- This post is way past due. As I worked through my several month literary crisis, I really almost wanted nothing to do with the Internet — just the real world. Unfortunately, a favorite, new and young erotic writer never saw her promised post. Fianna describes herself as a 21year old filipina with expressive eyes and a sweet, care-free personality. And I would add – she also has a real writer’s talent. I don’t know if she’ll keep writing erotica, or how long she’ll share her blog, but she’s worth a read. You won’t be able to read every last sentence — being that she writes in a mix of languages — but you won’t need to.
~ What is it with Dancing?
[few days before January 3, 2013 ]
[when libido writes]
[*plays "Sail" by Awolnation, bass boosted version*]
I breathe… deep…
I’d always have those lustful eyes. Stares that’d say … “I want your cock later… hard…” at him while he sat on the edge of the bed as I stood a few steps across him.
The subwoofers thump in tandem to my hips, to my breathing.
I mouth the words, singing to it with a sultry voice that probably only I can hear.
My cold, almost sweating hands up on my neck… my chest, gently tracing through my thin, see thru polo, of which, my red bra would be barely seen..
I grasp my perky breasts..
Breathe deep again, perfectly calming the heat I’d so love to let go if his cock would be inside me, filling me.
That beat that’d make me arch back..
The room was lit with warm, dimmed down yellowish pin lights on the four corners of the room, then just another one above me, enough to see my fingers run down my body, down to my lacy, silk panties.
Playfully tugging at them, my hip bone peaked in between the edge of it and the hem of the blouse I’m wearing..
My other hand would brush my hair up, then fixing it to the side..
“oohh…” a song would always hum to my dancing..
there’s something about… being watched; in my case however, as I move closer to whoever I’m dancing for, I just love keeping him in heat.. wanting me more.
then I’d dance..
touch myself, in places he’d want to grip, probably the back of my neck, my waist, my ass and slapping them…
I get both his hands, placing it on my waist,
“private shows are still better, yes? “ I asked him, as I gently pulled his hand higher, to my stomach, inch by inch, as I sway my hips..
I turned around, his warm hand gripped my waists, pushing myself in between his legs..
In between my ass, was his hard on, poking me, as I grind against him..
Gently…a bit hard…then back to slow light grinds again…
Check it out. Nilla and I collaborated on (or rather I was inspired by Nilla to write) a fleet little erotic story — or rather, two erotic stories.
An Erotic Novel by Will Crimson
- I’ve decided to move this story into the present. I originally set it in 1992, but there are so many interesting things going on in society, right now, that writing this in 1992 began to feel like historical fiction. I haven’t had to change very much. One of the cosmetic differences will be technology – the Internet, smart phones, social media. The more profound differences are societal. Secondly, there won’t be anymore announcements about me quitting erotica. I enjoy the genre. I’m a poet and an erotic writer. I’m okay with that. My time off was brief but gave me much needed the to reflect on what I want as a writer and what I enjoy. Third, I’m beginning to enjoy the space that writing a novel gives me. I’ve always preferred shorter stories but I notice my interests are changing. I feel like I might be repeating myself a little, in these early chapters, but hopefully that will change now that the story is underway. As always. feedback is appreciated. The prior entries of this story have been un-published from the blog. Chapters 4 and 5 are new. Lastly, all the formatting is lost in the process of copying and pasting from Libre Office. It is what it is.
Boone was everything I wasn’t.
He was tall and talked with a slow drawl. Women loved him. He had a smile for anybody and talked like he’d known you all his life. He was competitive as hell and a sore loser and maybe that’s why he liked me. He liked to say he was handsomer, taller, smarter and from the south but that I was the writer – and that was just the way it was. Ya’ll can’t help being born in the North, he’d say with grin, kind of like being born a fag if you know what I mean. The other thing to know about Boone is that by the second week of August, he had already slept with a dozen women.
—That’s the thing about women, he’d say. I can’t explain it. All they need to know is there’s a guy. Word gets round. It’s like, if women know there’s a guy all the other women are sleeping with, they want to sleep with him too. I swear to God. You go on any campus. You ask any woman. You ask them: You remember that one guy? And you watch. They don’t always talk. It’s like their little secret, but you can tell. I swear to God, it’s like they’re pack animals. It’s an alpha male thing and it’s not even that. I’ve seen women line up for guys you’d never expect. They don’t even have to like you. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s an ego thing? They think – well, if so-and-so and so-and-so slept with him, then I got to. He’s like their trophy or maybe they don’t want to be out of the running. Maybe it’s both. I keep thinking I’m gonna’ ask. Why do you do it? What do you care about Wilt Chamberlain and he about you? But I don’t. Why ruin it? They just fucked me. I just smile and give ‘em a pat on the ass like they were the best lay I ever had and they prance out happy as can be. Now I’m not saying all women are like that. Some are going to sleep with one guy their whole lives and never look back, but if you ask me, that’s 1 out of 10. Maybe they figure, I’m not gonna’ chase them. She’s gonna’ get in, get what she wants, and get out. No attachments.
