Come here and let me write something for you

tortoise said:

I am bumping you up in line a bit, but only because I grow weary of seeing a swath of punchdrunk kittens in your wake. This madness simply must end, lass. And it must end now. It's not that I object to being the inspiration for you to commit violent acts; in fact, I rather relish the idea. It's just high time to give the poor kittens a break. Pick a more worthy adversary. Say, a pointy headed, mossy-toothed stinking cunt with a stick up his arse roughly the size of a totem pole. Anyway. Without further ado, I offer you this, in the earnest hope of saving countless kittens from your fists of fury:

Can you fall in love with a place?

People talk about it all the time. But they don't mean it. Not really. Not like this.

These woods call to her, all of her senses, like a lover. They quicken her blood. Their scent fills her, flows through her, tugging at her gut. And lower. The warm zephyrs blowing through the trees feel like his breath, caressing her skin. The babbling stream sounds like his laughter, or the music that he plays for her on his pipes.

It's deeper, far more primal than merely feeling at home. Other places feel like home. This place, these woods, excite her far too much for such nice labels. Home feels safe. Safe as houses. These woods are not safe. It's not that they frighten her, not exactly. Rather, they thrill her. Fill her with an electric charge, a deep humming in every nerve.

People think of the woods as peaceful. Not these woods, not for her. Peace does not excite, not like this. Peace does not make you wet. Make you swell. Make you ache. Peace does not lead to primal, feral longings. To be taken in the woods. No. To be taken by the woods.

As the dusk deepens to darkness, her thoughts turn, as they often do at this time, in this place, to him. He doesn't exist, outside her head. He can't. Creatures like him don't exist, outside of books. But she feels him, all the same. Sees him clearly, in her mind's eye. His horns. His eyes, sparkling with mischief, set in an equally mischievous face. His beard. The thick pelt covering his legs, legs that are bent the wrong way. Taut, muscular, but strange muscles, inhuman, tapering down to cloven hooves. She can smell his scent, like a concentration of the woods. The essence of the woods. She can hear his pipes.

The full moon rises, making her nerves hum even louder. Silver light bathing her beloved woods through the now black trees. She feels a strange wind in her hair, just on her left side, then she sees it, swooping over her shoulder. Huge. Graceful. A white owl, feathers gleaming preternaturally bright in the moonlight, wending effortlessly and completely silently through the trees. He had passed within inches of her head, and she didn't hear a thing.

Her eyes follow his path through the trees, determined to capture as much detail as she can before he disappears from sight. But wait. He's not disappearing. He's alighting. But on what? That's not a tree. She leans forward, takes one step, peering intently at the owl's perch. What is it? It almost looks human, but... Another step closer, then she freezes, completely still, her breath catching in her throat.

Him. It's him. It can't be. She knows it's impossible. But she knows, without a doubt, that it's him. Just then, the scent hits her, a scent that hitherto existed only in her mind.

She knows. What's more, she's always known. Always felt him. No, more than felt. Seen. As she stands, transfixed, staring at this not-quite-man with a snowy owl on his shoulder, she remembers. She's been here before. Not in this place, but in this moment. Looking at this... this embodiment of the woods. Faced with a choice. Go to him, and give herself to him. She feels his longing for her, has felt it before. But he can't go to her. The choice is hers. Has always been hers. Always, before, she has been too scared. Of the unknown. Of surrender. Always, before, she has turned away, and in so doing, broken the spell. Always, before, she forgot that he was real, from the instant she turned away. Until the moment came again. Over and over. The crossroads. The choice. Every time, she turned away. Afraid of him. Afraid of herself. Afraid of the intensity of her desire.

Fuck that.

Not this time.

With a mischievous grin to match his own, she goes to him, the sound of pipes filling her head.

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Image said:

Wow... I know that was for Fata but take us farther.

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Delicacy said:

I agree with you, Image.

More, Tort, more. Please.

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tortoise said:

So. Here's the deal. I've got a bit of writer's block, and you ne'erdowells are going to help me. Come here to me, and I'll write something for you. It could be a story snippet, a poem, a song, or a stream of consciousness bit of nonsense that will probably only serve to bewilder and enrage you. There will undoubtably be a fair quantity of smut, because my mind revels in such filth. I'll try to curtail that a bit, though, as I'm looking to stretch myself here, and writing smut is second nature to me.

