Cherry

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This is how it goes.
Her strawberry blonde hair is strewn out across her face in tangles, covering her pretty little eyes.
Her eyes are clenched shut so tight that it hurts.
But that’s not the only thing that hurts her — her face is down against the carpet, grinding against it with every thrust he takes. She can feel the place where it will burn later in the evening.
He’s behind her, she can feel his cock deep within her, filling her to the brim.
There’s no art to this, no poetry. He pulls out fast and slides in fast, knocking the air out of her and leaving her in the daze.
Cherry can feel her body twist in places it doesn’t want to go to. It’s angled upwards, her ass – wet from her slick cunt – catches the breeze as it’s held high in the air.

Cherry is left paralysed in the moment, feeling the throe of both pain and pleasure wash over her.
She can feel her stomach rise and twist when the wind is knocked from her as he enters her, she can feel her nipples harden to the coarse kiss of the carpet beneath her.
Her interaction is reduced to hoarse moans that slip past her lips. She can feel the strands of her hair catch on the corners of her mouth.
Beads of sweat form and trickle down her forehead. Feeling their trickling itch is agony.

There’s an urgency that creeps up on her. Her cheeks, nipples and knees burn from the carpet but she can feel her orgasm rising. Her stomach swells with anticipation.
He, Cherry’s father, comes. Cherry knows this because he has pulled out, at once denying her orgasm and fulfilling his, shooting his come over the cheeks of her ass.
Much later, Cherry would sit in her bedroom, her radio on loud, as she furiously assaults her clit, desperate to recreate the moment in her mind, feeling him inside her still, so she can at least come like the good girl she knows she is. Like she deserves.

For now, she slumps against the floor, ass in the air, as he roughs her hair gently, tenderly.
‘I love you, Cherry’ He says, and she feels he means it.
‘I love you too, Daddy’ She responds breathlessly, and she feels she means it.

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Good Little Boy

The worse thing you can do is fight it.

I get what I want. And what I want is for you to come in my hand like a good little boy.

I know you want that too. I can feel your cock harden in my hand.

So, accept me. Let me in.

Because if you don’t, it’s only going to get harder for you from here on in.

12 Days of BDSM Christmas 2017 – #9: Interlude III: Rite of Passage

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IT comes in fragments now,

Like images reflecting off pieces of broken glass,

Shifting, changing,

The more you move.

 

I remember the bed made up for me on the ground level,

I recall the wooden stairs that creaked so loudly that

When I awoke at the dawn of a new day,

I feared I would wake your house.

 

I remember the bed sat against a window that

Looked into the backyard pool.

I remember the name of the lively dog,

Who would wake me at the light of day.

 

And I remember you,

Tired and yet wide eyed,

Sneaking down the stairs

Dressed in a loose pink night dress that

Barely covered your breasts or your legs.

I remember the way your dark hair curled

Around your eyes.

I remember that look in your eyes,

You had to have more,

You had to see me.

Why else would the dawn wake you?

 

I know we kissed

Heavily

Lovers that had the world

Lovers that forgot time itself

I know you straddled me sometimes

Because I can sometimes still hear your giggle,

Soft and mischevious.

But now I’m old

And time itself has forgotten me.

 

So like fragments,

I have the world

And I have the memories.

I have the memories

And I have the sounds.

I have the sounds

and I have the sights.

 

And I remember,

Twisting the pool cue,

Sliding it deeper,

Hearing the whispered catch on your breath,

Catch on the guttural animal cry

escaping your lips

As you beg me to let you come.

 

It comes in fragments now,

The trembling subsiding,

The breathing slowing,

The waves of sleep surrounding us,

Dream taking over us.

 

Creativity begs torture

Sometimes I don’t mind,

Sometimes I do.

Glass can cut.

In Which I Discuss My Writing Style..

Something I do in my free time is offer up my writing services – proofreading, editing, sometimes people want an original story. And so I have a file with some of Creative samples across many different genres – Fantasy, Thriller, Erotica.

The erotic one I have on sample is Zoe. I’m very proud of that, mainly because I wrote it in a fever – I slipped away from myself and was there. I can still hear the crickets and feel the heat of the locale.

But one thing that struck me with this piece that I put on my Creative Writing sample list is that it’s explicit in its use of language. ‘Cunt’ is used quite freely, and I’m sure I dropped a few f-bombs, as my characters tend to live their own lives.

I used to wonder if this was a suitable point of reference. People (Some people) are put off by it, others don’t seem to mind.

But tonight, as I sit here in this comfortable weather that sits somewhere between Just-right levels of coolness, I wonder what draws me to use such language – language I don’t use myself in real life. Unless severely frustrated, or turned on.

What I keep coming back to is that I enjoy the toughness of the word. It is coarse and unrefined and I always felt that some characters, not all but some, would grasp at these words first when trying to form thought.

But in saying that, and at the risk of sounding pretentious, there’s a beauty to that roughness as well. There’s something delightful about tapping into this sense of being in a state of arousal, one where the right word might not come to you, so you grasp for the explicit one. Fuck, tits, ass.

I do take into consideration the character – who they are, who they were, who they are in the moment – but I am aware that when things get animalistic or raw in the heat of these moments, so does my language.

Which is why there is a recurring theme in my writings of people getting down and dirty and unrestrained (or otherwise) because pushing people to the brink, to see what occurs when they topple over, can be a thrilling thing.

I don’t really know why I’m writing this. I don’t like deconstructing what I’ve done because it takes something out of that unrefined piece I write at 2am – but at the same time, I have been wondering why I chose to put Zoe on the list. And in doing so, I have wondered if it would be a bad choice. Which is why I ended up offering alternative pieces of erotic fiction.

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My little doll,

Together we will celebrate life

The past and present

The good and the bad

And you will sit by my feet

In your natural state 

Open to the universe

Connected with souls

Bare 

You are my feast 

My own celebration 

And together we 

Will pay our respects 

To the wonder of life.

______________________




Out of my love for and fascination for this beautiful Mexican tradition, I thought I would write a piece that hopefully is as sweet as it is sexual. For it is a celebration of life, of sexuality as well, but predominately life itself. Past, present and future. 



I won’t harp on any further about a poem that may or may not be any good. But I just wanted to pay my respects in an unique way to the holiday.