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.

    $2.99

c2b6ab1e82e7091fe46bbbd64c36e0c6--heart-photography-nude-photographyThe middle of the night. My cock, stiff, like a monster, urgent, alert, upright, waking me. 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 sluiced ice.
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 youthfulness.
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 moon’s 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. Sticky drops on 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 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 my taste.
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 vociferous hair. I’m circling your arms though you try to free them. Little by little your kicking, twisting, 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, blossoms 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 a little, then a little more, then, the deeper I go, the thicker and wider until there’s not even room for your little clit. Out it pops. Little pearl. Out come your juices, a rivulet own your thigh, spattering the shower’s floor.
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 ribs, pools at the base of your spine, then into the divide of your ass. A tentacle has that effect on a woman’s nipples. They burst like fruit. Call it a submissive cry. Don’t hurt me! they plead. I submit! But of course. I accept. I will fill your womb—so fresh, slender, so in need of filling.
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 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 kissed, your wrists and ankles will twist in the rope of your bed sheets. Your arms and legs spread like the scarecrow’s. But if what if he finds you wandering when the moon is orange and the cat crouches in the fickle shadows? Then you won’t escape him. A scarecrow is like the wind, light as the chaffed wheat’s needles. He will pursue you until he’s pressed your back to the bark of an ironwood tree. His kiss is the exhalation of a thousand lost summer days.
Beware.
His kiss will flavor your thighs, lips and nipples. The ghost of the last man to wear the scarecrow’s shirt will find you out. Ghostly kiss and a ghostly cock that would never fit a woman were it flesh. And though you run, every root will snag your feet, every thorn in your hair, and every vine will singe your wrists. The more you try, they more they entangle until they’ve lifted you from the forests’s floor, arms wide and legs opened and lifted between the bony limbs of the 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, its clothes afloat in the watery air, its cock divining what you are. No! Let me go! But as as if it rose the midnight’s flood, he will impale you, sharp and to the root! It will be as if the cocks of all your lovers were remembered at once—and all the pleasure. The moon will glitter in your eyes. Your mouth will open but make no noise— so deeply, so shockingly, so firmly will he impale you. Feel him in your womb, his vapor in your lungs, his ghostly thrusts tickling the length of your spine. And when he orgasms, and when you orgasm, exhale an icy frost from mouth, nipples and cunt. You will drop to the forest floor as though all were 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 thoughs. When they give chase, so I’m told, they so terrify a woman that rather than her flesh be torn from the bone, she will fall to her knees, put down her head and let herself be mounted. The werewolve’s giant hand will press her cheek to the earth, the other grip of thighs so that she receive the full measure of his spillage. She will overflow. 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 pitiless moon.
Every woman hides a monster.

06fe08b901189246d31c47867ecf4f0c--octopus-art-octopus-drawing
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 drops. 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.
Then?
Silence.
I put my little moth down.
I see you slide to the floor, cheek and hands to the shower wall, thighs soaked, cunt bestenched. My tentacles lovingly release you, one by one, sliding wetly over your skin until your shift falls haphazardly over your hips.
I go back to my bedroom, my closet, my dark little cell, 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

Latest Comments

  1. Rudy says:

    Wow, this one is so hot! And perfect for sharing with the Wife. It’s been a while since I’ve last been here indulging in your elegant nastiness, Will. It’s good to be back!

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