Four writers for the price of one blog
Erotica by William Crimson
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.
But you won’t stop tormenting me. What if you were one of these stewardesses? And at 36.000 feet there’s younger woman to my left and an older woman to my age right. My cock’s thick. Do you suck it somehow? And I wonder what it would be like if we wore no clothes? Older boys and younger men, especially, only need to think or look at a girl erotically. Their cocks, their bent, twisted, straight, arching, bowed, crooked, thick, short, long, red, or black with pink swollen tips will rise up to touch their own abdomens. The older, more mature, more patient cocks will weigh a little lower before they spray their claim inside the female’s belly.
The life of men isn’t easy.
And then I wonder if women would be interested in the display? Would they be offended? Would they be flattered? You see a teen or a man walk toward you, and if you’re not clothed, he sees your tits, your hips and the the little vertical split that starts between your thighs. So beautiful. So soft. So unknowable until the thighs reveal the rest. The line that begins at your pubis may continue, velutinous, a fold divided cleanly by a neat line with a hint of the dark divot between, or may blossom into lips, variegated, plush and blossoming like a moist orchid waiting for the deep intrusion of its reciprocal.
He looks at you, or he pretends not to, but his cock rises as he approaches. This is no half-tumescent greeting. His cock is rigid and inflamed and the sensitive bulb touches his abdomen. His cock is like your tits, which you can’t hide and that are as various. Small, large, round, ovoid, with nipples that protrude, themselves swollen, engorged, conical, upended and curious or with fiery aureole or easy, gracious, mature—experienced with the suck of the child and the child’s father. You can’t hide your breasts any more than he can hide his cock.
Now I wonder what you would do. His cock tells you what he’d never confess: the obscene perfection of your hips, your tits, mouth, belly, thighs and that his cock belongs in your womb. I wonder what you would do? Would you walk by him in disgust? Would you walk by him biting your lip? Or maybe there’s something about him—or just his cock that compels you—instinctual and animal. Or are women like that?—like men or less like men? In my imagination I’m feral and instinctual. If you were to lean just enough, parting your thighs, lifting your pussy, I would have to penetrate you. Your pussy rules my cock, the pleasure and beauty of it.
Maybe the site of his cock would be enough? Maybe simply seeing it, praising with its ache, would compel you to ride it? But isn’t that how all relationships start? Aren’t the man and the woman simply elaborate edifices for the cock and pussy? The pussy must agree to let the cock insid. There must be praise, gifts, the flattery of seduction. Perhaps you’ve felt the monthly twinge, the ripe egg bursting from its labyrinthine fold. The egg nestles in the hopeful cup of your womb, and your cunt becomes moist, flush and receptively slippery—a honeyed sluice for his jizm. You’re in season. Maybe you crave men. Or, really, you crave a man’s cock. And what if you saw it? Ready? Aching for you?
Would your cunt flow? Would you anticipate its entry and it’s necessary length? Is it fit? It must go where the egg is. A cock would quench your hunger and bathe your womb. Would you pull him aside. Would you suck him, make him slick, then mount him and grind your pelvis as you received his spurts? Or would you let him stop you with a fist in your hair. He smells your heat. He’ll mount you from behind. He’ll fuck and inseminate you—or should I say: ‘Your pussy’? Maybe, to him, you have nothing to do with it. He’ll hold your hair bend your back receptively until he’s done with your pussy, your insides juicy with his gunk. You—fucked, inseminated, female.
But at 36,000 feet my crotch boils.
What if I were naked and the women next to me too? It’s an affair of the imagination. Maybe the girl would glance at my cock. She would look away. She sits in the window seat. She looks outside at the cloudtops. But then I notice she squeezes her thighs. She can’t hide her nipples. She glances at my cock again. Her lips are red and moist. Maybe she pulls a magazine from the seat pocket. Her throat is flush and mottled. Maybe she’s in heat. I think I know what’s going on inside her.
I don’t introduce myself.
She’s not interested in my name. I move between her knees. I rest her ankles on my shoulders and pull her hips toward mine. She puts the magazine where I’d been sitting. She takes hold of the soft seat edge to either side our hips. The girl’s permission is in her eyes, the way she looks me, that pained anticipation that’s a woman’s gaze before she’s sure of a man’s size or length.
I pull her hips toward her. Her mouth parts. Her eyes roll. There’s that small catch in her breath, the most intimate sound a woman’s voice will ever make—that first instant of penetration. I’ll thrust until both of us are mercifully replete—me having released my semen, she, possessed and thick with it.
Or maybe none of that happens.
Maybe the teen kisses me as the older women, spurred by a memory, sucks my cock and swallows—with a coy smile I’ll never grasp. But how absurdly male—women fawning over me. But why shouldn’t I be the center of attention in my own fantasy? Aren’t we all the same? But then the thought of sitting naked on the seat of a jetliner introduces a host of irreconcilable complications—not least being the cock and balls prior to my own. Better to dispense with the fantasy than to reconcile.
Then my thoughts return to you, the stewardess, your tight hips in an equally tight dress—the kind stewardesses wore in the 60’s. I could jack-off in the little bathroom—occupido—imagining it, but decency prevents me. But if you were a stewardess, and you wore one of those blue dresses with the little wings pinned over your heart, I would fly with you. I can’t think of anything sexier that to pump my orgasm within the confines of that tight blue dress.
But that’s enough of that.
I’m going to make myself come if I go on like this. I’ve done it before, if just once. I didn’t touch myself. I came, fixated on a girl, another student in the same classroom, and there is nothing you can do to stop an orgasm once the telltale free fall begins. All I could do was hold on to the desk and grip my pencil as I spurted for the girl into my jeans. I blushed furiously, but my cock’s praise for her was limitless. She never knew. But if we had all been naked, she might have heard and seen the white, roping, spurts spatter my seat, my knees and the floor beside her. What would she have thought? She would have been horrified; but once by herself would she have pitied me? Would you? Would you have been aroused knowing that your beauty, just your female beauty, could cause a man to orgasm? Without even touching himself?
