Excerpts from The Diary of Anaïs Nin, as collected for the preface of Delta of Venus
A book collector offered Henry Miller a hundred dollars a month to write erotic stories. It seemed like a Dantesque punishment to condemn Henry to write erotica at a dollar a page. He rebelled because his mood of the moment was the opposite of Rabelaisian, because writing to order was a castrating occupation, because to be writing with a voyeur at the keyhole took all the spontaneity and pleasure out of his fanciful adventures.
I gathered poets around me and we all wrote beautiful erotica. As we were condemned to focus only on sensuality, we had violent explosions of poetry. Writing erotica became a road to sainthood rather than to debauchery.
Harvey Breit, Robert Duncan, George Barker, Caresse Crosby, all of us concentrating our skills in a tour de force, supplying the old man with such an abundance of perverse felicities, that now he begged for more.
The homosexuals wrote as if they were women. The timid ones wrote about orgies. The frigid ones about frenzied fulfillments. The most poetic ones indulged in pure bestiality and the purest ones in perversions. We were haunted by the marvelous tales we could not tell. We sat around, imagined this old man, talked of how much we hated him, because he would not allow us to make a fusion of sexuality and feeling, sensuality and emotion.
George Barker was terribly poor. He wanted to write more erotica. He wrote eighty-five pages. The collector thought they were too surrealistic. I loved them. His scenes of lovemaking were disheveled and fantastic. Love between trapezes. He drank away the first money, and I could not lend him anything but more paper and carbons.
George Barker, the excellent English poet, writing erotica to drink, just as Utrillo painted paintings in exchange for a bottle of wine. I began to think about the old man we all hated. I decided to write to him, address him directly, tell him about our feelings.
We hate you.
Sex loses all its power and magic when it becomes explicit, mechanical, overdone, when it becomes a mechanistic obsession. It becomes a bore. You have taught us more than anyone I know how wrong it is not to mix it with emotion, hunger, desire, lust, whims, caprices, personalties, deeper relationships that change its color, flavor, rhythms, intensities.
You do not know what you are missing by your microscopic examination of sexual activity to the exclusion of aspects which are the fuel that ignites it. Intellectual, imaginative, romantic, emotional. This is what gives sex its surprising textures, its subtle transformations, its aphrodisiac elements. You are shrinking your world of sensations. You are withering it, starving it, draining its blood.
If you nourished your sexual life with all the excitements and adventures which love injects into sensuality, you would be the most potent man in the world. The source of sexual power is curiosity, passion. You are watching its little flame die of asphyxiation. Sex does not thrive on monotony. Without feeling, inventions, moods, no surprises in bed. Sex must be mixed with tears, laughter, words, promises, scenes, jealousy, envy, all the spices of fear, foreign travel, new faces, novels, stories, dreams, fantasies, music, dancing, opium, wine.
How much do you lose by this periscope at the tip of your sex, when you could enjoy a harem of distinct and never repeated wonders? No two hairs alike, but you will not let us waste words on a description of hair; no two odors, but if we expand on this you cry Cut the poetry. No two skins with the same texture, and never the same light, temperature, shadows, never the same gesture; for a lover, when he is aroused by true love, can run the gamut of centuries of love lore. What a range, what changes of age, what variations of maturity and innocence, perversity and art…
We have sat around for hours and wondered how you look. If you have closed your senses upon silk, light, color, odor, character, temperament, you must be by now completely shriveled up. There are so many minor senses, all running like tributaries into the mainstream of sex, nourishing it. Only the united beat of sex and heart together can create ecstasy.
I doubt she knows how my own words can become little daggers in my heart.
As the I hear the water splash about in the other room, the echoes on tile, the faux innocence at its apex, I consider which weapon I should use.
“Wash up all you like, you’ll still be a dirty little whore when you get out of the tub,” I say as I stand at the door of the bathroom.
She covers her breasts (barely) and bites her pouting bottom lip and I see the drug of humiliation slipping into her veins, as her eyes unfocus and her hips move under the bubbles.
The complexity of it all, the alchemy of power and play. It hurts to shame my little girl, even as I remember her explaining how it turns her on more than anything else.
“I don’t know why I buy you pretty dresses,” I explain as she sits on the bed in a perfect white towel.
“When all you are is a little hole for me to fuck,” I say with my back to her.
I can hear her swallow and make the tiniest whimper as I realize my cock has become as hard as my voice.