Don't be looking for some heartfelt summation of my feelings for you. That's not what this is about. I'm not dealing in epiphanies or declarations, here. I'm not allowing myself more than a few minutes for each "piece." This is a spur of the moment, off the cuff, fly by the seat of my pants writing extravaganza. Extemporaneous. Raw. Potentially bizarre. If that sounds like fun, come play. If not, don't. Call it my version of the milkshake poem from Before Sunrise. Only, you know, far less cool, because we're not in Vienna, and Julie Delpy is nowhere in sight. That, and the stuff I write will probably be crap.

Alright already, that's more than enough fucking ado. Step right up.

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tortoise said:

I am bumping you up in line a bit, but only because I grow weary of seeing a swath of punchdrunk kittens in your wake. This madness simply must end, lass. And it must end now. It's not that I object to being the inspiration for you to commit violent acts; in fact, I rather relish the idea. It's just high time to give the poor kittens a break. Pick a more worthy adversary. Say, a pointy headed, mossy-toothed stinking cunt with a stick up his arse roughly the size of a totem pole. Anyway. Without further ado, I offer you this, in the earnest hope of saving countless kittens from your fists of fury:

Can you fall in love with a place?

People talk about it all the time. But they don't mean it. Not really. Not like this.

These woods call to her, all of her senses, like a lover. They quicken her blood. Their scent fills her, flows through her, tugging at her gut. And lower. The warm zephyrs blowing through the trees feel like his breath, caressing her skin. The babbling stream sounds like his laughter, or the music that he plays for her on his pipes.

It's deeper, far more primal than merely feeling at home. Other places feel like home. This place, these woods, excite her far too much for such nice labels. Home feels safe. Safe as houses. These woods are not safe. It's not that they frighten her, not exactly. Rather, they thrill her. Fill her with an electric charge, a deep humming in every nerve.

People think of the woods as peaceful. Not these woods, not for her. Peace does not excite, not like this. Peace does not make you wet. Make you swell. Make you ache. Peace does not lead to primal, feral longings. To be taken in the woods. No. To be taken by the woods.

As the dusk deepens to darkness, her thoughts turn, as they often do at this time, in this place, to him. He doesn't exist, outside her head. He can't. Creatures like him don't exist, outside of books. But she feels him, all the same. Sees him clearly, in her mind's eye. His horns. His eyes, sparkling with mischief, set in an equally mischievous face. His beard. The thick pelt covering his legs, legs that are bent the wrong way. Taut, muscular, but strange muscles, inhuman, tapering down to cloven hooves. She can smell his scent, like a concentration of the woods. The essence of the woods. She can hear his pipes.

The full moon rises, making her nerves hum even louder. Silver light bathing her beloved woods through the now black trees. She feels a strange wind in her hair, just on her left side, then she sees it, swooping over her shoulder. Huge. Graceful. A white owl, feathers gleaming preternaturally bright in the moonlight, wending effortlessly and completely silently through the trees. He had passed within inches of her head, and she didn't hear a thing.

Her eyes follow his path through the trees, determined to capture as much detail as she can before he disappears from sight. But wait. He's not disappearing. He's alighting. But on what? That's not a tree. She leans forward, takes one step, peering intently at the owl's perch. What is it? It almost looks human, but... Another step closer, then she freezes, completely still, her breath catching in her throat.

Him. It's him. It can't be. She knows it's impossible. But she knows, without a doubt, that it's him. Just then, the scent hits her, a scent that hitherto existed only in her mind.

She knows. What's more, she's always known. Always felt him. No, more than felt. Seen. As she stands, transfixed, staring at this not-quite-man with a snowy owl on his shoulder, she remembers. She's been here before. Not in this place, but in this moment. Looking at this... this embodiment of the woods. Faced with a choice. Go to him, and give herself to him. She feels his longing for her, has felt it before. But he can't go to her. The choice is hers. Has always been hers. Always, before, she has been too scared. Of the unknown. Of surrender. Always, before, she has turned away, and in so doing, broken the spell. Always, before, she forgot that he was real, from the instant she turned away. Until the moment came again. Over and over. The crossroads. The choice. Every time, she turned away. Afraid of him. Afraid of herself. Afraid of the intensity of her desire.

