Midnight Snack

  • The first book of Daydreams & Distractions is now available in Epub and Kindle format. I have also published it through Draft2Digital. This means you will be able to buy it from other sellers, though I recommend EPUB (Converting to Kindle mysteriously inserts a blank page between each chapter) and purchasing it through Erotic Writer.

    Daydreams & Distractions: Book One

    The first book of 101 Daydreams & Distractions, containing the first 25 Poems, Fables and Erotic Stories.


c2b6ab1e82e7091fe46bbbd64c36e0c6--heart-photography-nude-photographyThe middle of the night. My cock, stiff, like a monster, urgent, alert, upright, waking me up. I try to sleep. Thick. Sticking. Slippery. I toss. I turn. Throw off my sheet. Is it that time of year again? The air is hot and cold, chilled with melting and freezing, sticky, rich with rot and decay—sap, mud gumming the slender channels ice in the water.
I stretch.
Then I listen. Door opening. Softly closing. I hear bare feet. Yours. Light steps. I stop. I hear the bathroom door. The toilet seat. I sit up. Do I? I hear you pissing. I can almost smell your cunt, thighs wide, available, fuckable, fillable, fertile. I can almost see you—squatting. Female. I’ve been watching you, waiting, alerted: your smell, sound, your youthful awakening.
My door opens.
But why do I deceive? Bedroom door? Does it matter if I’ve left my bedsheets on the floor? Or if I haven’t. The wind blows in the Locust trees. The moonlit limbs rattle. Clothes fall from the hangers and the hangers click and clack like little Chinese fortune sticks.
The hallway is pitch dark.
I move in the dark like the color of bark. You’re washing your hands. Anticipation slips from my cock and drips to the floor. For an instant I let you hear me, see me, comprehend me. Horror. You scramble to the door, but you’re easy to catch—like a little moth, arms and legs flailing. I have you half inside the shower, behind you, covering your mouth, lifting your shift like a little moth’s wings. Lifting you until your toes swing in the air. If only you could scream, rouse your roommates, parents, neighbors. They’re in the room next door. Or would you? You try to kick. I press a tentacle into your mouth—stifle that little cry—making you suck and swallow the taste my come.
Did I say ‘tentacle’?
I have nine if you count my cock. I have a tentacle round your waist. My tentacles are already pulling your ankles apart. I have a tentacle round your throat and tangling in your delicious hair. I’m circling your arms though you try to free them. Little by little your kicking, your twisting, your bucking slows. My tentacle round your throat tightens, your eyelids grow heavy, your tongue protrudes, legs widen and twitch. Nipples jutting as if they’d burst. But what kind of a monster do you think I am? This little squeeze, the tentacle’s loving little squeeze, so dark, so taboo, so forbidden, squeezing you into that secret place only we two understand. Your thighs tremble. Your pussy opens, closes, opens like a destitute flower. Your thigh runs. You drip from the toes of your left foot. Your eyes turn upward when I penetrate you, so slowly, so firmly, just the tip, then a little more, then, the deeper I go, the thicker and wider I am until there’s not even room for your little clit. Out it pops. Little pearl. And out comes more of your juices, a rivulet that runs down your thigh, spattering the floor of the shower.
I’ve got you, little one.
A little description: I hold your ankles wide. Your wrists are at the small of your back. I pull them back and force your bursting nipples upward. They begin to run. Their effluence drips over your rips and collects at the base of your spine. A tentacle has that effect on a woman’s nipples. They burst like little fruits. Call it fright. A submissive gesture. Don’t hurt me! they cry. I submit! But of course. I accept their offer. I will fill your slender little womb.
A little more description: The windows curtain swings back and forth. A chilly gust worries leaves over the roof. Up they go, one side, and down the other. A hissing wave. You wouldn’t know but they look like fragmentary blackbirds flitting past the windowpanes. Horrid things. Blackbirds. But you know what’s even more horrid? That scarecrow. Have you ever been kissed by a scarecrow.
Terrible, horrible monsters.
To be kissed by a scarecrow is to be cursed—a dark, terrible, unquenchable thirst. Once he kisses you, the sheets of your bed will gather round your wrists and ankles like rope. Your arms will spread like the scarecrow’s though your legs will be tied like a woman’s—open. But if what if he finds you wandering when the moon is orange and the black cat is fickle? Then you won’t escape him. A scarecrow is like the wind itself, light as the chaffed wheat’s needles. He will find you, though you run, and he will press your back to the cross bark of an ironwood tree, and he will kiss the kiss of a lover, and you will exhale the breathe of a thousand lost summer days.
Then he will tear the sleeve of his shirt and leave it at your feet.
The ghost of the last man to wear the shirt will find you out. He comes not as himself, but as a ghost of himself, ghostly lips, and a ghostly cock that would never fit a woman were it flesh.
And though you run, every root will tangle in your feet, every thorn in your hair, and every vine will circle your wrists. The more you try, they more they entangle you until they’ve lifted you from the forests’s floor, arms wide and legs open, like a scarecrow lifted between the bony linbs of trees.
Then scream. Scream for all the good it will do you. You can’t escape the scarecrow’s curse. The ghost will find you, tenuous clothes floating in the watery air, and his cock will terrify you. No! Let me go! But then, as if riding midnight’s flood of leaves, he will impale you, quickly, sharply, to root! It will be as if the cocks of all your lovers were remembered at once—and all the pleasure. The moon will gleam wildly in your eyes. There will be no escape. Your mouth will be open but make no noise— so firmly, so shockingly, so deeply will he impale you. How much wider your legs? Feel him in your womb, his vapor in your lungs, his ghostly thrusts tickling the length of your spine, penetrating your mind. And when he orgasms, and when you orgasm, exhale an icy frost from your mouth, nipples and cunt. You will drop to the forest floor as though all had been a dream. But your lips will be cold forevermore, and your wrists and ankles will always itch for the rope, for the binding, for the vine around your throat. Such a woman has been kissed by the scarecrow.
And then there are the werewolves—in shape like men and in appetite like wolves. They smell the dark turmoil of your womb. When they give chase, so I’m told, they so terrify a woman that rather than be torn to flesh and bone, she will fall, put down her head, lift her pussy between open knees, and so be mounted. The werewolve’s giant hand will press her cheek to the earth, his other will press into the small of her back so she receives the full measure of his monstrous spillage. She will overflow with him. Her thighs will run with him. She will groan: overfull, overhot, womb to his wolfish potion. Such women walk unevenly home, a hand between their legs, the other over their wombs. Such women are, themselves, made wolfish: forever hungry, desirous, prowling under the violent moon.
Every woman hides a monster.

