Erotica

#1
Mebbe this is better placed in the Lonely Hearts but as I'm not after anything other than readership for my slighty-kinkier-than-average 800-odd word gland-to-hand-combat enhancement, I thought I'd post it here.

I write porn. Won't win me the Nobel Prize for Literature, but enough who've read it say it's warmed them up nicely. Also I'm slightly pissed off as the one bloke who should have been *flattered* that I wrote some for him stuffed it in a pocket in his Bergan, and that'll probably only resurface whilst he's on Ex-something-or-other (no he's not the OH, just someone who inspires me to write).

My questions are therefore these: want any personalised porn? Want examples? Happy to post if I can get away with the spell checker; if not will PM.

Fate, the Muses and my own (twisted) sense of duty means that this humble imagination of mine seems best employed boosting the morale of Our Boys (and Girls ... I'm an equal opportunities fluff writer).

That's it: over to youse.
 
#2
OCJumpers said:
Mebbe this is better placed in the Lonely Hearts but as I'm not after anything other than readership for my slighty-kinkier-than-average 800-odd word gland-to-hand-combat enhancement, I thought I'd post it here.

I write porn. Won't win me the Nobel Prize for Literature, but enough who've read it say it's warmed them up nicely. Also I'm slightly pissed off as the one bloke who should have been *flattered* that I wrote some for him stuffed it in a pocket in his Bergan, and that'll probably only resurface whilst he's on Ex-something-or-other (no he's not the OH, just someone who inspires me to write).

My questions are therefore these: want any personalised porn? Want examples? Happy to post if I can get away with the spell checker; if not will PM.

Fate, the Muses and my own (twisted) sense of duty means that this humble imagination of mine seems best employed boosting the morale of Our Boys (and Girls ... I'm an equal opportunities fluff writer).

That's it: over to youse.
Porn?? Never touch the stuff, I am a Catherine Cookson man myself 8)
 
#3
"Love in the midst of destruction- a heartwarming tale of tenderness and compassion as a Catholic priest opens an orphanage for young children in the aftermath of the Haitian earthquake"



I did the hard work coming up with a title, take the ball and run with it.
 
#4
Y'know I'm almost tempted ...

Leave it with me and I'll try to mangle something out by the end of the week. I'm surprised no-one's asked me for any examples. Perhaps you trusting lot think that anyone brave enough to say they do, is half-way decent.

Perhaps you think I'm a Walt.

Perhaps I should put my fingers where my mouth is (now that might getcha going).
 
#5
Sorry - am I in the right forum?

Try thinking:

Gimp Pits
Shovels
Plastic Sheeting
Buzz-Saw's
Duct Tape
Plasti-Cuffs
Rubber impliments - various
Hand-held video camera
Internet connection
Electo-genital stimulation device(s)
Mother/Daughter combo who (used) to live "next door"
Ex. GF or Wife
Teenage daughter of MILF GF
Mr. Muscle Kitchen & Bathroom Cleaner

You may not have noticed, but this forum is a little "light" on Mills-and-Boon content......
 
#6
I don't do Mills n Boon.

I do do kinky.

Fcuk it, I'm going to find something to post to demonstrate ...
 
#7
Genius

By the time he's got his hand at the back of your neck, twisting your hair, controlling the movements of your head you've barely had time to think.

On your knees, in the dust and the debris and last years leaves blown in from the north.

The first thought that hits you is "how?" and the second? No the second doesn't arrive.

His c0ck tastes familiar. His fingers are rough and now making your split ends split faster, coating them in alkaline juices dragged from your cnut. You can still feel his calluses inside you.

He talked about duty beforehand. How it is important to respect duty and the chain of command and you nodded in the right places and said yes sir before you knew what duty meant.

This isn't in the book of the Queen's Regulations, more's the pity.

So down in the dust, amid the spiders and the silverbacks you do your duty, willingly, hungrily.

You fight him a little. More for appearance's sake than for your own. You stop and look up at him and his breath hisses sharply as warmth is replaced by ice cold January air and he reaches down and finds your nipple, engorged and aching and twists it.

Shocked, the O of your mouth is now plugged and filled with warmth and pulsing and so you begin again, listening out for the rhythm of his breathing and microgasps.