But you see how it is? What it’s like to have an erotic mind? No sooner do I say enough than I’m led astray. I’ve read once that all human beings almost went extinct. Based on our DNA some estimate there may only have been some twenty human beings in the world. Nature put in us such a desire for each other that there may not be another animal as fruitful or as multiplied in the history of the earth.
I’m a victim of evolution.
But thankfully I’m not tormented the entire flight. When I depart the plane I walk with dignity. A friend of ours meets me. She’s not who I expected. She’s a little younger than me, the twenty-something daughter of a friend. I’ve landed cross-country in California. She looks the part. She’s wearing a sleeveless tie-die and a tie-die skirt with an ankle bracelet. She’s brown and fit with surfing. She’s not you but, you know, my imagination still goes there.
And what if she were you?
Then I wouldn’t hesitate. I’d tell you I was driving. Those are the only words you’d hear. My fist will be in your hair and my cock in your mouth. There’s only so much a man can take. I need relief and your mouth is it. Just keep sucking while I pay the parking. The attendant might see you leaning across the seats, elbows up, head moving up and down. She won’t say a word, or if she does, I’ll make sure she hears you swallow. If not, we’ll be on the interstate, the broad, multi-lane highway of California with the state’s burnt, dry, green-flecked landscape to either side. I’ll slow you down, just to feel the pleasure of your lips and tongue. When I finally jizm, there might be too much. That happens. The balls grow heavy and ache. The first salty spurt pricking the back of your throat might make you cough.
But of course I don’t sit next to you.
I sit next to a twenty-something surf-girl and she’s driving. And god-almighty I’ve got to adjust myself again. She asks me what DC is like this time of year. Hot as hell. She asks me if there are any waves in Maryland. Sometimes bad weather helps. Not that I’m an expert. She stretches while she’s driving. Her tits and the curl of her spine almost ruin me. To see a woman stretch is to glimpse her stretched by a cock. Any adolescent boy understands this intuitively, and so do the girls doing the stretching. They know that boys are alert and watchful when they stretch. She smiles. She asks me about the flight. I must be stiff. Christ, am I that obvious?
I’m in a bad state.
Our friends are home. There’s socializing. We have dinner. We have desert and wine. Their house has a view of the ocean and rooftops. The guest room doesn’t view the ocean, the dark where all the city lights end and the unknowable begins. My own room abuts the hillside. I smell citrus, a small orange and lemon tree just outside the window. The bedsheets are cool and smoothly slide over my skin. I’m already thinking about you. I sleep naked. Its not long before I’m wishing you were with me. I roll over onto my stomach. My cock, full and long, is pressed between the mattress and my abdomen.
I begin to push my pelvis in the mattress. My fingers dig into the pillow. It doesn’t take long, the gentle thrusting, imagining you under me, before the pleasure is almost too exquisite. I groan and stop. I should masturbate but I don’t.
But then, here you are, 3.000 miles from where I left you. Somehow you’re at the bottom of the bed. Do I even have to say it? Your tits. They’re jutting from your breasts—not just the tits but the aureole. Filled with the milk of arousal. You’re crawling up the bed. You keep your back arched, your cunt lifted, the archetype of the aroused female—fuckable, breedable, wombable. I’ve been sleeping on my back with no sheets. My cock, finally, unhoused, twitches on my belly. The spade grazes my belly button. You’re licking my thighs, but you watch to see if I’m watching you.
You know every woman I’ve fantasized about, but you smile a wicked smile. All those women, a dozen girls and women today, and the thousand since I’ve met you combine and they are you—their hips, their tits, their lascivious gait. You in them and all of them in you—my Platonic woman made earthbound. Perfect. Erotic. Desirable. Lascivious. Wings at your shoulders, like a Stewardess’s pin. Your knees are to either side my stomach. Your pussy glides back and forth, sliding on the wetness between.
And you look at me, knowing and predatory, and capture the head of my cock in the soft, moist divot of your cunt. You don’t have to touch me. You lift my cock by the tip, the captured tip pointing between your thighs, pointing straight at your womb. I’m going to come. You like my throat. Your lips meet mine. The tip of your tongue glances the roof of my mouth. You sit you, hands on my chests, still poised on the crown of my dick, back curling. And then, your mouth parting, you slide, you lower yourself, and I come.
And I wake up.
I’m on my belly. Then I’m on my hands and knees. I groan. I don’t care if anyone hears me. The semen that was in my balls fills the length of my cock. I don’t want to spurt on my friend’s bedsheets but I already am. I can’t stop—muscles clench, toes dig into the mattress—spurts that I hear in the dark spatter the sheets beneath. My fists turn in the pillows. Pleasure overtakes me. I thrust instinctively with each twitch until a final web of semen drops between my knees. Even 3000 miles away I submit to you, Succubus. Your femaleness claims what I can’t refuse.
I thought I was too old for wet dreams.
I lie back down. I wonder what you would think?
When I come home I’ll hold you on your back so you can see. I’ll hold your hair in one hand, my cock in the other—still glistening from my fucking you. And I’ll come on you. I’ll spurt on your lips, breasts, belly and thighs. I’ll cover your slight, curvaceous body. I’ll make you sleep in it. You’ll be shocked. You’ll look at me with wide eyes and then, maybe, you’ll stretch beneath me. You’ll lift your abdomen for the last drop—there—on your taut belly button; and you’ll wonder what’s come over me.
And then I’ll have to explain it all.
Or write it down.