You, my dear, have chosen me. My fucking begins in earnest. You make little noises, little puffs, airy groans with each thrust. When I withdraw my tentacle from your mouth, your tongue follows, catching the drops from the tip. I give your throat little squeezes. Not a sound escapes. But such a wet, dripping, squichy racket your cunt makes, so noisy, so obscene, so eager for my wetness inside its wetness. Your cunt will wake the household.
But what good are such admonitions?
You’re trembling. Your thighs shake. You struggle once more to free yourself. Your toes spread. Your fingers open and close. The muscles of your abdomen glisten with sweat. Do you want to tell me something? But your impaled orgasm begins. You gaze wide-eyed at the ceiling. Your womb urges me, squeezes me, urgently invites me, defying the taut arch of your body. I concede. I come. I flood your receptive grunts.
I put my little moth down.
I see you slide to the floor, cheek and hands to the shower wall, thighs soaked, cunt dripping. My tentacles lovingly release you, one by one, sliding wetly over your skin until your shift falls haphazardly over your legs and hips.
I go back to my bedroom, my closet, my dark little recess, hiding place, corner. Do you hear a clothes hanger riffle? Will anyone wonder why a coat has fallen off its hook? Do you notice the gusts that rattle the eaves? The cat is at the door. A barn door slaps the barn on rusty hinges. Pumpkins are everywhere, frowning, laughing, fattening. Am I mean? Well—Happy Halloween. That will teach you to wander hallways without a light. You never know what is waiting in the middle of the night. Or do you?

William Crimson | October 18th 2017

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