You feel his climax approaching so you roll your dice and tug his balls and watch his head loll back as he is frustrated and sated in the same breath. Your mouth remains slick with your own saliva and his own brand of amuse-geule. This is too delicious, too too delightful to let him come too soon, but giving him a taste of what might be won't hurt.

Much.

As his first shuddering bliss subsides he looks down and slightly puzzled. You answer his look with a microlick to the sweet spot just below his c0ckhead and he hisses. Control is an issue for you both. Who has what when, seems to be the main question, but for now ... for now ...

He traces the line of your vagal nerve with one finger, and you gasp and he fills your mouth again, this time gripping the lip of your ear, pinching it to the same blush your mouth is gaining. He controls you with little tweaks with thumb and forefinger and the rest of his fingers steady your head, fingers deep in your ravaged hair.

Your eyes are closing. You are becoming accustomed to this usage, to this placement, to his needs and his immediacy. The first bellow of his orgasm you feel before you hear it and you are shocked from your reverie; thunder before lightning. You are scared but somehow still comforted by his strong grip. He pours himself into you. He tastes like a mouthful of oysters and Vin des Sables. He tastes warm. He tastes comforting.

You clean him with languid laps; feline and eyes half closing against the light against which he is a shadow man; invented, wished for. He pulls you up, half swooning with the rush of blood away from your head. You reach out to grasp the man before you, to steady you, ground you.

You touch nothing but air and hope. The Genie back in the bottle, but his musk still lingers.

_____________________________________________________________________________

nuff said?
 
#8
You are the Marquis de Sade & I claim my £5......... 8)
 
#9
That reads as though it should be the voiceover script for some perfume advert.
 
#10
Not bad. The fact that I've gone splut in my undies will have to stand by way of applause. One of my hands is busy right now.
 
A

armadillo

Guest
#11
kinky is making love whilst using a feather for stimulation, perverted is fucking the chicken...
 
#12
No but I have stayed in the Chateau de Mazan where he grew up.

*and* footed the 180-odd Euro bill for the privilege (believe me, on my wages that's masochism of the sort that would have most FinDommes creaming their knickers).
 
#13
I should say that that's positively tame by my standards.

NB I only use the whole chicken if more than 3 are involved ....
 
#17
Nae fear. Been chatted up by a priest or two in my time and anal is a speciality. Sand in vaseline is tame: try tabasco or deep heat (believe me it *works*!)

Not quite sure what an AAC Bowsermong is but if you give me a [pen] picture I'll do the rest.

Word limit?

PM/posted?

Want to see the less tame stuff?
 
#18
A good effort, ma'am.

Feel free to post in the NAAFI - if people believe that your stuff is a little too close to the bone, I'm sure they won't be too slow to tell you.
 
#20
Ok, ok, this is more of a novel, but worth it. My first foray into erotic fiction
_______________________________________

The room at the top of my ivory tower is painted a pale sage green and is edged with woods stained dark. Three sides of this room are papered with the distilled knowledge of the ages. Carter next to Moorcock, Islamic Surveys next to Zimmer Bradley, Chaucer next to Fuller. To the untrained eye it seems as though I read chaotically but in reality the ordering is organic. The fourth wall is punctuated by a fireplace where flame-sprites now dance through the coals. The Green Man hangs above it, the Lady beside him presenting a portrait of my Mother and Father. Earlier I lit my oil burner and now the scent of freesias drifts past me. There are candles on occasional tables placed to the left of each of the two high backed armchairs perpendicular to the fire. My chaise longue faces it and in front of that, a low table stained to match the wood in the room stands, currently bare of its usual clutter of half-digested books and half-drunk cups of coffee. And it's on the chaise I now recline, Lady of Learning, encased in my favourite thinking dress of forest green and a pair of too-high new brown shoes I put on to wear in. I close my eyes to invite the streams of information to flow through my mind, to reach their own confluences where ideas meet, and flow on through to their own conclusions.

I am recalled sharply to the present by a change of scent in the air. Woodsmoke, tobacco, musk, cedar now assail my nostrils. The breeze which brought the change of perfume gutters the candles and stills my little fire-sprites in their hearth. I look to the door but can see only a figure; tall, completely in shadows and masculine.

