captain was.

He made general inquiries about her comfort, as courteous as always.

Flor responded with anger and disrespect.

The Captain simply said, ” I knew showing you your place would bring this out. You were looking for the thrill that sex with a rich stranger would offer and yet you were indifferent to what that cost to you might be. But cheer up. My price is only what you want, what you need to lose.

“Thank you, Dr Phil!” Her sarcasm came bubbling out and she instantly regretted the remark.

I’ve noted your rudeness, your insolence, your discourtesy at resenting my… hospitality. There is, of course, corrective action to address your lack of manners.

He pointed to the leather ottoman in front of the arm chair in the office sitting area.

“Bend over that. Ass up.”

Any reticence was preempted by the hand gripping her bicep, then pushing her down and over. He was behind her to her left. She heard a drawer opening, then closing. There was a pause, then the paddle hit her squarely on her raised ass.

“We won’t have any counting strokes theatrics, but you will keep your hands on the floor.”

The paddle struck her buttocks, then again, and again, as the tempo increased and the heat in her ass, rose. She lost her dignity as the tears began. Her imagined stoicism vanished with the sobbing that came deep within her.

The spanking, no, paddling ended. As it was last night, she was alone, this time with her crying, her tears, and the snot. And she felt that something had left her. Something she needed to lose.

Her Back To My Front

24 Sunday Feb 2019

Posted by in Erotic Writing

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

NSFW. Sexual Theme.

She had her back to me as I climbed into the bed. She was naked, thank God. I was too worked up to strip off even her nightgown. I could sense the warmth of her buttocks, my prick found the inviting contour of her ass, wedging into the crack, but too dry to do much more and I was yet to decide if I wanted her delicious and eager cunt, or whether I would claim her anus and, in that crude and primal way, claim her.

She wiggled back, showing interest. I spit in my hand and reached below her belly, parting her cunt lips. I stroked a bit, while I kissed and nibbled her neck, seeking a rhythm to my stroking, while she kept grinding back on me.

I wanted her to want me as badly as I wanted her now.

A game of wanting and longing and teasing and tempo it would be.With my free hand, I spread her ass cheeks,and with a wet finger I pushed against her puckered rose. Just a little. Just enough for her to wonder. Then I stopped, raised her leg, found her slick and open pussy. My cock teased the lips then thrust in, while I frigged her clit.

“ Put that finger back in my ass. Fill me.”

Her hand found my fingers on her clit. She took to directing them, guiding me making my fingers hers. She increased the tempo.

“Yes, yes. Oh shit!“

That much I remember. That was all I cared about then.We gave over to feeling and heat. I longed for this to never end.

This moment. Now. Forever.

Journey

16 Saturday Feb 2019

Posted by in Erotic Writing, Sexuality

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

NSFW. Unapologetic Pornography. Adults Only Please

ONE

The train decellerated, entering the station, coming to a stop with a groaning of the brakes. The passengers disembarked, not like in the movies of the Thirties or Forties, but as modern, mundane travellers, tugging on the wheeled suitcases, or their backs bearing rucksacks, as if a cadre of Quasimodos had come to town.

Flor was the last passenger to climb off, carrying what was once known as a makeup case. She would have been mortified, had the latch failed, the contents exposed to the motley crowd of travellers, There was the makeup to be sure, but also a glass dildo, butt plug, a butterfly vibrator. and a “bullet”. Most embarrassing would have been the knickers she had been wearing only minutes ago, she removed in the unspeakable toilet.

“Miss Flor?” asked the uniformed chauffer, a muscular young man, with large hands and manicured nails. He took her case without asking. Flor obliged with no protest.

“Captain Lettow is waiting in the car. Please follow me.”

Flor was more than curious and no less fearful. Accepting invitations from strange men on dating sites seemed reckless, but a site for those with “peculiar” interests would seem to bring out the kamikaze in an otherwise sane woman. But she said to herself, “Why not?” as her partner dozed away, the CPAP machine working in the background. That was a week ago.

