Grab them by the balls!.....
- Thread starter perfect_deb
- Start date
slyc_willie
Captain Crash
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TE999 said:Worsely is defineable by the degree of revulsion one has while reading it.
Betterly is akin to getting laid, but without the foreplay and the cuddle afterward.
I hope that clears things up.
You've been playing Scrabble too much.
slyc_willie
Captain Crash
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TE999 said:I resemble that remark.
Ooooh, Double Word Score!
I'm sorry, you were saying...?
I was just thinking, you play 'scrabble' on a triple-word tile . . . .
Oh, Christ.
Geek check.
slyc_willie
Captain Crash
- Joined
- Sep 4, 2006
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TE999 said:Addictive ain't it?
Just one more game and I'll quit.
Honest.
Hey. Is 'erne' a word?
Where's that dictionary...?
Stop it!
Go to bed!
The Sam Adams' are gone!
slyc_willie
Captain Crash
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- Sep 4, 2006
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TE999 said:Well don't just stand there looking innocent.
Call room service.
You mean, that cute l'il Hispanic housekeeper?
perfect_deb
Literotica Guru
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glynndah said:This thread seems to have been thoroughly threadjacked, at least for the nonce. Good work, guys.
thats ok - i just sit back doing book work watching the conversation - like watching kids playing
australwind
lightness of being
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perfect_deb said:
I love that capacity in children to invent language - their words are often far more appropriate and superior to the ones found in dictionaries and thesauri (??!?!?!)
perfect_deb
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are we all done?
can i post the entries now?
can i post the entries now?
australwind
lightness of being
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perfect_deb said:
You need permission???
perfect_deb
Literotica Guru
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australwind said:You need permission???
well - i was being polite
if someone out there was furiously writing the last 30 words......
australwind
lightness of being
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perfect_deb said:
And we are always known for our manners..... we Australians...
perfect_deb
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- Jul 19, 2007
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entries for oct
some great stuff this month.
keep in mind if you chucked in any fancy formatting it may have got lost - sorry shit happens.
Entry one
Sex was evil; at least that’s what my father believed. All things sexual were bad, including females. I was born a female, therefore I was bad. My four brothers, who had committed every infraction to human decency, were angels in his eyes but I, the daughter whom he kept locked away, was a demon to be punished. That is why I was so terrified when I was finally allowed to go on my first date at age seventeen. I knew that I would have to fight those basic urges that all humans have and I also knew that I would have to fight my date’s urges.
It wasn’t too difficult a fight. We stayed with a group of friends for most of the evening. The boy got me home in time for my curfew and all was well, or so I thought. Standing on the front porch saying goodnight was the only challenge. He leaned close to me and requested a kiss. I had had a good time and genuinely liked this boy so I thought it was only fitting. The kiss was sweet, closed-mouthed and innocent. After, with a shy smile, I bid him good night.
I stepped into the darkened house through the door and turned to close it behind me. The boy waved widely at me as he moved to his parked car. I could see the joyful smile lighting his face. I felt truly good about my evening. I had been a good girl and I had had a good time. I turned to walk to my room.
Suddenly the entire living room exploded in shards of colored light as I was propelled back against the door. I hit the floor with a loud thud, raising my arms to shield myself from an unseen foe.
Entry two
Trond Larsen disappeared on a Friday; it was his birth date and the day of his retirement. Having no family in the conventional sense a few days passed before anyone missed him. His disappearance might have gone unnoticed for longer had it not been for the discovery that several priceless works at the museum had been replaced with competent forgeries. Larsen had been the Director of the museum up until that fateful Friday night. His birth date, the twenty-ninth of July, coincided with the Flag Day for Norway’s patron saint, St Olav. It was no coincidence that the famed alter front depicting the martyrdom of said Saint was among the missing works.
Larsen’s interest in history probably stemmed from a childhood birthday when he mistakenly thought the flag decked streets were in his honour and for a while he, like other children who share a birth date with an iconic notable, speculated upon whether his parents planned the day for his birth. He was far older than he really ought to have been when he finally came to understand the impetuous and capricious nature of sexual attraction… and the impossibility of ever planning for the day of a birth. Even then, he never spotted that his parents wedding anniversary preceded his birth date by precisely the requisite amount of time. Up until he met Catherine, he had lived the majority of his life innocent of worldly pleasure accepting, without ever giving the subject more than a passing thought, that abstinence brought him closer to the religious artefacts upon which he had built his career.
Entry three
Peace and Life and Mary Beth
The explosion sent twenty-four soldiers sprawling. Dust and acrid smoke filled the air along with the sound of men cursing and scrambling for better cover. There were no screams of pain.
Sergeant Mike Floyd hugged the ground and told himself there were better places to be and things to do. His first choices being home in the back seat of his car with Mary Beth Riser.