There was a peace in the courtyard of the hotel that he thought was gone from the world. A good strong pot of coffee wordlessly placed on his table, fresh fruit and fresh croissants, pristine white tablecloths under wide cerulean umbrellas which were in…
“Promise?” she whispered.
Her pink t-shirt was pulled up, as was her bra. Her thick black rimmed glasses were almost falling off and her bangs were in her eyes. Her breasts were big, pert, the imprint of the lace of her bra left pink and red patterns on…
#bad bad bad
#end up on the floor
"Promise?" she whispered.
Her pink t-shirt was pulled up, as was her bra. Her thick black rimmed glasses were almost falling off and her bangs were in her eyes. Her breasts were big, pert, the imprint of the lace of her bra left pink and red patterns on the soft skin. Their eyes locked and she squeezed one breasts hard as her hips swayed. Her eyes were thickly rimmed around with black makeup and the corner of one eye was smeared.
She was straddling his legs as he laid back on the couch. She moved one hand down and grasped his cock again, biting her lip as she played with it.
"I promise, but you’re the one on top," he said quietly, aware of roommates who might or might not be asleep in nearby bedroom.
"Fuck it’s so hot," she said, spitting on her hand and then pulling on his cock, letting her wet palm twist around it.
"I just want to rub against it a little, I can’t put it in though," she said.
She’d told him they couldn’t go all the way. They could do everything but. He’d been fine with that, she was beautiful and funny and smart and they’d kissed on the couch for hours, teasing and grinding against each other as their clothes came of a piece an hour.
He looked down as she pressed his cock against the bottom of his stomach and then pushed herself up so she was sitting on it. His cock was laying just in-between the lips of her pussy as she moved up and down, grinding her clit against his hardness. He could see the pink lips slipping against the shaft and the white skin of her tan lined crotch contrasting the tan of her thighs and the bright pink of her thigh high socks.
The sight was almost too much. After she rubbed twice against him, he could feel her wetness making their parts slick against each other. Her breath caught when that happened and she leaned down, unable to sit up anymore, as she continued move against him.
Her breasts swung slowly and so he sat up enough to lean over and lick at one nipple. She let out a moan, her nipples being far more sensitive that most women he knew. As he sucked on it she ground down hard on his cock.
A few times, when she leaned back a bit it almost felt like he was going to slip into her, but she always moved back.
"I think I can come like this," she said, her eyes far away as she moved.
He thought he might be able to too, but he didn’t think that was in the rules. He’d have to move her off him if he felt like he was getting close.
She leaned down and kissed him on the lips, her hips moving faster. Her glasses fell off and clattered to the floor somewhere.
Then, suddenly, some angle changed and the head of his cock slipped in. He gasped and she froze. She just hovered there, breathing hard.
"Bad, bad," she whispered to herself and moved enough so that he popped back out.
Then she was rubbing again, a little harder, short motions forward and back. He could feel her hard clit on the shaft of his cock and his whole body was mourning the feeling of slipping into her tightness.
"So close," she said moving faster again.
He felt like the wetness almost doubled as she slipped against him and then she let out a yelp as she moved and his cock slipped in again, this time almost all the way. She groaned and grunted in frustration, but she didn’t move off of him, his cock was still inside.
"We’re not supposed to," she whined, her hands on his chest almost pushing herself off of his cock, but then sinking down a little lower.
"Oh fuck," he groaned, the feeling of her soaked pussy tight around him after so much friction making his whole body tighten.
"It’s so hard," she said pushing down until his whole cock was inside of her.
"We should stop," he whispered, desperately wanting to fuck her.
"Yeah, it’s bad," she said moving up and then down on his cock.
"We’re not supposed to," he gasped, as his hands moved to her hips.
"We’re not-oh fuck-allowed," she said starting to just ride his cock all the way.
He pulled her down on it by her hips and she pushed herself back up pressing her hands against his chest. She was so wet they could both hear the slick sounds of their fucking.
"I’ll stop, just-in one second," she whined.
"Yeah, we should," he said, suddenly thrusting his hips up and grabbing her hips tight.
"Please, please fuck me," she said, kissing him again, her breasts pressing against his chest and her arms slipping around him.
They rolled over on the couch, most of the cushions falling off. Then she was on her back, her legs open wide and he was driving into her.
"Hit me," she said between moans.