"Welcome to the room at the top" I say. I cannot make out his face, all I know is that

and I pause mid-thought. Who are you? Your hair is short but I feel that you have long hair within you. I feel you in shades of tan and black but I cannot be certain. I think I see a whisper of what might have been a goatee once.

I look deeper into the shadow.

I see large hands with long slim fingers.

I see muscle but not mass.

And all at once I know you. You are the Erl-King in a different deep dark wood. You are the Wolf who learned to walk upright. You are Bluebeard in my century. You are the Alchemist, purveyor of heightened senses through embracing pain.

I think I'm in trouble.

I stand up to steady myself against a rising tide of fear in my own sanctuary and suddenly I see nothing. Two steps forward to meet you and the candles calm. As the half-light returns I can make out your shape as it comes to meet me. You open your arms as if to embrace an old friend and my guard drops for a second

and in that second I am lost.

You greet me as an equal and I think you're here to master me. Within one swift stride you clasp my hands and pull them behind my back forcing the breath from my lungs and my body close into yours.

I still can't see your face.

I can feel your stubble rasp against my neck as you scent out my pulse. I can hear your measured breaths as you take my measure. I can almost taste the turkish coffee you had on your way here and the canard du calvados that preceeded it and I know I will smell your woodsmoke on my pillow in the morning.

You release my hands and push me sharply backwards. I nearly stumble on these stupid heels and I pause, shocked at your rejection. You steady me with one arm outstretched to my shoulder and I'm angered at the unexpected gratitude I feel.

With one smooth movement you grasp the collar of my dress and rip it, gullet to feet, stripping me of my armour and my second skin.

"Thinking is not enough. You need to feel to understand" are the first words out of your mouth and with that you push me down on the low table, straddle my legs and blow out the candle.

And in the moment before darkness envelops us again, I think I see you smile.
All I can do is feel because I am so scared I cannot think.

I am scared because I cannot think.

"You are fortunate", he informs me, "as a redhead you have one less layer of epidermis than all other hair colours".

The words enter my ear but miss my frontal lobe.
They hit my hypothalmus and my heart rate accelerates.

"You consider yourself a rational creature but your lesson in feeling should be an easy one for you. One less layer of skin is one less layer between the stimulus and the nerve endings".

His words release blood from my core to my skin and it blooms. I feel he has pinned my essence with his insight to a board like the butterfly still fluttering for its freedom. Its struggle is hopeless.

He examines my left breast with one fingertip. The nipple responds by hardening but I feel nothing. He watches me, quietened and mistakes stillness for inactivity, and the external sign for internalised sensation. He seems pleased by the response he encounters and from his pockets he withdraws two sets of handcuffs.

Lying there, quiet, sensationless, helpless he snaps one cuff round one wrist, and runs his finger round the inner circle to make sure that tight enough is not too tight and does the same to the other.

I still can't move. I still feel nothing.

He allows one small drop of hot wax to fall on my now erect nipple and sees the nerve endings twitch the muscle and mistakes reflex for pain.

I still can't move. I still feel nothing.

He reaches for my letter opener I left on my chaise longue. Leaf-bladed Toledo steel. Hard. Sharp.

He cannot resist the sight of me unpeeled and runs the point of the letter opener down my meridian, dividing my breasts to the tip of my clitoris and he tells me

"This blade is raw iron, strengthened, empowered through tempering it with heat and ice. Sensation if you will. If it is good enough, strong enough, capable of overcoming its flaws it will emerge stronger than before and of more use than before. Thus, I shall temper you".

His words invade me. He has aimed and shot true.

Or not.

They catch my last remaining scrap of rationality and the shock pulls me through and out of my stupor. My eyes streak old gold with the green and I feel.

I feel the coursing of adrenalin through my veins that tells me time to match him.

And so I arch my back, raising my hips, freeing my legs, wrap them round his, and rise to meet him eye to lightnighing-shot eye. He knows his words have had an effect.

Before he has time to process this new course of action I offer him feeling too, snapping the free cuffs round my wrists, right to left wrist, left to right wrist.

I lock his eyes, willing him to feel my fight and say

"so test my mettle".
Now our eyes lock he sees something new before him. He runs one sharp fingernail along the length of the artery in my neck. My own nail joins his as the cuffs force my fingers to match his move.

I feel curious.

He looks in my eyes searching for some indication of reaction. He finds none. He reaches for the still-warm candle contorting my wrist and holds it.