He was tired of death; tired of trying to kill unknown men who were doing their best to kill him. He wanted peace, and life, and Mary Beth.
Today’s plan called for his recon platoon to leave the shelter of a jungle-like wood line and cross a large expanse of dry rice paddies to a village. The word was it might be a staging area for the Viet Cong or the North Vietnamese Army, maybe both. If everything went right, the infantry company and the troop of armored personnel carriers left back in the wood-line would then move out and join them.
For the officer in charge of the operation, the plan had the advantage of protecting the men in his own company while risking a handful of troops. Vietnam was a numbers war. Should recon get shot up, the casualties wouldn’t be figured against his unit’s body count.
It was a scheme Mike and the other men of recon knew all too well. They were the eyes and ears of the battalion, experts at operating alone on intelligence gathering operations. Ambushes, snatches, tracking, manning listening posts at night and observation posts during the day were all considered good missions.
Today's assignment, serving as scouts for a regular infantry company while taking orders from its CO, was not one of those. It meant they were expendable.
Entry four
The snowstorm was gathering strength. He glanced out the window thinking the city was in for it this time, then scanned the room and noticed it on the nightstand.
Transparent, round, and about the size of a softball, he picked it up. Small, white pieces of plastic danced through the clear liquid inside. Amid the swirling plastic was a cityscape with buildings of different heights and shapes and colors. He imagined light and warmth inside those buildings keeping the occupants cozy and unaware.
Looking closer he saw “Happy Holidays” banners in store windows. There was an old fashioned sleigh being pulled by horses, lovers kissing as they rode down the snow covered street. People walked hand-in-hand, or with arms linked. Happy people. People eager to spend the holiday season with loved ones. They’d smile and hug and say they must get together more often, and mean it at the time. Safe and secure. An impossible ideal. Winter was a lie.
To most, the truth of winter is masked by festive sentiments and the beguiling luster of a blanket of white snow. But winter is a season of death. Animals and plants know this and take desperate measures. Only humans imagine they can control their environment, but it’s an illusion. No, he thought, winter is brutal, harsh, and unforgiving to those who don’t know its lie and are unprepared. Or to those whose survival instincts are dulled by modern comforts.
He shook the snowglobe, set it down and looked at the beautiful young woman on the bed, her lifeless body seductively arranged like the others. Detective Bowles answered his mobile phone and closed his eyes as his colleague described the latest horror. The first storm of winter was just beginning and already it looked like they were in for it.
Entry five
It was a warm, cloying breeze that brought her name to him. Gentle and sweet, with just a hint of her perfume, the breeze floated directly to his senses, infusing them with that delicious hint of who she was. He became infatuated within an instant, the image of her burning through his eyes and into his soul.
She sat talking with coworkers at the little bistro table on the cafe's patio. He could tell they all worked together by the uniform shirts and little golden name tags. She was young, but not entirely innocent; the way she sat was almost bawdy, with her legs fanned out, the denim encasing them stretched taut to emphasize the hidden delights within.
She laughed in response to a joke, full breasts dancing beneath the cotton of her polo. Lush lips spread wetly around polished teeth. A brief glimpse of the tip of a pink tongue brought a soft moan from him.
I have to have her, he thought. His eyes darkened. I will have her.
"Joe? You almost done sweeping up?"
Joe grimaced at the sound of his employer's voice, then forced a smile as he turned to Mr. Reynolds, holding his broom as if it were a proud badge of office. "Just about, sir."
Mr. Reynolds indicated the employees-only door from the cafe he held open. "Hurry it up," he said. "There's produce to be put away."
Joe kept the spurious smile frozen on his face. "I'll be right on it."
Joe turned away once Mr. Reynolds slipped back through the door, instantly dismayed at the sight of the empty table at which his sweet angel had sat. He searched around with his eyes, found her strolling to her car. Her jeans did her justice, Joe decided. His heart fluttered with anticipation.
"I'll see you again, my sweet Anna," he muttered under his breath. "You will get to know me very well...."
Entry six
Crack! Crack! Thud!
The sounds of gunshots and a falling body filled the air.
A moment of silence, and then a yell of “Cut! Wrap it!” from Tom
Nelson,
the director, broke the stillness, followed by a smattering of polite
clapping from the small crew.
Hamish Campbell slowly got up helped by Justine Brooks, his much
younger
and much more decorative costar. Tom’s enjoyment of her ass and back of
her legs and the thought of fucking her till she screamed in ecstasy
was
only spoiled a little bit by the thought that a) he would never have
the
looks, personality, clout, or whatever turned her on, to actually get
her into bed, and b) past experience had shown him that none but the
least discriminating woman really screamed in ecstasy after a session
with him; and c) it was doubtful that he could get it up for a good
fucking session or keep it up long enough for anybody involved to utter
a whimper of satisfaction much less a scream of ecstasy.
