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.
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.
…[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.
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
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.
Here, 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.
Tentacle’s Terribly Long Day
- This story has been waiting for a while — Kate Armstrong and I have been fussing over it between work and life (two different things). The story originated as a commission from Kate — a plot, the characters and their appearance. Soon as I found out what a wonderful artist she is, I asked if she wanted to trade a couple illustrations for the story. I have always wanted to collaborate. The good news is that we both enjoyed ourselves; and the other good news is that if you want to commission an illustrated erotic story, you can. Here’s the deal, commission two illustrations from Kate and I’ll write the accompanying story for free. The only catch is that we both have to like your idea. Just one offer. Short of that, visit Kate’s Blog, Sierra’s Blur, and say ‘Hello’.
Sierra burst into the cottage.
—What are you doing?
—It’s beautiful outside.
—So go outside, he answered without turning. I need to work just one hour.
—We only have a week left.
—Do you have a point?
Sierra studied her boyfriend.
—It’s hot. There’s a waterfall and swim hole. I’m going swimming. Gonna’ stop me?
—Didn’t we go out last night?
—And the day before that?
—Coming or not?
—We’re not supposed to swim there.
—According to who?
—Miss High Heels? Fuck it. I’m not waiting. It’s August. I’m hot.
Putting in the Seed
A quickie by Redbud
This isn’t where you meant to be. Me, behind you; you, ass in the air; knees muddying the sheets. Your shorts are over your ass—just—far enough. You’re trying to get up. You sound vexed. I shove your head down. No! You utter little snarls. I jab the heel of my hand between your shoulders. Down! I grip your neck and hair. Stay! You grunt in time with my hips’ collisions. You hit the mattress with your fists. You inhale hoarsely. Did I go deep? No. Get your ass up. Why don’t you say ‘no’? Why don’t you tell me to stop? Are you my little bitch? You belong like this. Your knees stay wide. Your curling spine gives me your pussy. Your head’s back in the garden, but the rest of you knows why you’re here. You’re my beautiful obscenity. And why is that? You know what you’re ass does to me? Seeing it in the kitchen? Seeing it on the stairs? Seeing you bent over in the garden? Your ass—every woman’s—says ‘fuck me’. So here you are, mid-afternoon, back on your bed, with a wide blue sky outside. Now you’re one long growl. Getting it from behind. Little punctuated growls. They’re getting louder. Getting higher. Can you hear yourself? You sound like a woman. Came in to pee. And the piss wasn’t dry before I shoved it inside. Out of the bathroom. Into the bedroom. Just like that. Here you are. White sheets. The hem of your jean shorts just under your cunt. My cock stuck in it. Tits back and forth. The shadows of the window on your back. Fingers grabbing at anything. And there you go. That’s it. One quick suck of air. Surprise. Don’t move. I got your neck in my fist. I got your face in the sheets. I got your ass in the air and your cunt’s squeezing and squeezing my cock. Can’t help it: like how your spine twists and curls. All the fight’s gone out of you. I take my time. You’re a good woman now. You’re ass stays high. Your head stays down. You’re drooling. All my come emptying into that perfect, divine cunt in the middle of that perfect and divine ass. There. Perfection. Filling you. Filling you. And fuck, filling you. And before I go—a streak for your lips and face. Good girl. Lick it. Still with your ass in the air? Good girl. Don’t spill it. Let it sink in. Take your time. I’ll be—outside.
July 8th 2015: Will Crimson
Into the Woods: Chapters 1 -4
- I already posted chapters 1-3. I deleted them and have added Chapter 4. This method seems to make more sense. I’ve been reading Hemingway and Steinbeck. There’s a paragraph in Chapter 4 that will look familiar to anyone who’s read Steinbeck’s Sweet Thursday. At any rate, I’ve been trying to up my game — trying to write an erotic novelette that’s also literature and having fun with it. As the story progresses, the disparate threads will start to come together.
She pauses, hand softly on the glass edge of the car door. There’s been a passing shower. But for the café, the shops have closed and their remaining lights blur on the street’s black mirror. The remaining cars will stay until midnight or longer, but seldom through the night. There are some lighted windows above the storefronts, curtains pulled slant-ways. Eveline quietly closes the door, walks between a blue pick-up and a red sedan, under the windows and down the gleaming sidewalk, and into the warm, coffee-scented café.
There’s a corner table she likes. She can sit with the orange wall behind her and the toothy bookshelf above. She doesn’t carry a purse, but a small leather backpack. She hasn’t used it since her early twenties, after marriage and before children. Now the backpack carries more than she’s put in it. It carries her too. She’s middle aged. Her hair’s turned darker and her eyes are lined by both sorrow and laughter. Her eyes are a soft brown, and clear and as luminous as when she was twenty-one. She draws her raincoat self-consciously over her shoulders. A much younger woman brings her coffee, smiles and leaves.
“I’ve heard that someday, when you’re an old woman, the wolf will come for you and consume you,” says red riding hood.
Eveline sighs and gazes at the raven-haired beauty across from her, the raven-haired girl she used to be. Her nose is lean, her skin smooth, and her eyebrows sharp. “And then what?”
“I don’t know,” she answers, “but it depends on who tells the story.”
The Case of ‘Catch & Release’
Erotica by Will Crimson
- I’ve gotten back to editing the Daydreams & Distractions. This was one I completely rewrote and so thought it would be fun to repost. Originally in the second person singular, I fashioned it after Tentacle & the Alien Abduction, where you will also find the detectives Frank and Joe.
Another case: the third incident in five weeks.
Joe sighs. His knees bump the underside of the table. He’s too tall for the chair. He leans forward, elbows on the table, fingers together, thumbs up. “Okay, Missus. Let’s start when you were leaving the party.”
“It was maybe midnight or a little after,” said the student.
Frank, Joe’s partner, asks: “And you say you were dressed in a long black dress?” He’s squat; leans back in the wooden chair.
“You’d been drinking?” adds Joe.
“Yes, Sir. I didn’t want to drive and the buses stopped running. I was waiting for a taxi but—” She gnaws her lip. “There wasn’t any bathroom.”
Says Joe: “That’s why you were in the park?”
“Just in the bushes and out of the street lights,” says the young woman. “There was nobody there. Nobody.”
“You thought,” says Frank.
“I thought what?” asks the girl.
“No, I mean, you ‘thought‘ there was nobody there.”
“Yeah, and so I hear a woman say ‘Move!’, and I think she means I shouldn’t be, you know, peeing there. ”
“What happens?” asks Joe.