Their eyes locked again as he fucked her hard and then taking her face in one hand slapping her hard across the cheek with the other. Then he moved his hand behind her head and took her hair in his fist and drove into her harder while he kissed her.
She was gone then, her eyes unfocused and her pussy tightening around him so hard it hurt.
"Coming-" she mumbled along with a string of incoherent sounds.
He let her come, feeling his own orgasm almost there, but waiting, waiting as the white hot pressure built.
"I’m-" he started and pulled away from her, but she wouldn’t let him. Her legs wrapped around his waist and her hands around his torso.
"No, I’m going to-" he tried but she was moving her hips, pushing his deep inside of her.
"You better not come inside me," she whispered, a dark smile on her lips.
When he came his body was trapped and confused and he felt her tighten round him as he cock shot come into her again and again and he shouted and grabbed at the couch, slamming into her until his muscles were sore and gave out.
Somehow they were on the floor, wet and sweaty, his cock still inside of her.
"That was bad," she whispered.
"So bad," he agreed.
"Horrible," she giggled.
"Dirty and forbidden," he said moving again, his cock starting to harden once more.
"We’re not supposed to fuck, it’s forbidden," she whispered, moving her hips against him.
"You did it," he laughed.
"You came inside me!" she said with a smile, slapping his chest.
"I know, it’s all slippery now," he said, starting to thrust harder.
"Do it again," she said closing her eyes.
Eventually he did. Then they ate ice cream and tried to figure out something else to make forbidden.
#bad bad bad
The dirty boys of New York’s underground literary scene will regale us with tales of love, lust, misery, joy, drugs, sex, and rock & roll
June 9th, 2013 at 7pm at
118 Rivington St
(between Essex St & Norfolk St)
New York, NY 10002
Note: The bar is cash only
With readings by:
Guy New York
Guy New York is an author, designer, and degenerate who spends most his time either writing about sex or having it. Sometimes he does both at the same time, much to the chagrin of his partners. He is the creator of the blog Quickies in New York, which has been featured in Playboy Espanol, Violet Blue’s Tiny Nibbles, and Fleshbot, among many others.
Gibson Grand is an old gray punk who has written for the stage and screen. Three collections of his short stories, Trash and Vaudeville, Fireflies, and Accidental Betsy, are available on Amazon.com. His work has also been published in the arts and culture journal, Transgressive Culture. He also writes erotic fiction from time to time. His interests include whisky, tattoos, and science.
Jack Stratton is a writer and bon vivant. He’s been writing on the internet since the internet started and thus often writes about sex. He is pretty deeply enmeshed in the NYC kink/BSDM scene, polyamory, and sex positive/alternative sexuality culture on and offline. His work can be found on writingdirty.com and his books can be found on Amazon.com.
#hot dudes with stubble
BTW, if you haven’t seen, I recently redesigned my webpage. Take a look!
The first in a series I call “The Gentleman’s Club” which involve the debaucheries of one John “Randy Jack” Sackville, son of the third Earl of Amherst, and the other members of the Club De Lancey, a London gentlemen’s club.
I’m not sure it makes sense, but I like it.
Without further ado I give you:
The Faux Hunt
Winifred stood proudly in the gray light of dawn. A hair over five feet tall, 7 stone, and barely nineteen years old, she was stark naked save a pair of Jack’s childhood hunting boots and a bright red fox hat, its tail flapping in the wind. She blushed down to her navel and her green eyes burned with fear and excitement.
Jack and the others watched her stand there, her cream skin with nary a blemish nor a freckle was sheened with morning dew. Her smallish breasts were high and pert, the curve of her bottom seemed to jut out at a lurid angle. Her chest heaved and her heart raced from the shame of being naked, the joy of being the savior of the foxes and, if Jack guessed correctly, the wicked thrill of being wildly bad.
She turned, the contrast of the black of the boots against her white skin making her seem even more naked and the bright splash of carrot orange between her legs directing ever eye down to the virgin shadow every man in the hunting party almost painfully longed for.
Norman Gordon-Stanton, tallish, lean, bespectacled and wearing a dark gray hunting suit and deerstalker, took off his gloves to shake Jack’s hand properly.
“An outstanding diversion,” he said clasping Jack’s hand and shoulder.
The other seven men murmured “hear hear!”
Lord Strachey, by far the cruelest among the hunters, took a rifle from his valet and aimed it high into the air and away from the group and the girl. Even though they all knew the sound was coming, every man jumped a bit as the thunderous crack of the shot echoed through the woods.
