Part 6 (1/2)
Let's together sit nude on the king-sized duvet, your hair put up in a white towel.
Whether it's so soon along, or full-fledged we handle her a.s.s, sweet lady your l.a.b.i.a in l.a.b.i.a: a continent inside, alias, tease me. Euphoric at the fact that with a single stroke, you find the exact key.
... ajar, the doors. Half asphyxiated, stumble out out of the bedroom, onto the balcony of starlit nights like these.
I want through a broken window to watch you dine inside me. The bridge of your nose slightly wrinkled, project expansion. Another golden gate.
Sun on c.u.n.t.
Just to let in a single ray. Balmy. Perfect origami. If I should barely dangle it between index and thumb, ivory translucence spins. Pretty in the afternoon.
Yes, I want a long dress made from this.
You're reading. Honeysuckle in the gentle breeze, the bees and wild calls of a jay. You're sitting in a chair, out on the lawn, in a country frock, taking some leisure, legs crossed, barefoot.
My s.h.i.+rt's undone. You unbuckle your polity.
It's getting pretty warm on the Cape this summer I'll dampen your l.u.s.t my shades in satins once you dawn ... just to cool down above mid-thigh at lift-off As you slink up your dress I sneak a look, note, on this morning, unshowered beneath you have no gin spilled. Over my Ray Bans, I do declare, until, finally she takes notice. Who's there in the foyer? To glance at the hemline up your mini-nanny, feline- as we smile.
The puff of your femininity, coiffed. p.i.s.s t.i.tty c.l.i.t pretty girl. A woman like you can change the course of history, make a day sway chipper that much more.
Damage in carnage, the arrangement off our garage my mouth a ma.s.s of d.i.c.k and b.a.l.l.s twister, a dapper hurricane.
My garlic tongue inside your candy stench.
One never knows who might pick up the phone at your house. Everything sparkles, startling in the rainy fronds. The luckiest plucks flunky in memory. I recall a day when we all with delight twilled pistols little in your sticky honesty, a lonely trick. Wound in twine, particulars- happily pink, darkling lavender. Simile major I ponder stripes, quit. Pond grant.
Your center-fold innocent of hair, your lower-most terrain in the same hue as those purply layers of gush. A fascination in wonder curves.
You flower out, wafting. Watch me change color.
My pool of languid grace on increase at the hearth of warmth. Astounding, every time!
Astonish me, mister. Tonight, your grace positions make way to the flattering sway of our astronomy.
She sprays he spray by the she sore. Tempt me. Sit on my gash and face the wilds out of me, darlin'. My lick slitty s.l.u.t. Let me stack your ginger digs on in. Paper-thin lips, flower petals to pet.i.t mille- fois. c.u.m blossom.
The lark-grey the philatelists flew in. Piano planets.
I travel the sides-recto and verso- with a pout-y attraction to take to her. She'd swoon on and on and from time-to-time rip, ferocious as far as she could go nether this chemistry, upward.
This lullaby lulling us, behind her lush streams these busy, busy men.
Rock candy, flamingos aflame. Stamp tango.
... and thought of you, thought of how you wouldn't, if you were here, clench your mandate when I do like that; how you would open slender instead; how you would with both hands render my squad car, my sad marquee as we ease along your parkside blvd.
In a show of force, shove my head between milestones that I may lap at your p.e.c.k.e.r shaker, spillage of spun drip I drink you into morning on this date, rippling, sucking. I'm throbbing.
The plump fruit I swamp at the icebox door, unhinge your rigid gooseflesh Forgive us.
I want with these keys to tap out a poem on the softest part of your English. I want to sup until the words disappear, to write with a brush dipped in cherry juice hollows and sperm spree instead of hallowed ink. Let's memorize your address and never speak again. The wells of your salts, all the way to the lower surge. Your b.u.t.tery sauces, engorging peek just outside, molten as she moves in your midst, fold after fold.
To part the separation with her tongue, seeking the panther cave, vanishes. King me.
”s.e.x is something most adults humans have done or have thought about doing and so it's a common, even ba.n.a.l, s.p.a.ce from which to write. But to do it well one has to make it particular. Has to find it's meaning. s.e.x is always deeply intimate, even if the characters aren't involved in an intimate relations.h.i.+p. It's bodies going inside other bodies, it's laying the self bare and it's also a performance. It seems to me that to write s.e.x well one has to know the characters intimately ... even if they don't know each other intimately. One had to know their fears, their hopes for themselves and the other person-even the hopes and fears that they don't know. You have to figure out how much of the character's s.e.x is performance and how much is unfiltered and why-even when the characters don't. And of course, this is what you need to know about your characters even if they're not f.u.c.king. Writing s.e.x might be a kind of exercise for creating character in any context.”