Instructions followed the next day in a Fed Ex envelope. It listed certain “expectations”, nothing so blatant as demands. In it was an American Express gift card for three thousand dollars. She was to buy a tailored suit, and high heels. She was pleased that a quality shop carried a suit that flattered her more than ample buttocks and that the heels, while high, did not have an absurd spike to them. She loved the expensive silk of the pants suit, a stunning black in the style of a tuxedo, but with a short tailored jacket and notched lapels. The white tuxedo shirt with the pleats and studs was a pleasure to wear, opaque, so leering eyes could not see that the silk camisole next to her skin aroused her. The Captain specified. “No bra.” She complied. Intensifying the feeling she was reliving an old movie was the hat she found at a vintage clothier. It was as if Ingrid Bergmann, Marlene Dietrich or Hedy Lamarr had loaned it to her.

The chauffeur escorted her to the limousine, parked defiantly in a taxi space.

“If you would put her case in the boot, Barrows, Madame Flor will not have need of it.”

Flor was surprised, but not surprised, as the man with the short cropped salt and pepper hair, and the authoritative voice, turned to her, greeting her through the open car window.

“It is truly my pleasure to finally meet you. I am Karl Lettow.” Barrows then opened the door, and Lettow climbed out. He took her extended hand and kissed it. Shaking hands was clearly too plebeian a gesture for this Continental gentleman. It was as if the past 104 years had never happened. And Flor had to tell herself, she had just left a train after a long trip from Savannah, not a long trip from Nice, arriving in Paris.

Lettow stated, ” I had a history professor who had a sign on his desk, “Live In The Past. It’s Cheaper.” It said. Good advice. That has something to do with why you were instructed to use the train. The ride allows one to collect their thoughts, see the world at ground level, and listen to the sounds of motion.”

“They certainly did that Karl, or do I call you Captain?”

“Captain.”

Truth be told, the chauffeured limo ride made her feel partly like an heiress of very old money and partly like a teenager on her way to the prom. But the Captain, The Captain, was the cultured and courteous retired Naval officer, his biography said he was. The decoration ribbon in his lapel was a Navy Cross, she learned from the internet. Could he really be 74? Everything about him reflected the story of his naval and diplomatic career, Navy special warfare officer, and a defence attaché at embassies in the more unsavory parts of a brutal world. In short, there would be things about this man she would never know. Nor want to know.

It wasn’t the classic mansion with the ivy-covered brick wall surrounding it, but it was dignified and imposing enough, she noted as the Rolls entered through the security gate, the guard, a grey haired man with a prosthetic hand, greeted them.

“I see it’s your shift tonight Chief. Good to see you,” the Captain greeted him.

“Cruz’s grandson has a football game tonight. I scheduled myself, so he wouldn’t have to ask for the night off.”

“Carry on, Chief.” It was as if the courtesy so ingrained in The Captain carried through to all around him.

There was a Ladies maid to greet Flor, take her case, and show her her room. She informed Flor that dinner would be at Nine, (“Spanish” hours) and would she like to bathe, enjoy some mineral water, perhaps allow her to fix her makeup. She could choose from several Dior evening dresses for dinner. She chose the green silk dress, with the enticing decolletage, After her bath, shower actually, Greta the maid, did do her makeup, brushed out her hair. Nonchalantly she offered to wax her pubic mound, as casually as if she were inquiring about a manicure.

Flor replied with equal naturalness, “Yes, please,”, as Greta led her to the massage table in the spacious dressing area. Greta was undoubtedly an expert in these skills. After another mineral water, Flor was ready, coiffed, dressed, about to offer herself to this gentleman, this affable and courtly rogue.

TWO

Dinner was as relaxed and effortless as if Flor and The Captain were old chums, not a pair looking for an “experience.”

The dinner, an elegant Dover sole, was delightful. The dessert of fruit and sorbet was a perfect complement to the heavy sauce of the entré. Florent noted the absence of any wines or liqueurs. The Captain would have his wits about him, she knew with certainty.

The Captain dismissed the staff. He looked deeply into Flor’s eyes and asked.

“Why are you here, Flor? You’re too old to play Cinderella, Liza Doolittle, or even Sally Bowles.”

“There’s something missing, Sir. Words fail me. It’s just that I can’t take another day of imagining, then denying. Imagining what it’s like to be paddled like a school girl, then used like a pirate’s whore, and flogged again.. I want my will and what few morals I have left to be dropped at the dungeon door.