Winifred jumped at the sound and startled, turned in a flash and ran. The poor thing managed only a few feet before she stumbled and tripped forward, her white knees painted green and red with grass and blood. She waited there for a moment on all fours, like the very game she was proxy for, and unknowingly gave the hunters a view of the pink split peach between her thin legs.
Jack’s hands tightened into fists in his leather gloves and he suddenly felt very good about his marital choice.
After a moment the girl finally got up and without looking back she sprinted into the woods.
Strachey fetched something small and white from his saddle bag. Jack saw it was a pair of his child-bride’s knickers. The cruel man rubbed said garments into the noses of the dogs, which waited as patiently as hounds could.
“They’re good boys, they won’t hurt her,” he promised with a steely glare.
The clubmen held the hounds back as they mounted their horses. They gave the girl a fighting chance, then, after a good fifteen minutes, the horn was blown and they were off.
Continue reading at writingdirty.com
#hunting human beings for fun
To call him handsome was a misnomer; he was pretty. A delicate face, a somewhat chiseled chin, warm brown eyes, always clean shaven and looking slightly younger than his twenty-something years. He had the grace of an old time actor. Cary Grant in leather pants.
The room was large, low ceilinged, all black and red in some budget approximation of chinoiserie. Black lacquered chairs and overstuffed embroidered couches. Gold dragons on the walls and paper lantern hanging from the ceiling.
The crowd was riding the line between a kink party and sex party. As I walked around and eyed the pretty boy it struck me that we’d all become disconnected from the vanilla world. As I watched friends kiss and play kinky games and fuck out in the open, I thought how normal it all seemed to me and how shocking it might be to someone else.
I fell into a pile of five or six half naked people on a couch, which included the pretty boy. There was something of an excuse in our numbers. The legs and arms and lips all around us made it less threatening. Still my proximity to him felt forbidden. He sat with his arms draped around two women and his legs spread open. The bulge at his crotch made my throat tighten.
He smiled at me as I pressed into a buxom girl with huge lips and thickly made up eyes next to me, the one I’d seen get fucked a few minutes before. I met her gaze for a minute and her face was flush, her eyes flirting. She leaned in and kissed my neck, pulling me forward. My hand landed on his leg for support.
He was kissing a pretty blond with a pixie cut and bright blue eyes who then turned and kissed me, her mouth still wet from his. My eyes locked with his as her whiskey flavored tongue swirled in my mouth.
His hand touched mine and he moved it up and up his leg and I felt like I was hyperventilating into the blonde girl’s kiss. With one final nudge my hand was on his leather covered cock. I felt the outline, the familiar hardness.
I stopped kissing the blonde and she moved closer to me, her eyes on my hand and a low lusty groan escaping her lips.
"You should suck his cock," she whispered in my ear and I was scared. My face felt hot and my heart was pounding. It was a fear that was ground deep into my being.
He laughed, a sweet boyish laugh.
"You should," he agreed with a mischievous smile and a squeeze of my hand.
Then the blonde turned and started opening his pants. I was unsure, but I couldn’t turn away. Buttons and a zipper and squirming to pull down the tight black material and then there is was, thicker than I expected. It looked huge, actually.
He laughed again and then groaned as the blonde leaned over and slipped a pink tinged condom that seemed to appear from thin air. Then she slipped the fat cock between her lips, her eyes closing and his head going back.
I was forgotten as she took it into her mouth and her body started the smooth cycle of up and down.
I watched, unsure who I was more jealous of. I bit my lip wondering if I had the courage to ask for my turn. I thought about how it would feel against my lips.
The girl with the kohl rimmed eyes moved in and clawed her nails across my chest.
"You want to suck it, don’t you," she growled into my ear.
I fell into her kiss and we watched the blonde girl suck the pretty boy off.
I promised myself, next time. Next time.
#boys on boys
Somewhere in between dreams I heard the shower start.
Opening my eyes some time later I found myself bathed in gray light coming through white linen curtains. Then I watched the naked legs of a woman in a towel walking back and forth in front of me as I laid on my side trying to decide whether I was awake or not. Occasionally those legs were followed by a nervous black cat who batted at the towel.
There were the distant smells of coffee, shampoo, perfume, and all those sweet feminine scents I associated with her.
For a few moments sleep took me again, like an undertow dragging me into the waves.
