Confession

Confession

tumblr_kslsoerirt1qzoaedo1_500-bwI’ve come home. I’m a mess. My hands are dark with grit. I’ve been on a roof. I’ve wiped sweat out of my eyes and dirt’s in my smile lines. You complain my lips taste like road-tar. I get ahead myself. I hear you in the shower. I imagine you, naked, clean, slender. I shed my clothes climbing the stairs. By the time I’m at the top, my cock’s upright, like a satyr’s. I burst into your late summer freshet—cock bouncing. First you’re startled seeing me. Then you’re startled seeing my cock. You don’t know what to do. One hand fumbles with soap, the other with the washcloth. But I’m already planting my feet. I’m turning you, pulling your ass back, pushing your shoulders forward. Then your hands, soap and washcloth, are high against the tile. Then you’re heels lift. I thickly rising inside you. I wonder what it must be like: a woman’s soft core filled by a man’s rigidity. And then the thrusts. You balance on your toes and your fingers climb the tile. It’s too much. Your little cry. The heavy glue of spunk filling your womb. But here’s the confession: When I turn you and kiss you, biting your lip, holding your hair at the back of the neck, cock half-tumid, balls low with the burn of release, I piss—piss and semen—like a satisfied bull. Up and inside you, my semen, and between your ankles, little girl, my streaming piss. I can’t explain it. I pinch your tit. I spank your ass. Twist. Bite your lip. I’m never more satisfied.

William Crimson
September 1, 2015

Route 66

You’ll find there’s not a better place,
My girl. Let’s just undo your lace
Unbutton and unzip. Turn round,
i_love_ridding_route_66Bend over, lightly touch the ground.

Our reputation’s not so good
But, knowing you, that’s understood.
Hold still, you’ll feel a little prick—
And squirt. As always, we’ll be quick.

But a gal’s got reason to be nervous;
If so we recommend full service.
We’ll keep your little motor purring
(And guarantee you’ll be returning).

  • Another little erotic distraction inspired by Rouge. I added just a little for the devil’s pleasure.

Pity

Pity
Erotica by Will Crimson

I have spilled wine—
colors and fragments.
when you are
a cunt (don’t think
I don’t know) I think
of the wine. the label,
printed 1882,
with the blood-red stains.
I keep the label—
Château Pichon Longueville Baron.
you haven’t been there?
Guilbaut was a covetous
man. he noted the wine.
should I make
comparisons?—a woman like you?
I beheaded the bottle,
spilled the succor—rather
than a man taste
besides myself. I don’t
keep toys. you,
cunt in full bloom,
the grape of your tits,
the liquor of your thighs
thick and conniving. I’ll rend
the seal before
you tempt another man; I’ll foul
millicent_1b82d7the bottle;
spill my jealousy in your
cunt and anus—
stain, debase, and violate
you with the cock of it. Do you
scream? Does the tongue
break from your mouth as though
I strangled you, cock
in cunt—from behind?—or when I cleave
your thighs?
Pity man. I leave
you—cock-
stained and mine—and not
mine.
Pity Bluebeard.
We break the things we love.
·

  • Don’t know how successful this is. Another post inspired by my back & forth with Rouged. This was inspired by Superficial Innocence. The idea that got me was of the woman who goads her lover by tempting other men. The tale of Bluebeard continues to fascinate me.

Will Crimson • August 27 2015

The Fun House: Switched

The Fun House: Switched
by William Crimson

The Second Story of the Fun House

3dw4i2lt“What the hell?”

“I need a drink.” The screen door slams behind her. She goes to the refrigerator.

“Are you mental?” Ted asks. “Where’s Rhet? If he fuckin’ knows you’re here—”

“Shut up, Ted,” Sheila answers. “You always were a coward.”

Ted pushes himself off the couch. He eyes her hips as she rummages through the refridgerator. He hasn’t seen her in a good three or four weeks. He steps behind her, hands drawing her hips against his crotch. “Fuck the beer. You can have some later.”

Ted’s a quick man, fast with a knife or gun, but this time he’s taken down.

Sheila spins and opens a bottle on the ridge of his nose. Ted reels back, falling into the kitchen table and chairs. The leg of the table breaks and chairs skid across the floor. Blood fills his eyes. Sheila opens a drawer, slams it shut. Ted tries to sit up. The cool barrel of a pistol forces him back down. Sheila pours whatever beer is left into his eyes. “Jesus!” Ted squints and blows it out of his mouth. “What the fuck?”

“You’ve been fucking my wife?”

Continue reading “The Fun House: Switched”

The Fun House: Masquerade

The Fun House: Masquerade
by William Crimson

  • The Fun House stories are among the first erotic stories I posted on the web. I had begun this as a series before striking up with Raziel. Of all the stories I’ve written, these are possibly the most popular. “The Birth of Succubus”, a later story in this series, is possibly my all time favorite. Anyway, this is my fourth try at this first story and I’ve made some radical changes. Ideally, it sets the tone for the rest and explains much. In the original I didn’t know what to do with the female character. She was essentially a “reward” for the main character—a common erotic fantasy but she showed no initiative whatsoever. The focus in this rewrite is to bring the female into the fantasy and that means changing the underlying plot. She’s no longer the “reward”. Being the fourth rewrite, there are bound to be typos and confused verb tenses. Don’t hesitate to point them out if you catch any. So, here it is after many years, welcome back to Comus’s Fun House. This is a long story.