Boone decided August of 2014 was his turn.
We were having lunch and he nodded at a poet. She was teaching at the program, had been published in the New Yorker, and was on the cover of the The American Poetry Review. She had long black hair, with gray streaks, and liked to wear long skirts and necklaces.
—You see her, Boone said to me. You’re a poet. You know what kind of poetry she writes. I don’t read poetry all that much. I’m a short story guy, but I’ve read her poetry. You read it and you think to yourself, she’s a lesbian. Her poems are all full of resentment, like some guy rolled her over and she’s gonna’ spend the rest of her life telling the world what assholes men are, but if that’s what you think you wouldn’t have a clue.
—You didn’t, I said, and by that I meant he was lying.
—Oh hell yes! He looked at me like I was a fool. Let me tell you – she fucks like a bunny. I didn’t have to do a thing. Hell, all I had to do was just lie there and be a stiff dick, and let me tell you, Will, I am a testament to will power. She was riding it like I was the last dick in Chattanooga. Hell, she didn’t even take the skirt off. She got on top, draped her skirt over both of us like she didn’t want anybody to see – like maybe she didn’t want to see – and went to town. When she was done – and I mean when she was done – she just sat there for minute, taking long deep breathes like she was doing yoga or meditation, like she was working something out. Then she smiled the sweetest smile. You wouldn’t believe she could smile like that, then up and left. That’s a beautiful woman, Will. She would make some man blissfully happy, but you’d never guess it the way she writes.
—Just like that?
—Just like that.
- Ximena sent me this just yesterday — how she imagined the events before my own story, Orgasms. This sort of thing is a rare gift. I get to see my own characters through the eyes of another reader and writer. I get the feeling I didn’t really know them. ~ Will Crimson
She kissed her dad.
As she broke away, he gave her a long look. “I know it’s hot baby, but you are not wearing enough clothes.”
He tugged at the bottom of her jean skirt and pouted. She swatted him and giggled.
“Come on daddy. I’m momma’s girl, and what does she always say?” She cocked an eyebrow and waited.
“’If you got it, flaunt it.’ That woman will be the death of me,” he said, referring to her mom, who was currently in the backyard topping off the roses.
“You’ve said that for the last 20 years,” she smiled and she grabbed her bag. She sneaked a look out the window at Jake. He was pacing in front of his truck.
“Longer. 20 years is all you can remember, girl,” he said.
“You need anything else from the store? I don’t want to hear it from Mama when I get back.”
“I still say I can drive you. I ain’t got shit to do all afternoon.”
“No, daddy. This is your day off. You need to relax. I’m already angry that you had Jake come over here to talk shop.”
“I like to keep a tight rein on things. God bless ‘em, but some of those men don’t know their ass from their elbow. Jake’s a God send, though”
He gave her a strange look. Her cheeks burned – she might have beamed. His compliments were few and far between, therefore precious. He looked at Jake for a long time and pensively scratched his belly button.
“Tell ‘im to behave himself and get his ass back to the garage after he drops you off. I’ll pick you up from the store in a half hour.” He sauntered into the kitchen for another beer.
“Bye.” The word came out a breath.
“Way to be smooth, Jake,” she said, her slim knees knocked against each other. He saw her anxiousness, and it increased his.
His eyes traced the smooth tanned lines of her thighs. Her father had been right – the skirt was too short. He knew it was for him, but for some reason, it irked him.
Erotica by William Crimson
- I’ve had much time to just live since my last post. I’ve discovered some things about myself. First, I’m an erotic writer. For some reason, this is the niche I agreed to before coming into this world. So, if this is my gift, then I need to share it. In truth, I really love the mystery and beauty of our eroticism. And here’s the second thing. I think what really got to me is that I felt like my writing was about the sex rather than the people. Hopefully, this new story will start a new way of thinking about the stories I tell — a new reason to write. I don’t necessarily want to solve the mystery of sex, but maybe explore it in a new chapter of writing. I hope you enjoy it.
She was on the back of the pickup track. To be precise, she was on the lowered tailgate, leaning back on her elbows and her skinny legs were spread wide open. Her head was bent forward, backed up as she was against a crate, a table saw and some boxes. The thrusting between her legs made her knobby elbows slip, made her fingers spread and or try to grip the corrugated truck bed. She couldn’t get any purchase.
She looked up at Jake, her eyes staring with shock. Each thrust shook her. Each thrust curled her youthful voice upward like a confused question mark. She worse a purple sleeveless top. Her nipples poked underneath it. Her jean mini-skirt hadn’t needed to be moved or rucked up. Her white underwear hung from her left ankle, lifted like the other one, with red tennis shoes. She bit her lips but the next powerful thrust parted them.