Seconds or minutes or hours later I awoke with a start and sensed her near. She was far less nervous than the cat.
There was something remarkable about the transformation she made when nude. In the street she put so much thought into her clothes, her glasses, her stompy boots and affectations. Buttons on her messenger bag proclaimed various affiliations; political, musical, sexual, and comic. Her layers spoke volumes, from sarcastic t-shirts to exposed garter belts. Her fishnets, her lipstick, her leather, all calculated to tell particular stories.
Naked she only had her charm and tattoos to explain herself. My eyes hunted for clues even though I knew her well. On one of her thighs that I saw the light purple bloom of a bruise that I didn’t give her. From some reason it made me hard.
I remembered slapping her ass the night before and the way she liked to wrestle with me teasing me until I was hard, then she shook her head “no” with a smile.
“You have to take it,” she whispered, breathy and playful.
I let myself fall into the memory, letting it turn into a little dream, before I awoke once more to her standing over me, naked, with a cup of coffee.
Her breasts were large and heavy and glorious. Her skin was somewhere around the shade of coffee with too much milk. Her nipples were Belgian chocolate. There was no hair between her legs, but there had been the night before. She was gut wrenchingly beautiful.
She was holding my coffee mug and she was holding it just a little too far for me to reach. She took a sip, sighed and put it on the nearby dresser. Her smile was both mischievous and knowing.
"Will you be good for me?" she asked sweetly, though her tone had more than a little demand in it.
"Probably," I admitted.
She frowned for a moment, considered my answer, then leaned down as if she were going to kiss me and instead took my right hand in hers. She squeezed it once, then pulled it up. I let my arm go slack as she guided my hand to the corner of the mattress. She then leaned over me and I barely registered what she was doing as her breasts pressed softly against my chest.
The handcuffs were still latched on to the bedposts where I’d left them the night before when she’d been tied down and hurt, the way she’s explained she wanted to be. Then she was fucked, the way she begged to be.
When she clicked shut the first cuff on my wrist, I raised an eyebrow. She gave me innocent eyes; I yawned. She lazily walked around the bed and pulled my other hand into the other handcuff. Then she made her way to the foot of the bed and found the rope I’d left there. I looked down, straining my neck a bit as she tried to approximate the knot I’d made around her ankles a few hours before. I wasn’t sure how accurate it was, but I couldn’t pull my legs apart.
With my legs tied together, then bound to the foot of the bed and I laid there, testing all of my bonds, feeling a bit like Jesus reclining, arms stretched.
She pulled the blanket and the sheet off of me and I felt, suddenly, a bit out of my element. She looked down at me with her hands on her hips, naked, smiling, planning.
“Are you ready to earn your coffee?” she said with a challenging glint in her eye.
“It’ll be cold by then,” I answered calmly.
She rolled her eyes and knelt on the bed next to me.
The slap, to be honest, was a little too hard and a little too close to my ear. The world swam and spun for a moment.
Then she leaned down and kissed me hard and hungry. She slipped a hand into my hair and pulled me into her kiss. She sucked at my bottom lip, slipped her tongue deep into my mouth, bit my chin. Then she was suddenly off me and my gasped for air for a moment.
When she came back and put one knee down on my arm the pain was dull and and my body tensed with desire. She knew my secret want. Alright, it wasn’t very secret at all, but it wasn’t something I got very often. It wasn’t something I let myself sucumb to most of the time.
She swung her other leg over me and settled down so that she was straddling my chest, just below my neck. She put her hands in my hair again and looked down at me.
Her skin was cool and smooth from the various fancy soaps and creams I’d seen her apply the many mornings I’d slept over her place. She looked down on me with the look of someone inspecting a pet.
“You’ll be a good boy or I’ll only sit on your face and not your cock afterwards,” she said moving forward a little until her pussy was just inches away from my lips.
“I know you want to lick it, but just think of how nice it will feel when its dripping wet and sinks down on your cock,” she said a bit breathlessly, her own words getting her off.
Then she pushed herself up a little, the pain where her knees were on my arms intensified a bit, but then the pain and everything else was gone and it was just her pussy on my mouth and the taste of her.
There are things I’ve done that pull me in other worlds, but there under her I went to one of the most specific and interesting places I’ve gone. Time stopped and my ever wandering mind focused. All there was in life was her smooth pussy on my mouth and my tongue straining to slip into her. All there was in life was the need to please her, to find her clit and find the angle that would make her squirm and moan.
