The Genie’s Gift
an Erotic tale by Will Crimson
A thousand gifts were given me: pearl, diamonds, books inscribed with leaves of gold and blue inks ground from azurite, rare herbs and spices, carpets, Jimson cloth and gingham, an apple from the Caesarean tree and a coco de mer from the lands beneath the sea. But above them, and most to my liking, you — a gem among gems with eyes like the desert sky and hips like the willowy palm.
A dozen Lords and Ladies are gathered in my tent. Beautiful servants, in few clothes or none, display my gifts. This servant I recognize. That one I do not. This one had been a Lady. That one, in another dream, had been a Lord. In dreams, as in life, we play a thousand parts.
You, my beautiful gift, how shall I receive you?
Dance before me. The smell of the air is dry. The sun slopes westward and the dunes turn reddish. The Lords and Ladies are seated in a circle and the circle is a tent that is thirty paces. They sit in splendor, recumbent on silken pillows and cushions of purple and gold fringe. The cushions are themselves lain on each other and circumscribe the center. In the center are overlapping carpets. The sand is under them, mixes in their tassels, and scatters like a tickling gold dust atop them. Read more…
want to write a poem
my window says
my door says
there must be some mistake—
·····to you and not the black trees
of your nipples so following my fingers
·····you dye me with and –you – i want already
of tasting you between my lips
·····that a woman
February 23 2014 • by William Crimson
Erotica by William Crimson
I remember you. I remember your slimness. Your short black hair. Your energy. I remember how your one-piece, sleeveless dress hung loosely over your hips, how I could see your nipples, and your effect on my cock. In your dress, your motion, and your confidence you all but told every man in the room that you knew what they wanted, that you were young and a beautiful girl. That was a hot night and I wasn’t the only man to dance with you. I felt the promising indentation of your spine beneath my hand. I felt the firm suggestion of your slender haunches against mine. I paid for your drink. I complimented you. I asked if you lived close by. I was going to be staying in the bayous. I had a plan. I had money. I was going places. I had a dozen men to work under me. You told me everything I wanted to know and left. I told half a dozen men they could find their own way home. Walk if they had to. Hitchhike. This was the forties. I didn’t give a damn. I told them I’d meet them in the morning. I found your home – half cabin, half ramshackle hut. The windows were wide open and there was broad wood porch with wicker chairs. The air was moist and warm. The belching of frogs and the whoops of birds and animals sounded in the heavy, black and brackish air. There was an oil lantern burning inside. I loosened my tie. I climbed the porch and pushed aside a heavy purple curtain. I saw you. My fingers froze. You were asleep. Your clothes were tossed to the floor, one after the other. You were flat on your back, naked, legs open, with one knees bent over the edge of the bed. A bare foot was on the wide plank floor. The other legs was straight. One hand hung loosely over the edge, in mid-air, each of your long fingers curved in its own exhausted splay. Your panties were tugged down, just enough, and stretched just below the divide of your thighs. Your nipples jutted, still alert, still acknowledging what had happened. They glistened in the dark light like little black marbles. The moonlight pooled around the tight dimple of your belly button. Your breasts rose and fell. The tuft, the line between your thighs – the panties were pulled down just enough – gleamed with a thick, deep, pearlescent shot of semen. And I’ll never forget the vision, the way you lay there: taken, surfeited, the youthful energy of your hips expended, used, penetrated, quick and by a quicker man than me; and saw what a prize a woman is, every woman, and that all men are landsmen, and that I’d never make a mistake like that again.
— February 21 2014
- I only had three requests to read The Virgin Sacrifice and this could be for reasons ranging from disinterest to a desire for anonymity, but it seemed a shame not let this little ditty see the light of day.
The Tentacles Eight
One is a girl
fresh as a daisy
minding her business
in new shoes and paisley.
Two is for Tentacle,
but trouble and out for a feast.
Three is seducible
a pinch, and soul-searching eyes.
Five is face down
And held by the hair –
lift their asses straight in the air.
Six is for orgasms, one
(A tentacle lover
makes love like no other.)
Seven’s for ink –
The tentacle kind –
In front, upside down,
And some more from behind
Eight’s for eight babies.
All in a-whirl
‘Cause that’s what eight tentacles
Squirt in a girl.
Erotica by William Crimson
Two having sex may not have it with each other. The bodies can meet when the minds don’t. Maybe that’s what happened last night – sometimes that’s the best kind. I was already home when you stormed through the door. It had been a week since we’d had sex, fucked, made love. I was out of the mood to ask politely and out of the mood to wait for you to come looking; and unless I did something about it tonight wasn’t going to be any different.
I’d been reading. I didn’t move from the couch. I watched you walk in. I watched you throw your bags on the mudroom countertop. You glanced at me, you exhaled like the day had been hellacious, and you made a beeline for the bedroom. I was tempted to follow you. I didn’t. You were in a mood. When you came out you were wearing red shorts, the kind a gal jogs in, and one of my tank tops. But you weren’t going outside dressed like that.
The outdoors was January and 3 below zero. You went for the exercise bike – an ugly thing I’ve never liked, unless you were on it.
You didn’t give me the time of day. You went straight for the bike and got on your way.
Maybe you had a bad case of cabin fever. Within a minute or two you were pedaling a steady clip. I put my book down. I watched your legs. I watched your breasts, your tits appearing and disappearing through the oversized sleeves of my tank top. I soaked in the curl of your back and the jut of your ass on the bicycle seat. Christ, I swear sometimes women don’t know what they do to men – or maybe you did. I squeezed my cock through the crotch of my jeans. You were somewhere else: a country road on outskirts of Paris, the open plains of South Dakota, a New Zealand coastline.
I’d stood up. I tossed my book behind me. I lifted my shirt over my head.