She acted like she wanted to escape, like she was fighting him. But she didn’t try to close her legs. The heel of her hands slipped on the corrugated truck bed when she tried to push away. Every now and then she grunted as she tried to scoot back, tried to sit up, glancing at the cock going in and out of her, then at his eyes, his expression, before her own eyes began glaze, before her cries, in time with the thrusts, rose until she’d slip back down to the edge of the tailgate, the V of her abdomen falling against his flat pelvis. She’d arch, eyes rolling, fists beating the tail gate. She’d bite her lip. She’d gaze upward at the sky, blue with a smattering of clouds, as if she were losing herself somewhere in them and above herself.
Jake was a big man and a big cock. He was ten years older. He liked Jessy, liked that she looked younger than she was, liked that she was skinny as a rail, that she looked illegal. He was wearing tanned carpenter pants and a jacket. He was sweating, His large hands, calloused, held the girl tight. His thumbs pressed pressed into her at either side of her belly button.
They were off the side of a state route, almost like they’d stop for a flat tire. Whatever had happened, had happened quick. There was only one car that passed by while he was fucking the girl, slowed, watched what was being done, then shot by them with a squeal of tires. The powerful thrusts didn’t stop. Neither did her cries.
She stiffened. She shouted with frustration. She was staring straight up at the sky, twisting, trying to grab at anything, beating the truck bed, a tear dampening the dark brown wisps at her temple. Her eyes suddenly widened with surprise, she inhaled like she’d been prodded with a live wire, she rose up, arching, off the truck bed once. Twice. Then hiccupped and bowed like dying animal, head thrown back, eyes white, fingers spread, stiffly and helplessly jolting on the cock hooked upward inside her
Jake lost his balance. He half leaned, half fell forward, one arm curling under the small of her back, the sharp coil of her small spine, the other over her shoulder.
“Look at me!” he shouted. “God damn it, look at me!”
She made the effort, shuddering, shaking, her breath come to a stop, looking at him, his gaze inches from hers. She looked like she was in pain as she quivered on the cock in her center. Another jolt, and then another shook her before her gaze faded into a kind of beaten exhaustion. He thrust hard, purposefully, quickening.
“Look at me,” he snarled again. “Don’t turn away. I want you looking right in eyes when I dod this.”
She did, expectantly, maybe even submissively he would have said, before he violently shook, and she along with him, a second time.
He held her like that, dead still, riding the pleasure until it was through and done.
When he straightened and pulled out, a gush of semen slipped out of her, matting the short, shaved fur of her pussy. He tucked his cock in his pants and zipped. “Get up,” he said.
She did, slowly, warily, never taking his eyes from him. She lifted her left ankle and pulled off her underwear, then squatted. Semen dampened the dirt under her.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“No you don’t!”
A dribble of semen and piss streaked her thigh before she could stop it. “Jesus, Jake!” She shouted. He grabbed her by the elbow and half threw her into the pickup’s cab. “What about my underwear.”
“You don’t need it. What the fuck do you need it for now?”
He slammed shut the driver side door, cranked the engine, and pulled into the road.
“Don’t prove a fucking thing,” she muttered, voice shaking, like she was afraid to talk.
“You liked it.”
“Doesn’t mean I fucking liked it, Jake.”
“You fucking liked it, girl. You fucking liked filled with a big cock.”
“It’s not like that.”
Jake slapped the steering wheel with his fist. “Yeah!” he shouted. “It is fucking like that.”
“No!” she screamed. “I hated it. I hate you. I fucking hate you!”
He knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. His eyes bulged. He swiped at the corner of one eye before violently gripping the steering wheel again, glaring at the road ahead as if she didn’t exist.
“You came in me,” she almost whispered.
“Yeah, guess that’s gonna’ be a little awkward with you hatin’ me now. Maybe you should’ve decided that before there was a piece of me inside you.”
“Doesn’t mean you fucking own me now.”
“Well, it kinda’ does, actually.”
“No!” she snarled. “It doesn’t!”
“You could’ve stopped it. Me.”
“Really? No, you fucking ra‒”
“Don’t you say it, Jessy!” he roared. “Don’t you fucking say it.”
“You didn’t say no. Not once. You looked me right in the eye. I told you: look me right in the eye! You’re no fucking better than me, Jessy.” His voice heaved with emotion. “You’re no better than me. You wanted it just like I did. Is it so bad I want to own you? I get so fucking tired of the bullshit. I’m done with the bullshit, Jessy.”
The girl shook, but her posture had changed. She pressed her thighs together and shuddered. “I’m fucking soaked,” she half laughed, half cried. She swiped at her eyes with the back of her wrist. “I hope you got some armor all.” She opened her thighs. The faded blue vinyl of the seat was glistening and slick with the flood of moisture spilling from between her thighs.
“You smell better than the fucking armor all.”
She slid across the bench seat, half on the side of her hip, bare knees pressed and sliding together. She forced his gaze away from the road, forced his lips against hers, forced him to hit the breaks and drive onto gravelly berm. She kissed him hard, fingers pressing into his cheeks. Their lips parted. She licked hers. “Keep driving,” she said. She sucked at her lower lip before kissing his neck, the space between his collar bones, then lower, then the head of his cock. Jake pulled back into the road. His lips parted.