You need to know
exactly how much
I could hurt you.
How much
you could take
before you break.
Everyone does.

It’s the not knowing
that terrifies.
Will your capacity
to endure
ever live up
to your own
exacting standards?

Isn’t that
what you fear,
my love?

That place,
beyond tears or doubts,
beyond words or confusions,
no ambiguity,
no lukewarm
sentiments.

Nothing but fierce
and purifying light.
Nothing but the truth.

How long has it been
since you imagined
bathing in
that radiance?

You wonder
if it will unman you,
but only long enough
to know it will.
You wonder
if you will come apart
in my hands like a child,
and you surely will.

But they will be  my hands.
That much I promise.
And that is the only promise
that truly matters.

Your absence
is a silent
void burned
onto concrete.

Your presence simply
the shaded preface
to your eventual
departure.

My precipice
hang over
of everything I
desire.

________

Read all the Wank Wednesday erotic writing for Shadow on Word Ejaculation

He writes the things I am to him.
Cutting each letter into my skin.
Slut Whore Cunt.
Then crosses them out in one long slash.

He scrawls as I scream.
MY slut. MY whore. MY cunt. Mine.
Until that last word and
the press of his cock against my thigh.

I don’t love the pain,
but I love what it makes him.
And the flat heat of his tongue
on the bloody pearls that edge the words.

His breath sears my back as he works.
My face a hot mess of tears,
I cry as if it will never end.
Panting like a thing dying.

He sits me up, turns my head to the mirror
and I see:
He has made me a thing of infinite and bloody beauty.
A poem in pain.

Penned in extremis,  for #FuckToyFriday

Perhaps at the bead of sweat that formed at his temple. It was a hot afternoon and the air-conditioning in elevator wasn’t working. I watched it crawl down the side of his face, catching here and there on the bristles of his unshaven cheek.

Beneath office tower, past the scent of laundry soap and the sweetness of something he’d bathed in. There, under that was the tang of his skin. Close and dark and alive.

My tongue itched. The tip worried the back of my teeth, insistent and serpentine. Saliva flooded my mouth as the bead of sweat curved his jaw, ran down his neck and disappeared under an immaculately white collar.

Some women go for asses. Some for hands. Some for eyes. Me, I choose my men by odor. Because for me, it’s colour and sound and taste all rolled into one. He reeked deep red, sounded like an open C string on a cello, and tasted of vintage port and steak tartar daubed with wasabi. I’d never smelled anything like him before.

They say that scent calls memory like no other sense. It does for me.  As I listened to the floors click by, I got flashes of a wide and sluggish muddy river, jet fuel on a hot day, dust that hung in the air and turned the sun golden, crickets screaming in high grass, broken glass glinted on tacky asphalt. A thick pulsing cock trapped between thighs. Hoarse breath. A hot streak of semen sprayed across skin. Marvelous things.

“Are you okay?”

The memories collapsed around me. I found I’d wedged myself into the corner of the elevator, pulled my arms across my chest and had been staring at him – blatantly. And worst of all, he was about to walk out the door and I’d never see him again.

“Not really,” I lied, and then realized I wasn’t. I wasn’t okay at all. There was a desperate panicky sensation in the pit of my stomach and somewhere behind my eyes, a booming God voice was saying: ‘You are not letting this man disappear back into the general population. Use guile. Womanly guile. You know what that is, don’t you?’

“You don’t look so good.”

Womanly guile be damned. I never could pull that shit off anyway.

“You smell. You smell good. Reeeeeely good.” The words slithered out of my control, even as I thought, ‘right, now he’s decided you’re either high on something or psychotic.’

For a fraction of a second, his eyebrows knitted together. Then the impassivity slipped back over his surprise. I watched the inexorable ascent of the lights on the button panel approaching the one he had pressed. It blinked a salmon pink.

27.

27.

27.

My gaudily lit destination was 9 floors above his and nothing in the world could change that.

“Goodbye, Mister Dark Red, C String on a Cello, Steak Tartar with Wasabi,” I said, as the floor bell chimed and the brushed metal doors began to open.

His hazelnut eyes narrowed. I fancied that, just for a moment, he wondered if he was about to turn his back on something of significance. But I was probably mistaken.

Instead, I received a perfectly civilized smile. “Goodbye.”

He stepped out of the elevator. And the doors to another universe slid closed behind him.

And now this pretty little thing sat across from him, with her apple-red lips, her snow-white skin and her retro, arrowhead spiked collar. She blinked golden-green eyes up at him through a mesh of dark lashes and welled up with an intense sincerity.

“You shouldn’t be ashamed of who you are or what you want,” she said, in a voice that quavered with emotion.

One substantial tear slipped down her cheek and dropped, perfect and pearl-like into her crantini.

What a waste, he thought, watching the tear disperse into the pale pink liquid.

Was she crying for him or for herself? Or was it just that the pathos of the moment overwhelmed her? Perhaps this was not her first crantini or her second. He tried to care which it was, but failed, distracted by the subsequent tear that was carving a track down her delicately powdered cheek and defying gravity along the underside of her jaw line.

There was a time when it would have visibly cost him not to reach across the table, capture the tear on his fingertip and suck it off. But he was older now and he’d made a kind of peace with his urges. Now he simply wondered why the collar couldn’t be worn reversed so he could circle a hand around her pretty throat and squeeze. The subsequent bleeding, he imagined, would stripe her neck in the most attractive way.

She, it transpired, was a spanking aficionado.

Julian pondered the likelihood of a compromise.

___________

“Come here.” He is sprawled lazily in the armchair. His fly’s undone, splayed apart. His fingers, coiled like little cobras, stroke the thickening column of his cock.

