Yours

~ erotica ~



Just so that you know, because I think you forget this: I always, at any given moment, want you to fuck me.

Whether it's in my mouth, all over my face, between my breasts, sliding over my clit, or pounding my pussy just right, I always want your cock inside me.

Any time. Any place.

Softly, gently, or roughly, brusquely.

A quickie. A marathon session. It does not matter.

I always want your cock.

And you always have leave to take my body in whichever way you see fit. Politely or impolitely, I want your cock more than I want conversations, meals, lessons, or other fun.

Be gracious if you wish. A simple caress from you would be enough to take my attention away, to end whatever interaction I had been engaged in and be only of you.

But if you are not inclined to even that simple courtesy, grab whatever part of my body you wish, be it hair or wrist or arm or neck, and pull me wherever you like to do whatever you like.

If it be your pleasure, take of my body right there, be it in whatever company. My flesh is for your feasting, and I want nothing more than to have you in me, on me, always. Whatever way you should ever wish, for every moment of every day of my too short life.

For there are not enough moments in a thousand lifetimes for my insatiable need to be yours, to feel you in me, on me, to be of you, for your pleasure.

My hunger for you, my hunger to be yours, can never be fulfilled.

Silence

~ an imagined nightmare ~



I felt my body before I ever opened my eyes. I was tired, achy, from long days of work multiple days in a row. I didn't want to get up, didn't want to move, didn't want to rip off my covers and start another long day. But I had to.

Still, I could snooze, just a little bit.

I pulled my covers tight to my face, curled my body in, and...

Nothing. Where was it?

My eyes shot open. I tried again.

Nothing. Tension came to my neck.

Again. Nothing.

I sat up, the cold air of the winter morning less shocking then normal.

I tried to speak, tried to say something, anything.

Nothing. Again. Nothing.

My hands went to my throat. Tears filled my eyes. I cried, but I couldn't wail. I tried to yell, but there was no sound over my breath, no utterance except air.

I stumbled out of bed, tripped towards my door, and found it locked. I banged my hand against it. I pulled, wrenched at the doorknob.

Nothing. I slammed my fists against the wood. I silent screamed til my throat was raw, then slowly I slid down to the floor.

I curled into a ball again, my tears slipping sideways across my face, pooling on the hardwood.

I silently whimpered. I quietly wailed. I cried.

I closed my eyes.

And then I awoke in my bed, tense, exhausted, and alarmed. I took a deep breath. And I hummed, the soothing way I always hum when I'm waking from or slipping to slumber.

And the world was okay again.

Distressed

It started Monday night.  At first it was just a tickle in my throat, nothing new.  I fell asleep with a cough drop under my tongue like I'd done many a time before, believing this would be enough.

When I awoke the next morning, I still had a tickle in my throat, but it was just a tickle.  And I still had work...

As my day went on, the tickle mutated, growing into pain, bad pain, and my cough drops weren't helping.  In fact, it seemed like my cough drops were triggering coughing fits.  There were other symptoms: intermittant nausia and dizziness, feeling weaker than normal.  None of these were good signs.

By the time we were finishing up our tear down, I had to keep myself from crying.  I'd started coughing occasionally, and it hurt, really hurt, whenever I coughed.  I knew, just knew, something was very wrong.

The next morning I went to Patient First.  They tested me for strep and the flu, both negative.  Still, the doctor thought I probably had the flu anyway; he perscribed a flu medication plus some liquid codeine.  I filled the scripts, went home, changed clothes, and went back to work.

Wednesday was to be an easy day, a half day, a simple gig.  But, as I worked, I could feel it.  I couldn't move, couldn't function like I normally would.  It took me much longer to perform simple tasks, and it took so much energy out of me to just get through this simplest of gigs.

That day I continued to drink fluids.  Tea helped to soothe my throat.  I went to sleep at 11pm having taken my first dose of the codiene, the drug giving me a nice dull haze to slip into.

And then I woke up at 2am.  My throat was on fire, worse than it had been before.  I chugged more ginger ale, rolled over, and made myself fall back to sleep.

And then I woke up at 5am.  My throat felt even worse.  I made myself a hot toddy, went downstairs, and watched random television hoping my throat would feel better.  It didn't.

I tried to stay strong.  I kept hoping my pain would ease.  But there came a point when I was ready to ball.  I tried to speak to a roommate around 8am, and each word was a new level of pain.

I took two Tylenol, another dose of the codiene, curled up on the cough, my body in a tight ball, and cried myself to a restless sleep that lasted about an hour.

And then came the weezing.  It felt like something was obstructing my airway, like mucus was half covering my throat.  Every breath was a labor.  I gave it sometime, thinking it would go away.  With each breath, I grew more and more scared.

Finally, I couldn't deny it anymore.  I picked up my phone and typed out a note.  I walked up to the kitchen, where one of my roommates was fixing something.  I showed her my phone.

I'm having difficulty breathing; I think I need to go to the hospital.

