“you are the only one that needs to know”

She wears tight red dresses, six inch heels. She looks at you like she’s looking through you. Diamond nails to scratch your back till it bleeds.

She picks– him. She knows he’s too weak to ever leave. But he wants what she has to offer, she sees that in his eyes. Why wouldn’t he? His girl is cruel, petty. Belittles his concerns, his job, his…everything. Spends his money like water.

And then she comes along, swinging her hips and her flashy red hair. She can tell he wants her. When she flaunts herself and her stories. All her exploits. She laughs, as if pretending it’s just something she’s made up. Perhaps something she saw on TV. But she sees the question behind his eyes. Is she for real? Oh, she thinks, you have no idea.

He tells her, I don’t usually do this kind of thing. As if she cares. Pray to me, I’m your goddess. Who else makes you feel like this? Who else cares for your pleasure? Worship me like the God they tell you about every Sunday. Make it count.

She says,

I’ll keep you my dirty little secret.
Don’t tell anyone or you’ll be just another regret
My dirty little secret, who has to know?

She doesn’t care. People call women like her whore and home wrecker– and she writes those words on red lipstick on her oh so soft breasts, her wide ass. A body men and women dream of. And she gives it freely. Well, perhaps not freely. She is a whore, but a damn expensive one.

But not money, no. She demands their time, their attention. Give me what you won’t give your wife. What your wife doesn’t notice she’s not getting, because she’s elsewhere fucking the pool boy. Take your desires from me, snatch it from my pussy.

So she takes them out, dances all night, rubs herself against their crotch, dares them to take her right there in the bathroom.

And spinning on the dance floor, she laughs,

Just dance,
It’s gonna be okay.
Just dance.

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words that corrupt the kitten, mind, body, soul, the

“Breathe, kitten.”

She wasn’t an innocent when she first met Him. Awkard, perhaps, and slightly gullible. She did not know what she was getting into when she first said, yes. But she knew this was not the same as her past encounters, and, yes, conquests. So she opened herself, in a way she had not, and said, yes. After that–

He did not use rope to bind her, merely words. But, oh, the power captured in a word! The words stay with her, always. They protect her. She hears them, even when they do not come from him. They are an ever present reminder to breathe, listen, pull back from the demons within her.

“Embrace your submission, Kitten.”

He speaks the word her mind is trained to receive. It’s warmth spreads through her entire being. It used to take time, of course, but now the body accepts it, naturally, as part of itself. Oh, yes, she instinctively fights the compulsion, but the rebellion never lasts long. The feeling is not an unwelcome intrusion, but a precious element that taints her veins. Her body convulses in a violent acceptance.

They say it is corruption, but she understands that it heals her. She’s absorbed the corruption as vital for her body’s survival. Soothing, calming, as her breath quiets and stabilizes, rocking her into a gentle sleep.

“It feels good, doesn’t it, Kitten?”

When she wakes up, his presence remains a constant. His arms wrapped around her, a breath of a kiss on her forehead. Corruption should not feel like a blanket, but she would rather have his words wrap around her than any soft fleece.

And, once more, reassured, she falls into a dark quiet, where troublesome spirits wait to visit her with their usual assortment of odd dreams.

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meet me in the boiler room (erotica)

“Meet me in the boiler room.”

The text comes through, per expectation, in the evening.  Some nights she receives it.  Sometimes she does not.  She never knows, nor is it her place to know.  It is His.  She is thankful for the time He allows her.

Her eyes sparkle, true emerald glint, when the text pops up on her phone.  She had an especially rough day at work– she needs the release.

She knows what to do.  Bring the freshly cleaned comforter downstairs to the basement, avoiding her roommates.  Her oh so proper roommates- one is engaged with an absurdly enormous cubic zirconia, one is single and shoots you a shy glance when admitting she is dating on Match.com- would hardly approve of her “fling” with this man.  A man with a family at home and an unconventional, open arrangement outside of it. A man with a girlfriend in “every city.”  Of course this isn’t true- what man has the time for the fantasies society places on him– but it turns her on to imagine his dozens, hundreds of other girlfriends.  Her humiliation at being one of thousands of pretty bodies makes her drip, even before he arrives.

It isn’t a fling to her.  It is her escape.

It’s her fortitude.

Sometimes she wonders if this is his escape, too, but, no, he has never shown his is anything less than happy in his life. She appreciates a man that can be honest and still take his desires. Can allow “his” women the same freedom he demands for himself. Besides, hers isn’t unpleasant. Simply– a bit incomplete. But after all, she is much younger. She has time.

She waits for him with closed lids.  She could be anywhere at this moment. His soon to be felt presence is all that matters. Prepares herself for Him.  Snuggles on the soft, enveloping comforter, as she traces her fingertips down the hollow of her throat, down to her wetness….she brings herself to orgasm exactly once, again per command.  She utters a sharp sound— and it is almost as if it is a call to him, because right then

Footsteps echo from the basement stairs.  Her eyes obediently closed, she listens to the door creak open. “Open your eyes.” The dark command in his voice breaks her reverie. He walks in, nodding initial approval of her position.  He examines her body for final approval.  It is to his standards, smoothly shaven and completely open to his gaze.  No lingerie or sheets to hide a single inch of his toy.