And I do.

Because I must when he’s like this: shameless, with just a stain of a smile on his lips. It’s impossible not to fawn over the erotic creature he becomes.

I hike up my skirt enough to straddle his knees. His jeans feel rough against my bare thighs, his knees a little bony on my ass, but I like it.

I stare as he strokes and, in the silence of the room, I can actually hear his skin move – fingers over the velvety smoothness of his shaft, the soft licking sound as his moist cockhead is hidden, then revealed, then hidden again.

And I want him with a need so acute it sets my teeth on edge and floods my mouth with saliva. Between my lips, in my cunt, in my ass… I want him so ferociously, I can’t decide where. But the question is moot because that’s not what we’re doing here.

He stops, reaches for my hand, and curls it around the raging erection between us, and covers it with his own. As if I’d never touched a man before, never touched him.

I feel suddenly virginal and twitchy. Like I’m sixteen and my heart is racing at this first encounter with the unknown geography of desire. There’s a subtle flight or fight reaction building up inside me as he guides my fist up and down with his.

I watch him – every nuance on his face. Almost faster than the eye can register he wets his top lip with his tongue, and the smudge of a smile grows a little wider. The pace doesn’t change, but his cock does. It’s grown and the veins on it send thready signals up my palm.

He doesn’t make a sound, but I do. An involuntary moan flutters up my throat like a trapped bird escaping, eager to perch on my shoulder and watch as his pupils dilate.

He nods once. His thighs tense beneath me, and he goes temporarily blind. Eyes still fixed on mine but unseeing, a hot rivulet of cum erupts over our fingers, then another, and another. In that moment, I could swear it’s burning my skin.

Spent, he releases my hand. But the fawning isn’t over. I draw his hand to my face and smear him over my skin. Rich and raw the scent. Sharp and wicked the taste, I lick and suck each digit clean and attend to the back of his hand as well.

After all, there is a fine art to fawning.

This was a very short piece of flash fiction written on the fly
as twitter fiction. A very rare non-erotic piece.

That night in Bangkok it began to rain. Black and wet the streets, the buildings, the myriad lights splayed by liquid.

It rained the next day. And the next. It didn’t stop. We watched from our towering hotel perch the city turn to mud, then lakes.

The canals grew and joined. The streets became canals. And still the rain didn’t stop. Everywhere became another river market.

Still the water rose. Past the first floor, the second, the third. Like ants we climbed upwards, taking what we could

At first civilized in our ascension, joined in common crisis. As the water reached the tenth floor, the city disappeared.

No parks, no skytrain. Nothing but obelisks in a sea of filthy water. Hunger and fear and anger ate away at our civility.

People fought for space, for food, for clean water. Until they were throwing each other from windows in desperate rage.

And you and I climbed ever upwards, waiting for the water to drop. But it didn’t. The unceasing rain. Empty floors filled.

People became animals. Drinking the filthy water, eating the dead. Crying to Buddha for mercy, clutching withered jasmine

Burning joss sticks that smoked all the more in the intense humidity.

On the 28th floor we discussed it, you and I. ‘I don’t want to die this way,’I said.’Not of slow starvation, or forget who I am.’

‘Neither do I. But at least we get to choose.’ And so we agreed to take our last holiday swim in the dirty world of water.

Treading in the mass of detritus with the city down beneath our feet, I said: “Just go under and then breathe? Is that it?”

“Yes, like that. One deep breath,” You said, then let go of my hand, pushing me away hard, before you changed your mind.

“Now?” I was crying. And I saw it in your eyes, just before you slipped under, and I followed.

Drops at Dusk

On nights like these
I need more than
your kind regards.

I need your hand around my throat
dusty fingers in my mouth
and the precipice of pain
as your cock forces space
where there was none.

On nights like these
I’ll trade
your mot juste

For the cudgel of your tongue,
the cruelty of your clutches,
and the icy sting of the things you
keep sharp and secret.

On nights like these
not the comfort of
your enfolding arms

But the hard white imperative
of your teeth in my flesh,
the finality of your weight on my back
and the kiss you forgot to withhold.

***

Secret Garden by The Risin Sun

“Make yourself come,” he says, fist around his cock, eyes glinting with bright shards of lust.

A single opalescent tear is born at the tip, trembles there, and escapes down the lip of his cock-head, over his fingers and disappears into the dark thatch of hair at the root.

I know what he wants. He wants me to spread my legs, to hike up my skirt and slide my fingers into that moist interior heat.

He wants to see my splayed thighs tremble. He wants to hear the liquid sounds I will make as my labia parts in the wake of my fingers. He wants to see me swollen and sodden and compromised.

It’s a simple thing, really: a reciprocation of exposures. You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.

And yet it’s not. Not simple at all. He wants proof that I am what he has conceived me to be. He wants revelation, confirmation. He wants word made flesh.

The venal crystallization of a fantasy. Soft curves and plump ripeness, flooded canals and high tides of desire. The breathless, ravening macrophage of lust.

I am all those things and nothing. Blinking in and out of corporeality, more firefly in a night garden than woman in an afternoon hotel.

Now I know, despite the dire warnings, he imagined me as uncomplicated.

Sitting there, with his erection in his hand, a marble statue of all there is to being a man. And so immutable his masculinity. So hard that nothing can harm him, ever.

But not me. The secret of my desires, the mystery of my need is my only shield and I will hold it to me like the one true talisman that binds my parts together.

To let him see what he wants is to shatter into glass dust.

 

This piece was written as part of @eroticnotebook’s #wankwednesday. A weekly writing prompt for short erotica. Go and take a look at some of the other entries here.