The Erotic Writer

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The Birdhouse

 

My lover told me a story that when she was young and innocent, dilly-dallying in the dark woods with her basket of flowers, she spotted a very strange thing. She saw a man, not so much older than herself, leaning against a tree. In one hand he held a paper and in the other, he stroked his penis. She had seen penises before but never like this. It was tall, and thick, and straight. All the penises she had ever seen dangled loose and easily. She had no idea a penis could grow so large and wondered why and for what purpose?

But more surprising was her curiosity. What could he be doing? She stood behind a tree, her lips, nose and half an eye just peeking. What a strange feeling in her belly, like a flock of birds neither perched nor taking flight. Every so often the paper held in the man’s hand turned this way or that. He looked at the drawing of a girl and the girl was naked!

And then such a tumult of birds in her belly.

Screech, screech, the Blue Jay’s ugly warning. The chickadees fluttered from limb to limb, their little fee bee’s asking “Who’s that? Who’s that? Who’s that?” The man’s hand moved quickly, back and forth, before he abruptly gasped and shook. A single spurt, a white thread burst from his penis, a silky string that gleamed on the drawing held by his other hand.

The man let go of his penis and held the drawing in both hands as though concerned for something very dear. “Oh no!” he said, speaking to the drawing, then seemed swept into a new reverie. “You must wonder what I’ve done!”

My lover squatted behind the tree; her skirt spread over her knees.

“This little splash,” said the man. “You must wonder what it is.” And then my lover imagined she stood before him, and that the wondrous strange emission had splashed the little ‘V’ made by her thighs.

His fingers touched her just as they touched the picture.

“It is for you, my love,” he said.

He tenderly lowered his finger’s tip, white and glistening, to the very tip of the ‘V’. Of course, she bit her lip. The flighty fingers of her hands closed round his wrist (to prevent or to pull him closer is not for me to say). But she gazed at him with an exquisite agony when his finger slipped between the fold. She didn’t let go but her fingertips lightly fluttered at his wrist. How the birds in her belly twittered! The yellow warbler trilled on her tenuous perch, the fox darted through the undergrowth and hemlock’s shadow was pricked by needles.

“It will make you slippery,” said the man, “ where you need to be slippery.”

She held onto his shoulders and her forehead fell to his chest. His finger turned circles in the burning nest of her thighs—burning, burning. The house sparrow chirruped, chirruped in her throat and the lark’s wings trembled. And then he turned her so that he held her pony in one hand and kissed the nape of her neck. And then his other hand glided over the divide of her buttocks, underneath and between her legs, and he said to her: “And now I’ll show you where this most wonderful emission must go.”

His two fingers, each glistening with his effluence, pressed their slippery essence up and tumblr_mqdqzc53AR1qfbon7o1_1280into her. She rose to her toes, her spine vaulted, her ankles spread and she took flight. She convulsed around the two fingers within her slender abdomen, or so she imagined.

She squatted on her own two fingers. The drawing slipped from his. He was overtaken by his own bewildering agony. Oh, but then she didn’t dare move, not when, with a shuddering exhalation the spurting stopped, not when he uncomfortably returned his cock to his pants, not when he closed his eyes and leaned with his back against the tree. Not when he shrugged and turned his back to her, walking away.

The wind blew the drawing to her side.

Oh, and then the birds in her belly, that had finally calmed, scattered again. The barred owl hooted: “Who? Who?” The Mockingbird trilled: “My, oh my, oh my!” And the red-winged blackbird whistled: “Look, it’s you! Look, it’s you!” And such a tumult! She didn’t dare touch the paper. Cried the whip-poor-will: “Just be still! Just be still!” But what she did was to bite her knuckle.

She crossed one knee in front of the other.

And then she looked and looked and looked until, with a flighty little cry, she ran all the way home and spoke not a peep to her mother.

William Crimson | July 16 2016

2 comments on “The Birdhouse

  1. Stephanie
    July 17, 2016

    This is beautiful. There is a rhythm to it, and I can see this performed as spoken-word. Just gorgeous!

    • willcrimson
      July 17, 2016

      You made my day. That’s always been a goal of mine: making erotic stories that are beautiful too.

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This entry was posted on July 16, 2016 by in CP, Erotica, First Time, Insemination, Masturbation, Quickie, RedBud, Virgin and tagged , , , , .

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