The Captain assumed command. What else could his action be called? It was his nature to take. He took her by the hand, drew her to him and kissed her. Slowly, with building intensity, his kisses fired her. His hands caressed her back. She responded with intensity that heightened with every moment. She feverishly stripped the gown off, standing before him naked. His eyes looked down, she dropped to her knees, unbuttoned his trousers and took his penis in her mouth.

Was this a move in a game, a tried and choreographed pas de deux, or the burning inside her losing control?She sucked his prick, then deftly pulled his trousers down, digging her nails into his buttocks.

“By God, you are a whore, aren’t you? How long have you dreamed of being this Captain’s bitch?”

“Bitch” resounded in her ears as if it were the highest accolade she could receive. Turning him, her fingers spread his ass cheeks and she tongued his anus skillfully, her pleasure, her duty.

Finally, lifting her to her feet, he led her to the leather couch, draped her body over the back, presenting an open, slutty, and shameless view of her cunt and her asshole. She wondered how she would be used, but she didn’t care. Captain’s Choice? Wasn’t that the expression?

She stopped her wondering when she felt a gob of spit hit her asshole, then a lubed finger toyed with her butt, then two, skillfully thrusting, then pulling almost out. She felt so open, so ready, and then his cock entered her anus, just as his hand sharply swatted her buttocks. There was his thrusts, her grinding her ass into his thighs, his wet fingers diddling her clit, his grunting, her deep gutteral noises she had no idea were inside of her.

She felt his semen spurt into her guts. He collapsed over her, kissing her neck. After a silent interval, as his prick went flaccid, he left her there, walked out of the room. And she was alone.

How long?, she wondered, would she be here, on this couch, contemplating her buggering. She was, in this moment, the whore she dreamt of being.

Azulão (For Jade)

10 Sunday Feb 2019

Posted by in Erotic Writing, Gender Identity, Sexuality

≈ 11 Comments

Tags

NSFW  Erotic Writing Adults Only Please
For Jade

I go to the pool a lot. I see the same faces, the same bodies, the same swimsuits. I know who will do what when I see the person exit their respective shower room door. At least I say that, so I can pronounce myself immune to surprises in all my jaded supercilious arrogance.

Until one day when even I was surprised. It was one of those afternoons when the middle school swim team, in all its youthful exuberance, were doing their sets and drills and flip turns, taking up five lanes in the seven lane pool. Sharing the pool comes with the membership. And sharing the pool often means sharing a lane. No biggie. Today, just as I entered the open lane, a women looks down from the deck, smiles and asks real friendly-like, “Mind if we share? I’ll take the right side.”

“No problem. I have to warn you, I’m old. I just do a long swim .”

“That’s fine,”, she answers, “I’m old too, not as old as you though, Gramps. And I will be doing some intervals.”

I liked the spunky “Gramps ” dig. As far as old is concerned, anybody who looks like they don’t remember Nixon isn’t old in my estimation. She isn’t old.

So we start. True to my word I am grinding the 2500 meter swim out. I check my watch at what I think is every 250 meters, just to see if my pace is consistent. True to her word, she is doing sets About the time I am in my last 500 meters, she does some kick drills with the kickboard. I finish up as she does.

“You’re like the Energizer bunny, You just keep going “

“Good analogy,” I say. “This is the time I have to myself. No phone. No interruptions”

“This is my escape too. It is required for me.”

Required? I think. This is unusual.

