The Dark Book
- This is the follow up, sort of, to Poledra’s Daughter (the main character is obviously based on Polgara from the Eddings’ series). The commissioner asked that I think big so I wrote this as a sort of first chapter to a larger story. There are many loose ends and some of the characterizations, like Polgara’s immediate attraction to Urdos, is left unexplained. One of the aspects I really focused on, and enjoyed, was trying to keep Polgara’s character “believable” (as far as possible). That demanded adding complexity to her characterization and motivation. I don’t know if and when the commissioner will ask for more so, anyone is welcome to commission the next chapter. For spoilers (explanations), just ask.
1. Lothvit’s Dagger
The historian’s stark figure hustled through the long hall, keeping to the shadows. He was hooded and tightly held bundled papers under his cloak.
He stopped, hailed by a voice he recognized, the first librarian of Telf. The librarian wore the latest Melcenian fashion, single, thin braid twisted over his right ear. “Are you well?”
“Yes, Master,” Gthen answered.
“You seem preoccupied.”
“There has been some disorder needing attending.”
“The ordering of the library, Master Svind, is impeccable. I meant only the discovery of information that has required further research.”
“May I be of assistance?”
“Master, the matter is trivial but necessarily distracting, hardly requiring the skills of a Master Librarian.”
Svind momentarily eyed the understudy. “You will not hesitate to inform me if my services are required.”
Gthen bowed. “I will not, Master Svind.”
“Then be on your way. Do, please, walk freely in the hallway. There are no regulations, that I am aware of, that require you to skulk in the shadows; and the hallway is seldom host to more than a few of us at a time.”
“Yes Master Svind.”
Gthen straightened and went his way, the Master librarian watching. There was a turn, and then another, before Gthen, unseen, opened the door to Mistress Pellora’s study.
“Where have you been?”
“I was momentarily detained.”
“The Master Librarian Svind.”
“He— Mistress, the discovery of Polgara’s writing has impacted our work.” Read more…
- This story is a commission and is the first “fanfic” I’ve written. A new challenge. The main character, Polgara, is based on the main character of Polgara the Sorceress. The images are also commissioned works based on Polgara. The themes of the story were part of the request.
“Wh– wh–?” A woman’s voice stuttered confusion. “What are you doing?”
The younger man gasped with fright, dropping the handwritten sheaves. They tumbled, scattered, slid to the wood floor, under the heavy oaken seat and desk of the library’s far-flung recesses.
He spun around, a strangled cry caught in his throat.
The Third Daen Historian of Gight loomed over him. She gasped and was jolted when the first string of semen struck her lip, chin, and rope. He continued to spurt, the spasms only slowly subsiding, then gripped the sides of the chair, exhaling, wide-eyed, slumping fearfully as the last of his come dribbled into his lap.
Clarity gradually returned.
Pellora, slender fingers shaking, wiped the Understudy’s orgasm from her lips, unintentionally tasting him.
“What are you doing?” she hissed.
“I’m sorry – I didn’t – They are – I should have told you.”
“What! You little fool – ! Who else is here?”
“Liar!” She tried to slap him, but her near blindness only left a glancing sting.
“Polgara! These – They are her writing. They –“
“Everything she never revealed–!” he finally blurted.
“I’ll have that thing cut off!”
“Mistress Pellora!” the Understudy answered, panicky, “the Sorceress Polgara described–” He rolled his lower lip and peered into the doorway to be sure. “The Sorceress Polgara described – She described in intimate detail, Mistress, her trysts and affairs and there are also accounts by others–”
“You are alone. Gthen?” she interrupted
be spread above me
of her thighs
the hard knot
splicing of her belly–
and throat be
her cry out.
thick with my odor
her womb thereafter.
our bodies made rich.
with the spoilage
August 24, 2014
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…