The First Story of the Fun House

The girl was just a few feet away. Keasha leaned against the same fence and cursed her luck. She wished she’d skipped the party. She can’t help peer sideways. Jake’s pushed Michelle against the tall slats. The girl’s shirt is lifted over her nipples. Jake’s kisses moved from one to the other as he slowly lifted her skirt.

female-bibleKeasha squeezed her thighs.

Voices, music and laughter blared from the house. The fence moved. The girl says, no, not here! But her mouth and eyes grow wider and her fingers tightened in his shirt. She uttered a stifled gasp, eyes blinked, and then the telltale roll of her eyes. The fence kept the steady rhythm of the boy’s thrusts.

“Keasha?”

“Troy?”

“So, what’s up?” he asked. “You wanna’ go?” He glanced at the other couple.

Keasha lifts his hands in hers, lifting them against the fence above her. “Don’t you want to do something to me, first?”

Continue reading “The Fun House: Masquerade”

Rain

Rain
by William Crimson

  • I’ve lost my connection to the world—no Internet. All I have are hotspots for the next week. If you comment, I won’t know it until I find another hotspot. So I wrote this in a café as quick as I could — 20 minutes. It’s inspired by Rougedmount, but is really inspired by anyone who’s thought life is too short. May there be many lifetimes, surely each with their disappointments, but also each with new loves and new experiences. I know I’ve been here before and will be again.

If it were raining, and if it were another lifetime, then I would take you outside. I might not remember why: Perhaps I loved a woman, in another lifetime,who didn’t love the rain; and you, perhaps, loved a man who closed the windows and the doors. But there’s always a longed-for experience, we missed in one lifetime, that brings us back to the next.

Will it be a summer shower?

tumblr_m8tfeaIYtd1qfbon7o1_400I won’t remember why, but you’ll look especially beautiful to me, and the dark clouds and the rain on the leaves will be especially beautiful. Perhaps you will wear a burgundy dress and a blue hempen top and your dress will cling to your hips and the water will confess your breasts and delight your nipples.

How beautiful you’ll be.

Your hair will cling to your neck and your ears will slip between the strands. I’ll nibble your ears. I’ll tease your nipples. I’ll press my palm at the V of your legs. We’ll open our mouths and drink the rain as it falls. I’ll take out into the open field. A woman deserves to be loved in the rain; loved for the beauty of the rain in her clothes. I’ll take you out into the long grasses.

I’ll take off your clothes.

I’ll sip the droplets at your nipples. I’ll taste your spine. I’ll bite the beads at your hips. I’ll lick the sluice between your thighs. I’ll mount you in the open field. I’ll mount you under the heavy clouds so you can feel the rain on your shoulders. I’ll mount you from behind so the rain pools at the turn of your spine, so the earth loams between your fingers, so your knees and thighs are earthy and pungent. My fingers will mark you, soil your hips and nipples, and your flanks with grass seed, and the wheat’s feathery tufts, and the slipping tongues and parchment of the wildflowers—red, yellow and purple. And I’ll mount you so your dripping hair trails forth and back in the mud until you also feel the summer’s downpour in your womb, warm, thick and nourishing.

I, the cloud.

You, my earth.

I promise you, in another lifetime, this is what we’ll do.

Will Crimson:August 16 2015

Professional Woman

Professional Woman

You are, today, in your business suit, knee-length skirt, black suit-top and white pearl necklace, professional. You are, with folders under one arm and the tight snap of your hips, authoritative. So, it must have come as a shock when I, meeting you in the hallway, stop you. You are, without a doubt, pissed and are busy. But I, also having a job to do, make sure no one sees you forced into the janitor’s closet. You are, more than a little, pissed. Yes. And you slap my hand away tumblr_nk2m4glRox1rrsnwpo1_1280before, I being stronger and the man, make you turn around and yank up your skirt and yank down your panties. You try to turn around. You can’t shout at me, of course. What would they think? You only have one hand. You can’t let the folders fall, and all the papers with them. You grunt. You hiss. You curse. You try to hit me in your girly way, reaching behind, missing. Two fingers are already in your cunt, are already making you stand on your high heeled toes, and two are thrashing your clit. I do this from behind—because a woman needs these things from behind. You slap the sink-countertop with the palm of your hand. You aren’t having any of it. You try to kick at me. You try, too late, to lock your thighs; but my fist is locked between your thigh gap. I don’t know what else you can do, because you can’t risk rumpling your clothes, or tearing them. You can’t. I have you by the back of your neck—and hair. I am, forcefully, lifting you by your cunt. Your high-heeled heels aren’t touching the floor. And then both your hands, the folders under one, are on the countertop and your head falls, suddenly, back and you are jolted by something that makes you, noisily, inhale. Your breathing trembles. My fist makes slappy, wet noises under your ass. You’re jolted again, violently. You spread your legs. You hold your breath. You’re spine slowly tightens, at the small of your back, like a coiling spring. And then all the fight, all that business suit, goes right out of you, woman. You pulse. You draw your cunt back and forth across my hand. Your hips are like a whore’s. Back. And forth. Your mouth is open. Your eyes are turned. Your tits stick the fabric. And you, whore, are my little secret; and the little squirts soaking your thighs. How obedient now, riding my hand, and shuddering. A last little jolt. A last little hitch of your spine. Good girl. Your palm’s on my crotch. Now’s not the time. Tonight, when we’re home, you’ll suck. You won’t take off your suit. I whisper in your ear,that I’m going to fuck you in it—doggy-style. I’ll come in your cunt. I’ll let it all stew in you, cunt, while your lipstick smears the pillowcase. I want your ass to stay in the air. I’ll slowly pull out, so slowly, to be sure you understand after I’ve fucked you, on hands and knees—pearl necklace in your mouth—that I can’t, you make me, help myself. I leave you in the closet to pull up your panties, push down your skirt. Your lipstick is smudged. But when you walk back out, and your hips make their tight, professional snap, your cunt will be—wet—and  burn.