- Tiphanie Yanique Erin M.
Bio I have always been inspired by the erotic impulse, such as being enthralled as a young adult by scenes in movies or discovering a simpatico with erotic writing like that of Anais Nin. I grew s.e.xually of age while Madonna rose to the top and once ran around my country town in a bra. As I grew older, the path of unashamed pa.s.sionate s.e.xual exploration and counter-culture has been an integral part of my life. Attending the Erotic Reading Circle gave me an outlet to make my own erotica.
Mini-Interview How did you start writing about s.e.x? Ever since I was a teenager I enjoyed reading erotica anthologies. They were informative and inspiring to me. I started dabbling, writing erotica here and there in notebooks, not thinking that I could write-that somehow I needed some special training. When I found the Erotic Reading Circle and got feedback, it encouraged me to write for real. Also with the Internet and blogging, I found more ways to put myself out there as a writer.
How does it differ from non-erotic writing? You have to worry more about the stigma of what you write about with s.e.x, whether or not to have a pseudonym and how people will see you if you share that you write about s.e.x. You can't share it with your parents. Well, you could ...
How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? The Erotic Reading Circle is a safe place to bring your work, whether it's something you want to publish or a relations.h.i.+p or s.e.xual experience/ desire cleverly disguised as ”fiction.” Reading my writing at ERC helps me keep writing since I know people enjoy what I've put together. I went to a regular writing group for a stint and it felt like they didn't get the kinky themes in my work.
What's the inside scoop on your story? I started writing this story on a quiet holiday when I had made no plans with anyone and instead of feeling sorry for myself I decided to get creative. One of the characters was based on a real guy I had an encounter with around that time. It was healing for me to write him into the story. It also involves something very s.e.xy: a.n.a.l s.e.x.
Back in the Saddle Erin M.
”So here's the deal: I'll f.u.c.k your a.s.s if you f.u.c.k mine. You want it bad enough.”
”I know you would rather be f.u.c.ked by me and be a little s.l.u.t bottom boy, but tough, you have to f.u.c.k me in the a.s.s.”
Even though I was giving the hard line, my lips parted to kiss Nick on the mouth while I roughly grabbed his b.a.l.l.s through his cotton slacks. Nick kissed me back hard and I could feel the s.p.a.ce in-between my legs start to get hot.
”You know I love to f.u.c.k you, but please ... I need you to give it to me, I've been a very bad boy.” He was unb.u.t.toning my blueish calico dress and exposing my black bra and leather harness, already ready for the scene. Nick got down on his knees, pushed the harness away (I hadn't put in the c.o.c.k yet; needless to say, you can't go out to dinner like that, all jutting out), and started tonguing my p.u.s.s.y.
”Oh yes ... like that, oh that's it.” I looked down at my sandy- haired lover craning his neck to get around the harness. ”Oh yeah, be a good boy for me, keep doing that. Oh yeah ...”
Nick had become a total a.s.s s.l.u.t. Ever since we tried me f.u.c.king him with a d.i.l.d.o, he couldn't get enough. He was driving me crazy. What happened to my man I could rely on to f.u.c.k me, over and over, anytime, any place? Where did our s.e.x life go? He still got me off-mostly, just like he was doing right now-just so he could get me turned on enough to f.u.c.k his round white a.s.s.
”You are a little f.a.g, that is what you are,” I told him. ”Willing to bend it over and take it.” Work had been tough and this new game made him feel better. He agreed with me that he had become quite a bottom in the bedroom. What about me and my a.s.s f.u.c.king? I like to be penetrated, too. Where did my friend, the real c.o.c.k, go?
”Why don't you just get it over with and go down to The Stud or wherever, find some pretty boy and get f.u.c.ked in the a.s.s?” I knew he thought about it. He confided that this was his go-to at-work s.p.a.ce out fantasy.
”But you are pretty and you smell good. And, I want you to f.u.c.k me,” Nick replied, meekness hiding his inner clarity while staring up at me with his big blue eyes. I sighed and stroked the silicone c.o.c.k. We were sitting in the breakfast nook last Sunday discussing his obsession.