by Will Crimson
I could be a lawyer, a doctor, a fisherman. I’ve had a good day. And a good day is the sun in my pocket and the road in my hips. A good day is coming home, balls filled with the earth, grass, and prolific labor. I’m heavy – thick – and I come home to a house I built, to my bed, and to my lover – your beautiful brown tits, your round hips and narrow waist, the telling hook of your spine. So much to talk about – everything I’ve seen, heard, tasted, smelled.
You’re all I can think about.
The first thing I do when I walk in the house isn’t to say ‘I love you’. I find you busy, your back to me, in panties and a T-shirt. I look at your ass, your perfect ass, that ass that got you in trouble, that embarrasses you, that I married and that I’ve fucked, held up from behind, a thousand times. Tell me it’s imperfect, it’s not what it used to be; but I can’t stop cupping, spanking, pressing into the divide that starts at your spine and broadens into the folds between your thighs. I stand behind you. Your nipples have hardened under my palms.
―Good, I answer.
―I’m not taking a shower.
―I just came back from running.
―Did you take a shower?
by Will Crimson
No. Not at all. She hadn’t slept well.
In the middle of the night she’d wakened, heart racing, shallow breathed, the kind that made her turn on her belly and lift her pussy. Just thinking the word ‒ pussy ‒ made the sheets burn her cheek.
She had borrowed her boyfriend’s book, maybe stolen it‒ erotica, sex, cruelty, kindness and always a woman’s penetration, her release, her revelation. She’d read at night and in the afternoon, hiding in the corner of her room.
Her fingers shook when she changed into her mini-skirt ‒ not jeans or leggings. She pulled on a loose sleeveless T-Shirt and sandals. Her heart thumped. She knew what her boyfriend wanted. Half down the stairs, she saw her mother and older brother shuffling between the kitchen and car.
—I’m stopping over at Taraaz’s, she said.
—You’re not, her mother answered.
—I won’t be late.
—You’re not going like that.
—It’s a Tot Shabbat.
—We don’t dress like that for the Shabbat.
—What do you see in him? asked her brother.
—Why? Is there something I’m supposed to see in him?
—He’s Muslim maybe?
—It’s not appropriate, her Mom interrupted. Read more…
- 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.