She took my hair in her hand again and guided me. For a second or two she let her weight press down on my face and cover my mouth completely, then it was all wetness and the building anxiety of suffocation. I squirmed and moaned into her and she held my hair harder, pressing down again and riding my mouth as my lungs burned from lack of air.
When she let me go I gasped for air, but just long enough to get enough oxygen so I could keep licking and sucking at her. Just enough air to keep going.
Looking up I saw her head fall back a bit, her white teeth biting her own full bottom lip. She held my hair with one hand and squeezed her right breast with the other.
I found the little cycle that seemed to make her moans go up an octave. I slipped my tongue around her clit as she pressed down on me, circled it around and around and then pushed my tongue deep inside of her. She sort of road my tongue a few times, then I moved back to her clit. We followed that recipe over and over until she groaned and leaned forward, putting both hands on my head.
“Don’t stop,” she said, then loud enough to echo through the room, “don’t you fucking stop.”
Then I was drowning in her again, her thighs tight on the sides of my head and my mouth and nose covered by her as she came on my face.
It went on and on until my hands were fists and my chest was on fire. An instinctive and biological fear too over me as my body begged for breath. When she finally pulled off of me my whole face was wet from her and my eyes stung for tears from trying to breath.
She slid down my body and kissed my lips and my face and whispered “good boy, good boy,” and I was in a heaven it is hard to explain. I felt used and aroused beyond believe and very much like a good toy for this beautiful woman.
She slid down further until she was straddling my waist. When my cock, which was so hard it hurt, came in contact with her body I jumped; as much as I could while being bound.
“You want me to fuck you now?” she said with a cocky happy grin.
“Yes,” I said, my voice sounding strange to my ears. It was full of desperation.
“Can you ask? Can you say please, or are you going to be a smartass again?”
The words came before I could even think about them.
“Please, please, fuck me, I need it so badly, please,” I begged.
There was no shame, only surprise at my need. She laughed and I felt her need just as strong as mine.
She pushed down and her wetness slipped against me and my cock was pushed right into the waiting heat of her. I felt like I was going to pass out.
There was still a newness in condomless sex. There was something forbidden in the slickness of her and the hypersensitivity of my cock. We’d been tested, we’d had conversations, she was on the pill, we were aware and secure in our risks.
Still two decades of commercials and fear and gossip made that moment of unencumbered penetration feel so taboo I thought I might come instantly.
She laid against me, her breasts on my chest, and pushed herself down on me hard. I felt, for a moment, so deep inside of her I couldn’t believe it. She ground down on me then, both of us gasping and crying out. The she rode me again, up and down, sitting up a bit on me and letting me watch the please wash over her face and her tits swing inches from my mouth.
She was lost in the rhythm and as much as I wanted to control myself I felt the slick heat enveloping me pulling the orgasm from me and soon the little panic came over me.
The fear was there, knowing even in our protection that coming in her was something bad. My mind wrestled with it even though I knew it wasn’t true. I wanted it to be true. I wanted it to be forbidden and wrong. I wanted to come inside of her and I wanted that to be bad.
The thought, along with the memories of her sitting on my face flashed in my head the way your life is supposed to before you die. Then my body took over.
My wrists burned as I pulled against the handcuffs. My muscles clenched as I thrust up again and again to meet her and then I was coming and coming and she knew it and bared down on me.
“Fill me up, come on, give it to me, give me your come, fuck me, do it,” she yelled into my ear, a barrage of dirty words.
It seemed to go on like that forever, but eventually I was gasping for breath and she was laying on top of me. My cock soft, but still inside of her.
She fumbled with something and I felt one hand freed, then the other. Then I held her and she kissed my neck.
“Tell me that was alright,” she whispered, sounding small and a little broken.
“It was perfect. It was more than perfect. You are amazing,” I said holding her tightly.
“Tell me you love me,” she demanded.
“I do, I love you,” I said and covered her face with kisses.
“I’m not bad?” she said, her voice cracking a little, the cruelty so far removed from her face that I could hardly remember it.
“You’re a good girl. I love you. You are mine. You are perfect,” I said, knowing what she needed and needing it too.
She cuddled into my and held me tightly.
“Thank you,” she said sweetly.
“Thank you,” I whispered back.
We ended up going out for coffee.