I feel the back of his hand against mine. I notice their warmth. It does not move me.

He allows a stream of wax to bubble over my sternum, cooling along the length of my meridian and pooling in my navel.

There is heat that my skin registers but I remain unmoved.

He cocks his head to one side. I see he registers my reaction and can act on this feedback. I also see a twitch of frustration as his efforts remain unrewarded. I absorb the heat of his tempering. He flicks off the wax from my nipple which bends my wrist back further. That burns a little. Unused muscles complain and he glimpses, for a moment some form of sensation registering in my eyes. He takes that as encouragement, spurred on by this positive feedback he leans over me, pushing me backwards and blows on the revealed vermillion skin.

I shudder as though I have walked over my own grave.

Pleased with some response from his Aphrodite he pulls me up and reaches for the now discarded letter opener and turns Pygmalion.

Test my mettle. Temper me with fire and ice, pleasure and pain to crack the marble shell of the idol to reach the woman within.

The woman within responds and I twist the cuff which binds these wrists of ours together and grasp his forearm. The muscles tauten in answer but my grip is stronger still. I push the arm down and back which catches me and pulls me off balance into his chest. I allow, for the first time, a flicker of a smile to grace my lips.

I look down and see his wild strawberry nipple. It sings its siren song.

Bite me. Taste me. I am the bitter and the sweet.

As black pepper tempers and enhances the strawberry, so will pain bring out the fullness of the pleasure. I release his forearm, push him back and prepare to swallow it whole. I smell woodsmoke and cedar and bite down sharply to release the juices within.

He sucks a whole lungful of air in one go and falls back onto the table. I straddle him and am amazed to glide to fit neatly above his cock. I look down on him and he senses a build up of heavy air in the room and watches the barometer of my breathing with the rise and fall of my breasts.

Temper me.

He puts his hands to my taut buttocks and prises them apart. My wrists helpless behind me he raises my hips and looks within me and sees the furnance in which my understanding will be tempered.

He plunges hilt-deep in my arse and suddenly I am Pallas, flayed and unmade by his sword.
There are a dozen cliches I could use to describe me now. I could say I saw shooting stars, I could say I heard the hallelujah chorus. What I feel is extended.

I feel every kiss I've ever had played on my bleeding flesh.
I feel every sharp comment.
I feel every hair I've ever had waxed off me.

but I feel.

I taste a glass of wine I had sixteen years ago tingle on the back of my palette.

With every move of our hips you unlock memories of sensation and they are played out layered one above the other.

And what is most amazing of all, you are experiencing them with me.

3rd degree burns on a beach twenty years back slices through the tension in my face.
Kissing Roddy under mistletoe and the warmth of his mouth.
My first taste of semen; bittersweet, hot and welcome.
The smell of my Neroli perfume on hot skin.
The searing slash of inner labia, splayed, spliced and bleeding on a barbed wire fence at fifteen.

I can feel the heat of the sun in a dark room and as sensation anchors me to your cock and pulls me upwards to ride comets.

I look down from the far side of the galaxy we are creating and see your face echoing my every feeling.

I wonder if I'm dying.

You open your eyes and they fix unswervingly to mine. You feel what I feel. I feel what you feel. You know what I need for you see the condensing of the clouds within us and the storm that must, that has to break and know

I lack the sine qua non
the But For Which

so you take my cuffed hands in yours and weave them through mine.

They are a double-helix.
The stuff of which life is made.

And through this searing heat, this furnace in which we unmake each other now you lead my hands to my waist length hair. With steadfast hands we plait a rope from maiden-loosened locks and you coil it round my neck like a snake.

I know what will breathe life into that which we make, so I uncoil it and take it firmly in my hands and bend over you.

I lay my silken rope across your throat and push down, and as you thrash beneath me face darkening and

I smell burned air and brimstone before I feel a thing. Then the trickle.

Meltwater down my vertibrae.
This capacity for sensation we have built together discharges through your cock and my arse and splits me in two.

As softly as summer rain fall the tears on your chest. I look down in wonder, and briefly ponder their source. My hands slacken and your colour fades.

As fire and ice tempers good Spanish steel so feeling tempers thought and understanding.

I breathe deeply and feel we both understand.
 

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