Fuck that.

Not this time.

With a mischievous grin to match his own, she goes to him, the sound of pipes filling her head.

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AlotLikePsyche said:

Please be smutty. Please be smutty. Please be smutty.

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tortoise said:

So. Here's the deal. I've got a bit of writer's block, and you ne'erdowells are going to help me. Come here to me, and I'll write something for you. It could be a story snippet, a poem, a song, or a stream of consciousness bit of nonsense that will probably only serve to bewilder and enrage you. There will undoubtably be a fair quantity of smut, because my mind revels in such filth. I'll try to curtail that a bit, though, as I'm looking to stretch myself here, and writing smut is second nature to me.

Don't be looking for some heartfelt summation of my feelings for you. That's not what this is about. I'm not dealing in epiphanies or declarations, here. I'm not allowing myself more than a few minutes for each "piece." This is a spur of the moment, off the cuff, fly by the seat of my pants writing extravaganza. Extemporaneous. Raw. Potentially bizarre. If that sounds like fun, come play. If not, don't. Call it my version of the milkshake poem from Before Sunrise. Only, you know, far less cool, because we're not in Vienna, and Julie Delpy is nowhere in sight. That, and the stuff I write will probably be crap.

Alright already, that's more than enough fucking ado. Step right up.

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BBWetKitty said:

Looks like I picked a good night to pop on. It's been awhile. I humbly request some torty words.

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tortoise said:

Vocal Synaesthesia

her voice is a blanket of smoke
caressing
penetrating
intoxicating
surrounding
enveloping
obscuring all else

her voice has a taste, a smell
spiced honey
vanilla
jasmine
and, somehow
mangos soaked in gin

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BBWetKitty said:

Such beautiful imagery. You brought tears to my eyes. Thank you Torty.

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tortoise said:

She felt him before she saw him.

Physically felt his gaze as she moved upon the dancefloor. A warm tingling buzz, traveling slowly over her body. Lingering.

She cast sidelong glances his way at first, unsure at how to react to the brazenness of his dark eyed stare. Piecing him together from brief glimpses. Nice enough looking. Great smile. How can a guy be so openly and unapologetically checking a woman out with such a simple, open smile? There should be lechery there, drunken or otherwise. There should be cockiness. Arrogance. But there was none of that. There was hunger, yes, but it was an open, appreciative hunger. Somehow, she could tell that his desire was not just for her body, but for her. How? How could she tell? And why would she think that he knew her, this complete stranger ogling her on the dancefloor?

So. It was his devouring eyes that demanded her attention, but it was his smile that penetrated her defenses. Lowered her guard. She returned the look openly now, body still writhing to the beat. His smile widened, and his eyes locked with hers, before resuming their slow appreciative caress of her body. Fuck. It was definitely not her imagination, this time. She could quite literally feel his gaze. Lingering. Admiring. Making love to her, from across the room, as she stood alone in a crowd of dancers.

His eyes brushed her nipples. She gasped. Arched. Shivered. It felt for all the world like the softest, most feathery caress across her overheated flesh. Down his gaze traveled. Slow. Meandering. And she felt every excruciating, tantalizing inch of that visual journey, intimately. Heart pounding. Cunt wetting, long before... oh! His eyes brushed over her mound. A glancing blow, but she felt it in her core. Across the room, through the intervening layers of fabric, straight to her cunt.

She trembled. Moaned softly. Overcome with lust. With heat. With need. She made a move to come to him, to offer herself to him, completely. One step in his direction. He shook his head, firmly, eyes locking with hers again.

"Soon," his eyes said. After feeling what his eyes could do to her body, she was not terribly shocked to find that she could actually hear his voice in her ear. "Soon, you will come to me. Not yet. Dance for me some more. Please. You will come to me, but first, you will come for me. There. On the crowded dance floor."

His eyes resumed their slow, languorous caress.

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Cleopatra said:

Ah, now for this, I'll get in line.

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