7 Variations on a Sexually Inappropriate Comment

7 Variations on a Sexually Inappropriate Comment
Erotica by William Crimson

• For all of you.

Theme

She’s 2 time zones removed from her husband and children. She’s a go-getter. She’s a lawyer representing a fortune 500 company. She’s ambitious. She’s accomplished. She’s beaten the competition and she’s earned a cocktail at the 5 star lounge. She’s seated at a table in the company of powerful men – a powerful woman to be reckoned with.

One man excuses himself to take a late-night call, another to order a drink, another to call it a night. The last remaining man, tall with graying temples, cuffs like ivory, pin stripes and a red, power-tie, leans back in his studded leather seat. He clinks his glass of bicardi and ice with a ring that tries too hard. And He says, with a smooth Texas drawl:

“Sugar, I’ve been watchin’ you all day. Don’t think you can go prancin’ round in your high-heel shoes and hiptight skirt and expect a man not to notice. I say this as pure compliment (I don’t consider myself a sexist man), you’re the prettiest gal in this establishment. Hell, your sexier than any a’these scrawny girls runnin’ around servin’ drinks. I’d pay – no, hell I’d tip half my worth to be served up by the likes of you. You got experience. Just bendin’ over, picture perfect, pourin’ me another fine glass o’rum. God damn. I know what kinda’ tip a girl like you deserves. Right here. Right here, over this table, and as just as long as it took to hear that sexy voice of yours trill like a glorious bird. Hell, if we were hitched, I’d make you a fine home. I’d treat you right. Legs like yours were made for openin’. Tits like yours? Don’t get me wrong, but a gal with gumption needs a man’s directin’ every now and then. Just a remindin’. What makes a man a man and a woman a woman. Why, there isn’t any higher pleasure afforded us in life but to be a man with a woman and woman with a man. I hope your husband knows what he’s got in you. He’s a lucky man. He’s a luck, lucky man if he does. If he doesn’t, well, you know where to find me. I know how to take care of a woman like you.”

new year’s kiss

川柳
an erotic haiku by William Crimson

morning’s
new year’s kiss — wine on her lips and on her tongue still tasting
·············my cock.

The Orc Anar ~ Part 2

The Orc Anar
Erotica by William Crimson

• Will Crimson continues his foray into Fantasy Erotica.  This is a continuing commission from a reader who enjoys cuckoldry. The original installment is here. I’ve included the first installment in this post (since I made a couple minor corrections). If you’ve already read the first part, then Chapter 10 begins the second part. It took me a spell to begin this, being a bit stumped as to what direction to go. But I’m pleased with the closing two chapters and the direction the story is going. Enjoy.

 

1.

Gregor peered out of his home’s nearly shuttered second story window, a building in the narrow, winding streets of Widmere. The town, an outpost overlooking the northern plains, stood atop an outcropping of granite, backed by the north facing cliffs of the Blackroot mountains. They were being attacked. Orcs. His powerful muscles tensed.

“They won’t get past Gorforin’s ring,” said his wife.
“I don’t like this,” he answered without turning.
“We have planned carefully,” she answered. She stood behind her husband, one hand resting on his shoulder.

He turned violently. “Why did you agree to this?”

She answered sternly. “I did not, my Lord, but with your agreement. The only captives they do not slay at once are captive women; and they would not expect a woman to be a spy and willing captive. Nor would they expect a human captive to speak their tongue. I am the only one.”

“I don’t like it.”
“They’ve never harmed a female captive.”

“No, they breed them.”
“They cannot breed me, my Lord. We have seen to that.”

Gregor’s jaws clenched. His wife, mother of two daughters and a son, appeared as youthful as their first day, her blond hair radiant. Orcs and their raids — Whatever deft and foul magic had created Orcs did not give them the power to procreate. They needed human women for that. A child born from a human would always be an orc. If a male? — large, wild and fearsome. If a female? — almost human in aspect; beautiful, but possessing the green and mottled skin of an orc and an orc’s blue-tinted hair. In every other respect, the female orc could be more beautiful than her human counterpart, lacking the more grotesque physiology of the male. Some men, it was said, took Orc women as wives; and it was lasciviously rumored that they were as fearsome in mating and lovemaking as the males in combat. Children of these couplings, of a the female orc, were always human. There is more orc blood in humans than any care to admit; and some don’t even consider orcs a separate race, but the dark, erotic, counterpart to the human race. “Lorinda. No.”