As she climbs out of the pool, I notice a tattoo on her left inner thigh, A bluebird. Quite lovely and in a most enigmatic place. However, this is the Twenty First Century. Women drive cars and even vote. I guess they can get inked anywhere they want. Walking back to the women’s locker room, she covers her ass with a towel. It’s a nice ass too, the kind you get when you are serious about swimming. Then takes off her white silicon swim cap, I expect her to shake her hair free, but no, her hair is damn near a buzz cut. With red-orange on top and blue on the sides, the same colors as in that bird tattooed on her thigh.
I shower off, wondering how long before my hair turns to straw again from pool chemicals. And I remind myself again to get one of those rubber hats like  Bluebird Woman wears.
I finish up, put real clothes on, head over to the coffee carafes, and fill my travel cup. Not the best coffee, but it’s free with the membership. I see her turn the corner,as I finish filling my cup.
“Fancy that. You drink this swill too.”
“I have very little pride and even less money. Truth be told, it’s my first time here today. But is it really that bad?”
“It’s about four notches higher than AA coffee.”
“Say no more. I know where of you speak. Sounds delicious to me.”
The witty repartee carried over from the pool.
“By the way, my name’s Bob.”
“How original, Bob. My name is Azulão, but folks call me Azu. My mother is Brazilian, Azulão is Portuguese for Bluebird. There was a song by that name she loves. But I was christened Maria Magdalena.
I know, you wanted to know my name, not my life story.”
“Not a bad story, Azu. I must admit”
Just then, our scintillating banter was interrupted when a powerful looking woman, also sporting a short haircut, absent the Technicolor enhancement, walks up to Azu, gives her a kiss on the cheek and says,
“I see you’re making friends already.”
She turns to me, extends her right hand, and introduces herself as Iris,  pronounced, “eh-REES.” Latino.
I shake it and notice, in the web between the thumb and index finger, a bluebird tattoo, same as Azu’s, only smaller.
“My name is Bob. Let me guess. That is short for Arco Iris, the rainbow.”
“We’ve been here a week and already I’ve met a clairvoyant.”
“Let’s just say, I figure stuff out quickly.”
Iris turns to Azu, tells her they have to go, mentioning a massage therapist with whom they have an appointment.
Off they go in an old VW beetle with the air-cooled rear engine.
Next week I run into them again, Azu in the pool, Iris later. Iris asks if there is a coffee place nearby, not a Starbucks. I tell them of the place, with home made pastries to die for, about two miles away.
“Please be my guests, this time,” I offer. They accept without any
phony “no we couldn’t possibly” hemming and hawing.
We settle in with Viennese coffees, heavy with schlag and slices of a Sächer Torte. As we sit,
Azu makes a gesture of obeisance to Iris, getting her a napkin, inspecting the cleanliness of her flatware, even asking for a cleaner fork.
“Very good. Thank you.”
I am happy it pleases you.”
They have a protocol. I notice.
We chatter on, getting acquainted, realizing we are something of kindred spirits.
The bottom line is they invite me to their place for dinner, to have something Brazilian, with lamb, from the South.
A few days later, I show up with mineral water and some tropical fruit, papaya and mangoes.
We sit and eat and talk. Azu is very attentive to Iris. I am getting euphoric from the good food, superb coffee, the beauty of the flowers which grace their home. It was an ambience of languid sensuality, from the lavender fragrance wafting from the oil diffuser to the Burmese cat who settled in my lap, intuitively knowing I would stroke her sable black fur.
“How long have you two been together?”
“Ten years,” answered Iris, “when I knew that I simply could not deliver another package for UPS, and the novel in my head would not write itself.”
Azu added, “i made enough from my photography free lancing to support us plus the money I saved from. covering the war in Colombia. You know, a war nobody cared about that lasted forever. Afghanistan with bigger snakes.”
She was more  blunt than a ball peen hammer. Her cynicism was showing, like mine when I got back from Lebanon.
I looked at Azu, then  Iris, the look shared among people whose hearts have held too much pain. And that maybe, just maybe, a night’s sleep after some hard fucking in the shared warmth of a big bed, might yet be the optimal therapy.
When you’re sober and you want to have a go with other sober sluts, you just put it out there. And if the women you’re hot for are queer with each other, well you just might be surprised.
I reached in to Azu, kissed her, then turned to Iris. She nodded. It’s OK, Cowboy, this isn’t our first rodeo.
I wasn’t interested in being God’s gift to Lesbians, just extruding the hard and dirty passion that had been inside me out through my tongue and fingers and, yeah, my dick.
I was amazed at how quickly and easily we found a rhythm. Iris and I made Azu the focus, then Azu and I shifted to Iris then those two to me. Simple kisses, caresses, stroking,probing, jacking up to a frenzy, , breathing heavy, a cry, a slap, a pinch, bellies sticking together, and a hand on my ass, Fingers up my butt, gloves, and dams and condoms, littering the bed like latex and vinyl leaves. If it was possible for me to do Azu while Iris did me, then surely Iris on Azu, while I slid my dick into Iris was possible too. We were busy fucking, not busy calculating the combinations. We were lovers, not mathematicians, after all.
Finally at dawn, when we woke up and I showered and dressed, Iris walked me to the door as I saw Azu on the bed, in all her lush nakedness, Iris said to me, “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds. That’s Emerson, Cowboy.”
Then she kissed me good bye.