·

Will Crimson
August 10 2015

tumblr_mpeikhaKfs1s58qaro1_500

byü-ti-fəl

byü-ti-fəl
erotica by William Crimson

  • This story may remind readers of Raziel; and that’s deliberate.  Something a little darker. As with many of my stories, lately, I ask questions. Remember that these stories aren’t meant to mirror the truth, but to ask questions—to which I don’t know the answer—in the guise of an erotic fable.

tumblr_lgnta79HOJ1qh262so1_500The night isn’t preferred anymore than the daytime, in a dressing room, a restroom, or a woman’s car. Public facilitations can be arranged but are expensive. The ‘public’ in public must be arranged.

She had never imagined such a thing could exist.

She climbed on the bus like she did every morning. She didn’t recognize anyone, but that wasn’t strange. There was nowhere to sit, which was. She went to the back and held onto a stainless steel pole. The bus rumbled into the lane.

There is no time to lose in arrangements like these.

Strong hands took her elbows and a blindfold was drawn over her eyes. She gasped. She cursed and threatened to scream. Someone yanked down the skirt of her pants suit. A sharp and searingly painful striping, on her ass, made her stand on her toes and inhale. The bus shifted gears. The deep growl of the diesel vibrated under her feet. There were couples talking as though nothing were abnormal.

She heard automobiles and trucks outside the bus, moving, shifting, accompanying. She still stood on her toes.

“We can do that again,” said a man, quietly. “Nod if you understand.”

She nodded. The blindfold was becoming wet with her tears.

Continue reading “byü-ti-fəl”

beautiful and charming

quotation marks

…[we placed a long gilt-framed mirror] on chairs alongside our divan and [we] lay there naked in each other’s arms, so that we could see what we looked like when we made love; we had read that the spectacle was ludicrous and ugly—but we saw that that was a lie, for the spectacle was beautiful and charming.

MillayFloyd Dell describes lovemaking with the young Edna St. Vincent Millay circa 1918

·

·

And if I loved you Wednesday
···Well, what is that to you?
I do not love you Thursday—
···So much is true.

And why you come complaining
···Is more than I can see.
I loved you Wednesday,—yes—but what
···Is that to me?

·

·

Edna St. Vincent Millay
Written by Millay in the midst of her tryst with Dell

You, Succubus

You, Succubus
Erotica by William Crimson

  • Inspired  by Rougedmount’s post Wet Dreams. It wasn’t s’posed to be this long, but once I get started I can’t help myself. For the women reading this, a glimpse into the male erotic psyche, and many questions for you. There’s also a passage directly inspired by Pussy Talk “In Heat“.

I was surprised to see you.

tumblr_m65c82kRhA1qcn4f0o1_1280Here, 3000 miles away, after a kiss and a promise to be back. But I hardly needed to promise. You’re wherever I go. At the airport, I see a nook and think if you were here, that’s where I’d be quick. But I have to think about something else. When no one’s looking, I turn my cock upward. Jeans won’t let a cock rise; and a cock will be upright, will be long enough, will be ready to penetrate your thighs. Just a few, quick, few, hard thrusts and I’ll put what goes—what’s always meant to be—inside you.

But now I’m worse than I was.

I wonder if a woman has seen me adjust my cock. What do they think? Does it turn them on? Does it make them wonder? How long is it? Does it hurt? Yes. What is he thinking about? Another woman? Or does it just happen? Or are women less apt to think about things like that? I watch women. I’ve seen them look at crotches. Are their nipples hard? How do their hips swing. Is it because they’ve just been fucked? Or is it because they’re ready to be fucked? But there’s a plane to board, and by the time I push luggage over my seat, my cock is comfortably soft.

Continue reading “You, Succubus”