“We agreed.”
“If they kill you.”
“They will not,” she answered, her hand falling to the dagger at her side. “But you, my Lord.”

2.

He was just a man.

Religion cannot and must never trump freedom of thought and expression.

No God would endow humankind with the capacity to dream, imagine and create without desiring for us the fullest use and expression of that divine genius.

The Thief

The Thief
Erotica by Will Crimson

Some mornings you are a thief; when you grab my cock, stiffly aching; as if you had found a treasure. You know what it is. Lick it, stroke it, rub it, polish it. Climb on top and put the bottle inside — coax, cajole, caress it. I cannot resist the cleverest of all thieves. You’ll force the apparition out. The genie will come to you wherever you desire — hands, lips, thighs, inside — inside your womb? Make your wish, master thief. My will is yours. You summon and I obey.

The Desert Sands

• I have, finally, continued the story begun by Nilla — of Vanilla Mom’s Blog and Dark Fantasies. It took Redbud, Mr. William Crimson, more than a little time to recover from Nilla’s last riposte (and narrowly escape the temptation offered — the little vixen). Start the latest entry here. Clicking on Read More will take you to Dark Fantasies, where you can continue the story and comment (and she truly loves your comments). You’ll also find links to the other chapters.

It had been two weeks since he had penetrated her. She was kneeling and on display with just a chain over breasts and around her waist. Pearls hung from her distended nipples and a dripping diamond hung from her clit. She was kneeling in her master’s tent and in the company of western visitors.

“I envy your your ways with women,” said one of the businessmen.

She guessed they were from the midwest. She had been flooded by visions of outrage, rescue and liberation. Her heart had raced. But the first westerners to see her since her kidnapping behaved no differently than the desert tribesmen. Now that they were free of western laws and culture, they looked at her like as if she were rightfully where she belonged. The veneer of the west?

They discussed real-estate and minerals. As they spoke, the businessmen would periodically glance at her as if they sipped wine. One had already undone a zipper and casually stroked his cock, making sure that she saw. Finally all of their conversation turned to her master’s property – her.

“I wouldn’t last long,” said the red-haired businessman.
“You’d take her now?” asked her master.
“I would. I’d throw her on her back, or maybe just push her forward on her knees and I’d fuck her. God damn, I’d fuck her till she was screaming for my cum in her twat.”
“You think that would do it?” her master asked.

Read More

 

Of Tentacles and Sleeping Girls or The Finishing School for Young Ladies

‘Of Tentacles and Sleeping Girls’ or ‘The Finishing School for Young Ladies’
Another torrid, Tentacular travesty by Will Crimson

• Shortly after I posted Master Masseuse, I was snooping around my stats page and saw that someone (a woman I presume) had Googled Tentacle Fucking Sleeping Girls. Tentacle insisted that I immediately write just such a story. Immediately. So, here it is.

December 4^th, 1884. Ms. Flitfithle enters the staid Victorian offices of the Dean of Students, a Mrs. Snorpwiddle. Mrs. Snorpwiddle sits behind a large mahogany desk which is placed before a single vaulted, stone window with flanking bookshelves. A tall wooden chair, for visitors, sits before the desk. Mrs. Flitfithle closes the door, first peering to be sure no student followed or might overhear. She hurries to the chair before Dean Snorpwiddle’s desk, maneuvering her long dress with both hands as she seats herself.

Ms. F.: [She bites her lip, straightens, gathers her courage and speaks.] I find— [But words fail her.]

Mrs. S.: Ms. Flitfithle?

Ms. F.: I was— Last night— [There follows another lip-biting silence.]

Mrs. S.: Ms. Flitfithle, whatever could be troubling you?

Ms. F.: [She clenches her fists and stikes her lap.] Tentacles!

Mrs. S.: Tentacles, Ms. Flitfithle?

Ms. F.: Oh, Mrs. Snorpwiddle, I— Last night— I— In the girls dorm— Those poor, darling, innocent girls in their shifts! I saw— They were everywhere, Mrs. Snorpwiddle!

Mrs. S.: Girls?

Ms. F.: No! Tentacles, Mrs. Snorpwiddle! Tentacles!

Mrs. S.: Tentacles?