She didn't need my note to realize I was not good.  You could hear every breath enter and exit my body.  We rushed to get shoes on my, grab my wallet, and bundle up against the frigid cold.

By the time we had gotten to the hospital, I had hacking coughed enough that whatever was hampering my breathing had been dislodged, but I had given up on talking; it just hurt too much.  I wrote out all my answers to the intake secretary. 

We waited for about an hour before they took me to the back.  As the nurse spoke, I just kept writing.

Before she even asked me any questions, I pointed to notes I'd already written:
Symptoms - painfully sore throat, chills, intermittant nausea and dizziness, weak.
It hurts to swallow, cough, or talk.
My pain is at an 8, a 9/10 when I cough.  Yesterday it was a 7.

They put in an IV.  They took blood for tests.  They gave me pain meds and fluids for dehydration.

About an hour later, with the tests run, and nothing coming up again, they had a diagnosis: throat infection.  They perscribed an antibiotic, more codiene in case I needed it, and gave me a doctor's note.

I'm still to take the meds Patient First perscribed, holding onto the hospital's codiene in case I run out.

It is so very hard for me to admit when I'm hurting, to admit when I'm in real pain.  It's incredibly difficult for me to take myself to the hospital.  But the fear...  That was the hardest part of all.

When you don't know what is wrong with your body, when all the things you try that normally work no longer make you better, when you don't understand what is wrong but you know something is wrong...  The fear was the worst part.

But I'm okay now.  The pain meds took me down to a 4 before I left the hospital.  I've been hovering there or slightly below ever since, making sure to take the Tylenol and codiene regularly.

Because when I don't, when the time comes up for me to take my next dosage, and I can feel the pain grow just a little.  When it feels like a cheese grater is against my throat ready to slough off its fill, the fear comes back and I wonder if my breaths will be my last.

For being the daughter of a doctor and a medical secretary, I kind of suck at this whole health thing.

A Few Things

~ erotica ~



It's 12:45pm, only ten minutes til we end. What else did you want to talk about?

Oh, just a few things...

That top looks great on you.

What?

Your top, of course with the appropriate bra, displays your tits well. Makes them sit up, perky, in the way we both know is a wardrobe illusion. I like it, and the few others you own like it. You should wear shirts like that more.

The skirt today is a nice touch, too. Short, but not too short, showing off your legs. You have killer legs. Defined calves and thighs that feel great when wrapped around a waist.

I think we should...

I think you were a decent lay. I say decent because, even though I'm only seventeen, well eighteen tomorrow, and you're almost forty, I've had better.

Don't get me wrong, you were good. Sucked my cock like a pro. I loved fucking your face; you were such a cock slut. And your gagging was a nice touch, though I suspect that was more for your pleasure than mine.

But you weren't much for endurance. And you always wanted the same positions, all two of them. And you never took control. You're very controlling here, in your office, with your pad of paper and your very expensive fountain pen, but in the sack you're so... submissive.

And you didn't like being in control sexually?

Okay Doc, you got me there. But, I don't know, I guess I like a little of both. I would've loved to have seen you on top, riding my dick, your tits bouncing there in my face for me to play with like a kitten with its ball of string.

I like tits a lot; I don't think you knew that

Oh, I knew.

Really? You never shoved them in my face when we fucked.

I didn't want to give you everything you wanted. Spoiled little brats are made that way.

True. True.

Oh, and the last thing, since we only have a minute left before we're through and I no longer have to see you: since I was under age, and I stuck my dick in you multiple times to your insistent glee, you will make sure my therapy records are sealed.

Or...?

Or both you and I will be fucked again by the other long after today.

Sense Memories

~ a story ~



1

Lollipops and candy drops and so many things so sweet, but none so sweet as the kiss of his lips when we wake each morning. Or after a long day of work. Or at the end of a long parting.

His lips are plump, like ripened fruit ready for tasting, and each time I do I let the sweetness engulf my now with happy abandon, and I feel the sugary high of him all over again.

2

His scent is a musk, rich with flavors of hard work, harder quandaries, and the difficulty of his days. The aroma of him fills my nostrils whenever I hold him tight, taking him into an embrace, my arms aching from gripping so hard to my love.

If I could, if life would make it so, I would never let my love go. But I do, knowing he works hard for me, knowing he lives for me, knowing we live and love for each other.

3

The heat of his body is a warm blanket of comfort each night as we drift to sleep and each morning when I wake to his weathered face and still lidded eyes.

Even in slumber, his heart pulses for me, his arms encircling my frame, pulling me into him, his warmth a constant easing to my days.

4

When I'm away. earning my share of our abundance, and his body is not next to mine, and his scent is gone from my nostrils, and his sweet lips mere wisps of memory from my mouth, I look to my remembrances of him, my sense memory evoking all the little things that make my love so.

When I am cold in my unfamiliar bed, I snuggle up tight and imagine the covers as his arms around me.