He lowers himself to her and—

—immediately afterwards, he dresses himself, adjusts his cufflinks, and informs her, “Until next time.”  As if she needed the reminder. She remains silent, on her knees.  She nods understanding.

When she hears the door slam rather unceremoniously shut, she picks herself up, free for a night dancing with the girls- her two best friends since high school. She applies a fresh coat of dusky red lipstick before walking out the door. Crimson lips twitch mischievous. 

Who needs a boyfriend on a night like this?

Photo by Pixabay from Pexels

it doesn’t count if it’s a girl (erotica)

“It doesn’t count if it’s a girl.”  The words ran through her mind like the silk sheets on her skin.  

On her fifteenth birthday, she’d snuck a bottle of rum from her parent’s alcohol cabinet.  Of course her parents left the cabinet in easy reach.  At barbecues, they even allowed her to add a bit to her Coke to “see how it felt.”  This time they liberally poured the liquid down their throats.  She’d choked on the burn, along with her best friend, because she’d heard it made girls more…something.  She wasn’t sure what, she only knew that she wanted to make her best friend loose and fun and…her friend swallowed the drink in one gulp.  They’d laughed and talked about stupid things— and then all of a sudden she got giddy and giggly and her friend’s hair shone golden bright and she moved her mouth against her friend’s lips.  But Emma had never told anyone about it, because it was just her best friend. Just girls being dumb.

Seven years later, she lies on thousand count Egyptian cotton sheets.  She isn’t that gangly fifteen year old anymore.  Why is she even thinking of her old high school friend.  They haven’t talked in years. 

Because you still feel the same, stupid young girl.  But she’s an adult now and she should take ownership of her feelings. How hard is it to be honest with, well, at least the guy who loves her.

He won’t understand.  He thinks you’re the good girl he dated in high school, the good girl he got engaged to a year ago.  He’d made fun of finding her 50 Shades of Gray book to the point where she’d lied and said a friend had asked her to put it in her bag to hold, and she’d just forgotten to give it back.  Imagine the kind of hard time he’d give you if you admitted you wanted that kind of kinkfuckery.

She exhales in yesterday’s memory.  She skims her properly manicured fingers across her breasts, down between them to her stomach.  Her fingernails drag a pretty pink line down the middle of her body, she wishes she had the courage to draw blood, like she’s seen in pictures.  She shifts her body and is disappointed to find no marks or bruises.  As if it never happened.

Think about last night, she repeats to herself.  Think of all the sensations as that woman took your hand and led you to the bedroom.  Her friends, drunk on the party, her last night of freedom, they told her to have fun, that she’d forget about it by the next morning— they encouraged her to make this terrible mistake.  

But it doesn’t feel like a mistake.  And she didn’t forget when she woke up.

Fuck it, she says out loud.  Fuck everything and enjoy what you did. 

She shoves everything out of her mind but the beautiful woman with the impossible wine dark hair that tumbled around her waist.   Recall the way her body weaved like a cobra, a slow rolling, enthralling dance, and her sea colored eyes pierced her skin.  Remember her weight pressed down below her stomach.  She’d self consciously hid her belly with her hands, and the beautiful woman pushed them away.  “Your stomach is a curve.  It’s beautiful.”  The way she kissed, so soft compared to Chris’, her tongue tasting every bit of salt and skin and wetness.

It was just sex, Emma’s mind recoils.  It didn’t mean anything, it doesn’t mean anything.  It was just sex. 

But she can’t stop thinking about how she FELT.  She can’t forget the woman’s sly, mischievous grin.  Her fingers, coaxing pleasure from Emma’s skin.  She can’t forget their bodies wrapped and clinging to each other.

She opens her eye and her vision skitters around the bedroom.  He must be home soon.  What time is it?  Did she delete the texts?  She must have done so, how stupid could she be to not destroy the evidence (those sweet words, if she deletes them do the thoughts disappear)?  

She doesn’t even want him to come home, because what the fuck is she going to say?  That she didn’t know better?  Yeah, blame your upbringing or some other bullshit.  Play the idiot.  Who doesn’t want to marry some stupid idiot with no accountability for herself?

The truth is she did know.  The truth is she wanted that woman, but why?  The truth is she doesn’t feel an iota of guilt, but she should, right?  Why does she only feel anger when thinking about this?  Why are the only words that go through her mind in response, I will have a goddess in my bed if I fucking want it.  Selfish.  Is that what she is going to tell him?

She waits in silence, for several minutes?  Hours?

Below, a door slams closed (he didn’t slam it, she reminds herself, it’s the stupid door that needs to be fixed), but she hears anger in the blow.  “Uh, Emma, are you home?”

She curls up in a motion of self defense and pretends she’s fallen asleep.  Just go away.  Just, please, go away.