• #10528 (no title)
  • 15 September 2020
  • Gourmet, Down South
  • The Author
  • Walking
  • What Endures. What Passes.

Dispatches From Dystopia

~ "What man by worrying can add one cubit to his span of years?"

Dispatches From Dystopia

Category Archives: Erotic Writing

Quid Pro Quo

12 Monday Nov 2018

Posted by David in Erotic Writing, Sexuality

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Tags

#liaisons, #NSFW, #open marriage

NSFW. Mature story

I hadn’t planned on this. I had been good all my life, paid my bills, my taxes, joined the Army, married a woman I loved, fathered children, raised them right, and never cheated.

Until one day my wife said, “I’m bored. Find a man to fuck me. And I will find a woman to “do” you.”

I tried to get my jaw off the floor and engage in some kind of dialogue around this request, or demand, however you choose to look at it.

“Are you serious?!”

“Yes.”

“Why”

” I was a virgin when we were married. I have no complaints about you as a lover, husband, provider. But I just wonder what have I missed. Crazy, huh?”

“Well yeah.”

“Here are the rules. You will find a man you think I might be attracted to. You will inform him of my offer. He will then be examined by a physician of my choosing to determine if he is disease-free and healthy. I don’t what him dying while he’s doing me.”

“He will then go to see my friend Celeste, the artist, She will make a mask that he will wear whenever we have sex. She will also make a plaster mold of his cock. If he pleases me she will cast a replica of his cock in silicon rubber.”

“I will also wear a mask. All of our liaisons will take place a nice Air BnB of my choosing. I have arranged with the owners our need for strict anonymity and privacy.”

“Please begin your search as soon as possible. You are tasked with using your skills to find a lover, not a stud. If you are vexed or puzzled, good. For your job is to enter my head and think like me, desire like me.”

There Are Times

10 Saturday Nov 2018

Posted by David in Erotic Writing, seduction

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Tags

#Longing

There are times it doesn’t matter

Who you voted for

How much weight you need to lose

Whether you exercised or not.

What matters is the passion that

Smoulders,

Love unquenched, eager

Hands ready to caress

Lips keen to press on pliant skin

As tongues taste the secret places.

Auntie’s House

21 Sunday Oct 2018

Posted by David in Erotic Writing, Sexuality

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

#Southern Erotica

When you are young and don’t know any better and people are just people, you look for clues to make sense out of the world. Your parents and grandparents, aunts uncles, neighbors are older and bigger than you, so they must know something and you don’t know if it’s bad or good , what they do, they just do it and nobody says they can’t.

Auntie had this friend, Wilsie, she called her, short for Wilhelmina, named after a Dutch queen, of all people. She was a good tennis player and archer. She would smoke a Havana cigar from time to time and drank her bourbon neat. Auntie would smile a lot when she came around. Sometimes they would travel, usually with a “Church” group. The Women’s Missionary Guild. The Guild didn’t know about Wilsie’s cigars and bourbon. The ladies in The Guild went to Chicago or Savannah or to Cypress Gardens to watch the water skiers. There must have been a lot of heathen water skiers because they went there often.

Then one day, I was over Auntie’s house to clean her swimming pool, and learn from Auntie how to use the cotton candy machine she bought to keep my younger cousins entertained when they came on the Fourth of July. What I remember is that it was hot. Wilsie had come over, made some “lemonade” that I couldn’t have, but she and Auntie seemed to enjoy. A lot. They placated my sugar lust with a bottle of Nehi Strawberry soda pop and a Nutty Buddy they got from the ice cream man when he came by in his truck, clanging the bell like it was Doomsday,

So they were sipping the “lemonade”, sitting on the back porch, I was sitting on the top step, looking up at them. I noticed Auntie ran her foot along Wilsie’s shinbone. And Wilsie didn’t seem to mind. And then Wilsie leaned in and kissed Auntie, kinda like the way Daddy did to Mama when he thought we kids weren’t looking.

“Bobbie,” Auntie said, “How about walking down to the drug store, get some calamine lotion and buy yourself a Snickers with the change.”

“Yes, ma’am,”

Nobody had poison oak or mosquito bites, so I wondered why she needed calamine lotion, but having a Snickers all to my self, put my curiosity to sleep, at least for a while.

Walking back, it was getting hotter, and my Snickers was melting and since I wanted to save it anyway, I walked up the back steps to the kitchen, was ready to just let the screen door slam behind me, but I didn’t. When I walked into the kitchen something told me to keep quiet. I put the candy bar in the ice box and heard over the whirr of the fans, some soft, moany sort of noises. I saw that Auntie’s bedroom door was almost completely open, because it was so hot and her fan was on too. It must have been hot, ’cause she was naked and Wilsie was too. They were rubbing up against each other and moaning louder and louder, I just wondered how they were going to cool off doing that.

It was then I knew I better look away, creep on back to the porch and act like noting happened. After a while, they came out dressed and “freshened” up. And that day I learned just a little bit more how grown-ups were.

Collar Of Freedom, Back Story. Chapter Three.

21 Sunday Oct 2018

Posted by David in Erotic Writing

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Tags

#Fiction

We knew what we were. I was the New and know-it-all college grad, all eager and ready, with the nuclear-powered dick,and twenty-five years her junior. She was the widow, the grandmother with the adorable grands, the water aerobics teacher. We played the way we thought we wanted to play and how we thought we should be playing. And the relationship broke, faster than a North Korean condom.