When I wake, and he is not next to me, I nuzzle my head into my pillow and envision his lips kissing me.

When I yearn to feel connected when time gives me no leave to do so, I recall his scent, recall the richness of his essence, surrounding me.

5

At our reunitings, there is always a thunder of emotion. A meeting of great waves of wanting. Clothes are cast aside. Thoughts of anything but the others body are gone as we take in the feel of familiar flesh, familiar scents, and sweet familiar kisses.

And I smile and skip and sing, and am more than happy to have my love with me again.

Makeup

Today I want to talk about a subject that, for me, is frivolous. It has almost no impact on my life, yet is prevalent throughout our culture: makeup.

Some of you who know me may smile at the thought of me writing an entire blog entry about this topic, being that I don't in fact ever wear makeup, but that is part of the reason why I decided to take a moment from my hectic day and expound a bit on the subject.

Recently a male friend, when I offhandedly mentioned that I don't wear makeup, asked me why. I thought about it for a bit. Not many people ask me that question. Most just accept the fact when I randomly mention it and move on.

There are the practical reasons why I don't. It saves me money and time in my hectic day. It isn't necessary for me to be made up for my job, and could actually be a distraction/hassle in my work.

There are the superficial personal reasons. When I was young and tried it with my mother once, I didn't like the feel of it on my skin. I've seen my mother all done up (she LOVES makeup, by the way). The look just didn't fit my personality; it's just not me.

And then there are my deeper thoughts about the cultural practice in general.

I'm not trying to sound above others when I say this, but I like knowing I look the same to someone when I go to bed with them as when I wake up beside them.

I don't see the need to hide my flaws from people, to smooth over the blemishes on my face. I like to believe there are people who will be attracted to me for me, flaws and all.

I find it empowering to not have to wear makeup, to not have to conform to this particular cultural norm, to just step up and step out as plain old me, accepting, embracing my less than perfect skin and still feeling beautiful.

I've seen certain people, my mother included, for whom makeup is an art that heightens their beauty. With them, I understand why they love such adornment. There is a reason why professional are called makeup artists, because it is an art. But it is just not something that I wish to absorb into my own sensibilities.

The closest I've come to wearing makeup is body glitter on my eye lids and cheekbones to accentuate my face. And, truth be told, I like it when I find the random flecks of glitter here or there on my person.

I've thought about trying mascara, though this would specifically be for scenes. Being that I cry a lot, I've wondered how it would look to have my face blackened from my tears. But I have yet to play with this.

I have one tube of lip gloss that is probably five plus years old, as well a single tube of black lipstick that I've owned since high school. Neither has been used in years.

I adorn myself in jewelry (necklaces, earrings, bracelets). I have a growing and eclectic sock collection. I'm increasing the hot dress section of my wardrobe, and I hope to increase my shoe selection as well (though, with a 10 wide foot that has been challenging).

There are plenty of ways that I am very much a girl. There is no doubt about that. But this one thing, this one part of the cultural stereotype of feminine, just does not fit me. And, well, I'm okay with that.

Torment

~ erotica ~



Thoughts of you haunted me all day.

First when I rode the bus into work. The behemoth lumbered along slowly, rocking back and forth at the slightest deviation in the road. I stood, holding onto a rail above my head for stability. As I swayed, my body remembered a similar movement, my frame jostling violently when we fucked last night.

A quick flash of memory filled my mind as my cunt ached for your cock inside it. I gripped the rail a little tighter, closed my eyes for just a pause longer than normal, and bathed in the remembrance of that moment.

Next was when I visited an office friend at their cubicle. I leaned over and rested my forearms on the top of the flimsy wall, making sure not to put too much body weight against it. Standing in the generous walk area, my hips naturally kicked back, my ass just barely presented. But it was enough.

Immediately thoughts of your hands gliding onto my hips, gripping, and pulling me back. Your cock finding my ass, my back arched, popping my rump up for your approval. Your fingernails sinking into my flesh. Your cock pounding my cunt.

I bit my lip, hid my face in my rested arms, and hoped my friend didn't notice the smile beaming from my eyes.

Then there was the two o'clock blues. Sitting at my desk, my neck tense, my shoulders and upper arms tight. I closed my eyes, rolled my neck, and tried to relax. And suddenly it was as if I could feel your hands in my hair. Your lips on my neck. Your teeth nibbling softly.

Soon, I assured myself. I would see you that evening.

Finally, I just couldn't take it anymore. My body pulse, throbbed at the thought of you. My nipples were erect, begging to be sucked. My clit ached from wanting.

I hurried to the bathroom, checked that all the other stalls were empty, and chose my quiet doored corner. Lifting my skirt, my fingers manically played with my clit, glided up and down my pussy lips, and slid in and out of my wet cunt easily.

But I didn't cum, not yet. That I wanted to save for when my torment would end, for when I saw you next, in just a few short hours. I saved my cum for your cock, and your lips, and your hands, and our fucking.