An Immodest Proposal
I posted this a long long time ago, but a reader brought it to my attention today and I thought I was time to remind people:
They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Well, in that case, aren’t a thousand words worth a picture? If you like my stories, anecdotes, reviews or fiction then get out a camera and take a dirty picture for me. You can be as anonymous as you like, I don’t mind, I just ask that the picture be graphic. I need fuel for dirty stories, you know. Don’t worry, I’ll never show anyone. After all, I’m greedy and they are my payment for all these dirty words. Email them to email@example.com or comment with a photo.
You can purchase one of my ebooks, many of which have all new stories and adventures. See my books section.
I really enjoyed your Flash Fiction on Friday. I thought I'd take a shot at sparking your imagination with a tiny confession - I have a huge and inappropriate crush on my French professor. I know he's married, but I still have dreams about him bending me over his desk. My pronunciation is terrible. Maybe that's why I fantasize about showing up in his office and beg for his help.
Note: I don’t speak French, so much of this could be incorrect. I meant to write something short and wrote 1650 words.
Monsieur Desrosiers was, frankly, a curmudgeon. Around fifty, salt and pepper hair, a strong jaw, nearly six feet tall and roguishly handsome I think he was getting fed up with America very quickly.
I could only imagine what he thought of me and my horrible pronunciation.
I wanted to speak French though, I truly did. All the Moliere and Guy de Maupassant, Zola, Proust! I could read them well enough, but my tongue fumbled out loud. I listened to Gainsbourg and tried to will my mouth to find all those nuanced touches. My lips just couldn’t do it.
In class he wouldn’t yell at me or even try to help me much. When called on he would simply shake his head and call on someone else.
“Répétez après moi; Tes yeux, j’en rêve jour et nuit,” he demanded.
I tried oh how I tried, but what came out was too soft, too vague for him. He brushed his hand in the air as if to brush me away.
One day I came to his office after class and holding my books in my lap and looking down I begged him for help. He sat back in his chair and measured me. He said nothing.
I tried again, in my stumbling French.
“Um, s’il vous plaît aidez-moi,” I said, shaking a bit.
“Fermer la porte,” he said and rose from his chair.
When I walked back to his desk he paces a bit, looking me up and down as he rubbed his chin. I stood near his desk and he walked up behind me, forcing me to lean against his desk.
There was something imposing about him. He was brilliant and intense and he made me feel small, stupid, and innocent.
“French is like a woman, a complicated woman. You must coax her, seduce her, but must be forceful, but can not force her, no?” He said looking down at me from behind me.
I looked forward, putting my books on the table.
“You go to her with no confidence. You stumble because you fear. What do you fear?” he says moving in, putting one strong hand on my hip.
“Are you this way in all things?” he whispered into my ear, “it is not good to think too much, to try too hard to force things, in language, in love, in bed, no?”
“You come here for my help, but the wall you face is your own and I can not help you. I think you know that. I can not make your tongue behave. I can not make your fears go away. Then why do you come here?” he demanded into my ear.
He smelled of smoke and some fading cologne. It was all very real. I pressed back against him.
“Perhaps you come to me like in the movies to beg for a good grade despite your inability?” he said with a laugh.
I let out a sound of sorrow. I little meek whimper. He moved away from me.
“I came because I want to speak French. I want to so badly, but I just can’t-”
He cut her off, “you won’t! We can do anything. You have a mouth, you have a tongue, you stop yourself from this,” he said roughly, averting his eyes from me.
“I just need more time. Over the summer I can maybe sit with a coach-” she started.
“But again you want to pass. You want me to give you a grade so you can go on and try to learn in the summer? I should do this why?” he was angry now and my body awoke with fear.
“I-” I started, but my throat dried.
“You want a better grade than what you deserve,” he said, then walking to me he took my wrists in his hands.
“Say it,” he demanded.
“I…” I felt heat in my face, then in my eyes, then wetness down my cheek.
“I want a grade I don’t deserve,” I said, more because he told me to than it being true.
“And you’ve come here to beg for it,” he continued.
“Yes,” I hissed and I started to sob.
“Pathétique,” he spat in a whisper.
“You want to beg, then do it. I have no time to dawdle,” he said, the word seeming strange with his accent.
He let me go and I felt to my knees.
“P-p-please, Monsieur, can you-um-help me with my grade,” I begged, grovelling at his feet.
He folded your arms.