After that first break-up, when the game was over, the hearts gone hollow and the tears cried out, she went back to her usual things, filling her days with a sterling silver respectability.

I returned, like Odysseus to Ithaca, to the girl friend who didn’t get me, the job that left me empty, the booze and the weed. It didn’t take long for the girl friend to stop looking for a sparkle in my hollow eyes. The baby she wanted and the stable home wasn’t going to come from me. My job traded my energy and what brains I had left for money.. Lots of energy sucked out, lots of money pumped in.

Direct deposit saved me from the street. For I drank alone, and automatic bill pay kept the lights on and mortgage paid. But in the end, after I recycled all the wine bottles and smoked the last reefer, the red sign in my head flashed GAME OVER. I walked down the steps to the church basement, to join the other burned out husks, ready to have some life creep back in.

After a while, the smiling came a little easier, food started to taste good again, I went back to the pool to feel my body move in the water.

I didn’t expect to find Marta there. I should have known. I saw her finishing up her class, filled with ladies old enough to be her sisters, yet they thought she was young enough to be their daughter. She did not one thing, nor said not one word, to dispel the misconception.

“Well, Dean, I didn’t expect to see you here”

“Oh Hi”

“You know you’d swim a lot faster if you lost that gut.”

I blushed. “Guess it’s time to find a personal trainer. Know any good ones?”

“You’re looking at one. If you’re serious, meet me at my house at 6:30. AM. that is. ”

I was there the next day.

Collar Of Freedom, Chapter Two

21 Sunday Oct 2018

Posted by David in Erotic Writing, Summer

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Tags

#slave/Mistress

She had owned me before. Treated me like a puppy dog, or a pony, a slave in perpetual celibacy, whatever her whim, whatever she thought a Mistress was supposed to do, derived from whatever trashy porn novel, or blog, or pervert social media site she could find. The emphasis was on doing something, whatever. Pegging me with that horse cock of a dildo in that leather harness, perpetual foot worship to the brink of boredom, pony training til my gaits were perfect.

Finally one night, she looked at me, tears in her eyes and declared, “This isn’t me.”

I knew. The power she had, she loved. The service I gave pleased her. It flattered her that a man-slave could lick her cunt with eagerness and consummate skill, with no reciprocity expected in return. But she felt that Mistress was not an expression of who she was deep down, but a job. The cunt-licking was merely the wage earned.

Mistress-slave was nothing more than a mutually boring game. So that night, I unbuckled the dog collar she had once buckled around my neck, put my clothes back on and walked out the door. My service was my gift and it was no longer wanted. Perhaps she never knew what it meant to receive it, nor did she appreciate its value.

Collar Of Freedom, Chapter One

20 Saturday Oct 2018

Posted by David in Erotic Writing

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Tags

#Submission

My freedom lives in my illusion.

Marta had me write this one hundred times, in my finest cursive, everyday for a week, every day at four AM, in only the light afforded by the LED lamp. This was my first daily gesture to her power over me and my service to her. Eventually I needed very little light to do this task.

Each night, before I went to bed in my cell, she placed a pen, filled with the color of ink she chose, to symbolize some facet of my service for that day, red for passionate reckless enthusiasm, black for total completeness, green for renewal of passion gone stale. The spectrum of colors was hardly tested at all.

My illusion, of course, is that I am not a slave, but a free man. I can leave her service at any time. My cell is not locked. My clothes, neatly displayed on a chair valet, are ready to be put on. My car keys, wallet, cell phone are all ready to be taken up. My car is in the driveway, gas tank full, battery charged. My money is in my bank account, the investment portfolio produces the dividend checks every month.

My freedom lies in serving Her. Slavery exists in the world I fled; where I earned my wealth from every client I dutifully served, writing the software they needed to oblige their customers to need them. How I hated the lost sleep, the swill I ate from burger joints and chili parlors, the power suits and shiny shoes, the cell phone that symbolized my thralldom.

My freedom comes from playing her game her way, by her rules, in her house. The rewards are her smile, a caress well earned, an orgasm she draws out of me, as I draw one from her.

By whatever means she chooses.

Fanciful Need

17 Wednesday Oct 2018

Posted by David in Erotic Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

#EroticFantasy

I fancy you on the bed, head down cradled in your arms,

Your buttocks presented to my touch and gaze.

Open. Vulnerable. Ready.

I take the vinyl gloves, fit them on my hands, the tightness another skin.

The lube squirts out and I warm it in my palms. Wet fingers find your labia, as I stroke softly, gently, then a bit more urgent, turning my need to touch.

Fingers fill you now, the rhythm, my beating heart, my need for the primal home of you.

I spread your buttocks with my free hand, your anus, the deeper secret still. My lips move to you to kiss that third mouth, my tongue pushing , licking, while my hand works in your cunt.

This night. This bed.

I take you as I make my need my gift.

A Ton Of Bricks

14 Sunday Oct 2018

Posted by David in Erotic Writing, Sexuality

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

#lustful-thoughts

It hit me today, the pent-up yearning, the sexual desire, the longing to feel naked flesh against my naked flesh,to taste the salty essence of cunt. (There I wrote it out for all to read!), to grasp my lover’s ass with both hands and caress it, moving my hands up her back. I want to feel wet cunt around my hard cock. And see the orgasm seize a woman’s features and hear the cries.

To

Be

Desired

And

Desire

In

Return.

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