“Oh, help you with your grade? Why yes, I can help you by telling you now, it is an F. F for fail. In French perhaps E for échouer?” he said chuckling at his own joke.
“Monsieur, please!” I begged.
He smiled down at me, “Oh, doux ma petite fille, do you not see the cinema? Now that you beg you have to offer your sweet mouth. You have to offer me ‘anything I want’ and tell me you will ‘do anything’ for my help,” he said laughing cruelly.
I sobbed, but I knew then that he’s seen the desire in my eyes in class. I wanted to leave, to deny him but the thought of offering myself to him suddenly crept into my veins. The dirtiness of it, of him using my as I cried, was suddenly palpable and soon I was as wet between my legs as on my cheeks.
“I-I will do anything Monsieur,” I said looking up at him.
“Ah, oui précieuse mon oiseau,” he said holding out his hand to help me up.
I stood and he turned me around slowly and put his hand on my back.
“Now you pull up your pretty skirt and pull down your little culotte and maybe I will think about it, no?”
Then I was bending over. His pens and stapler and pack of Gitanes pressing up against my breasts and my face and I reached back and pulled up my pleated skirt. I pulled down my panties.
“Ah, oui,” he said to himself.
Then I felt his rough hands on my thighs. My toes curled in my shoes as I looked down at the dark wood of his desk and spread my fingers out on the desk and waited.
His hand left for a moment and came back wet and then his finger was slipping between my lips. Then he knew how wet I was, how much I wanted to be a dirty girl fucking my French teacher. Then his thick finger slipped inside of me and I gasped.
“Taisez,” he growled and then I felt him move and suddenly his mouth was on my sex.
He licked and groaned as he did. His tounge slipped over my clit and my back arched, then it slipped into me, then up and then just the tip of his tongue slid over my ass and I jumped.
He laughed and stood and slapped my ass once. My legs straightened at that and I raised my ass for him. He let out an approving laugh at that.
“Le chat likes that,” he said spanking me again, harder.
I did. I did I did.
He hit me again and I braced my body. He spanked me again and again and I was on my tippy toed and every strike went right to my clit. He hit me again and again and I covered my mouth.
Then I heard his belt buckle and I froze. I didn’t know if I wanted his belt or his cock more. I didn’t know which was coming.
Then I heard his zipper. His pants falling to the floor. His wet fingers pushed into me; one, two, three made me feel stretched and burning. Then I was empty for a moment, then his cock.
It was thick, it was so hot, my mind started reeling. Then he grabbed my hips and fucked me. He fucked me like someone playing with a rag doll. I was just a tooy for him to get off with. I was just another little slut who came into his office to fuck him for a better grade.
“S’agenouiller sur le sol,” he said roughly, turning me around, pushing me down.
Then his cock was in my mouth, salty and covered in my pussy. I sucked it. I sucked it and stroked it and rubbed it against my cheek and licked it up and down and pulled on it and licked and sucked his balls, wanting all of him. Then he pushed it back in my mouth. He fucked my mouth. He fucked my mouth until I heard him grunting and groaning and I knew in that moment he was mine.
Then that white hot moment, the dirtiest moment, my knees burned on the floor as he shot his come into my mouth. Again and again until I couldn’t breath.
Then I was on the floor.
I laid there on my side and watched as he pulled up his pants as he panted. He bucked his belt. He walked away, around the desk and I heard him sit down.
“You get a C,” he said calmly.
“Anything more and there might be questions,” he explained.
“I have work,” he said, and lit a cigarette.
I stood after a moment. I didn’t look back at him. I carefully slipped into the hall and ran to the restroom.
That summer I went to Paris.
I put together an e-book of my dirtiest stories called Simply Smut. Orgies, anal, threesomes, cheating, and all that other good stuff. Many of them are older stories I posted on the blog years ago when I had four followers, and they often have a slightly different voice than what I write now. There are stories told from a female perspective, some queer stories, and mostly a whole lot of fucking.
There are 45 stories in the collection and it’s about 25,000 words. I made a nice table of contents so you can click through to what sounds most interesting.
I hope you enjoy it!
Simply Smut (dirty erotic sex stories from Quickies in New York)
And now, if you have an Amazon account you can read books in the Cloud even without a Kindle! https://read.amazon.com/
ps. if you want to write a review on your blog (of any of my books) drop me a note with your e-mail and I’ll gift you a copy.
#quickies new york