He had to face it; he was on the long downward slope of a failing
career
and diminished prospects and advancing years and declining hope. His
life, which had seemed so bright and full of unlimited vistas only a
few
short years ago, was now filled with disappointment and faded hope.
“Great work, you guys. I think we’re really on to something here.
Thanks
Hamish, Thanks Justine. And thank you to the whole crew. Great work!”
He could feel their eyes boring into him, the crew members and the
so-called talent up front. They were counting on him to pull them out
of
their own career traps, and they knew it just wasn’t panning out.
Entry seven
Dismembering her body was not difficult; a simple matter of cutting the muscles and ligaments, then breaking the joints with a hammer. There was a substantial quantity of blood quickly washed down the drain, followed by a gallon of ammonia. Quartering the torso was more difficult, but…
My apologies, I must seem rude. My name is Baxter, George Baxter. I am a senior accountant for a major firm in the city. I have worked there twenty-four years and have been content until she entered my life. She of the red hair, the infectious giggle, the flirtatious walk, the curvaceous body; she who turned my safe little world into chaos.
She was hired as an assistant accountant and was assigned to me for orientation. Her name was Becky Sanders, a recent graduate from business school, eager to learn and quite cooperative. In the weeks that followed we became associates, then friends, then one evening, lovers.
Becky had begun flirting with me from the very first. I passed it off as youthful exuberance, I was fifteen years her senior; what could she see in a skinny, balding, shy bachelor like me? One evening we were working late and she began kissing me. I was startled, but responded to her advances and soon we were making love on my office couch. We continued our passionate coupling until we were totally spent.
Things were never the same after that. We became lovers and I gloried in the relationship, developing a deep affection for her. I thought it was mutual until I discovered she was using me, as well as others, to advance in the company. I was devastated, and upon reflection, decided she must be punished.
Little did Becky realize she would be the first woman, but not the last, to feel my wrath.
Entry eight
She had it at work. Wanted it there. From voices through the phone, she imagined the rounded curves of their unknown bodies as plump apples, a sheen of moisture standing out on the taut skin. One beaded bud in particular crested defiantly at the very top of the swell.
Fat and shimmying, it began the slow descent, leaving a trail of shiny residue before bowing to gravity. An inexorable splash- one concentrated, seizing moment of pleasure.
The bulls-eye.
Which vice embarrassed them wetly, these strangers? Prompted a fervent touch in the bathroom, or the unconscious clutch of a breast, nipple stiffening?
What if someone licked an unbroken line across the valley behind an ear and whispered the word “Torrid” deep inside? Drew the two syllables out in silken sensuality, with burning breath?
Thoughts built up like grains of rice inside a saltshaker. Accumulated. And there was only so much room.
Every moment she wanted it. To spread her legs wide, in business dress, at her desk in the center of a busy workplace; during calls, action, and a host of everyday moments. To pivot her pelvis downward and slowly grind back and forth. Nub unfurled against panties, through slacks, and dipped into the coarse, rounded seat below her. Friction.
Entry nine
“Ladies and Gentlemen! Welcome to Katherine Steiner Galleries and to the opening of our latest show. Tonight we will introduce you to the work of Alan Franks and Melody Hirst.
This is a collaboration of a nature I am sure most of you will never have seen the like of before.
Please make your way into the main gallery.”
As the doors were opened a waft of vapour drifted out. The space was dark.
Intrigued by the theatrics, Michael was drawn into the gallery. On entering, a soft pool of light formed over a suspended work hanging in the centre of room.
As his eyes adjusted, the picture became visible. Her bent form, tightly corseted, breasts spilling out, eyes shut against the obvious pain from her arms chained behind her.
The sudden surge in Michael’s groin, his body stiffening, his breath suddenly ragged caught him by surprise. Transfixed, he stared at the image of the girl chained, on her knees. Its power radiated.
Adjusting to the gloom, he became aware of something other in the big gallery space. Tearing himself away from the picture, he was drawn to a dark form just visible in the wisps of vapour. As he approached, another soft pool of light formed from above.
Silvery chains sparkled in the light play seemingly alive. He traced their path toward the floor. An involuntary gasp escaped his lips.
Her alabaster skin shone in the soft light, the black leather of her garments stark against her paleness. Tiny beads of perspiration glittered on her face, the strain of her confinement evident.
A commanding voice shattered his personal reverie. The girl on the floor stiffened and attempted to straighten herself. Her obedience despite her pain stirred a feeling in Michael he could not explain.
Raising her eyes reluctantly, she looked straight at him as ordered.
Entry 10
The girl kept her eyes tightly closed in an almost primeval attempt to block out the terror; if her hands had not been tied firmly over her head to the pole she would have them over her eyes as well. As the dragon moved closer she began to whimper softly.
“What is your name girl?” the voice whispered softly in her ear, making her jump.
“C-Celeste” she answered, clenching her eyes tighter.
“Have you been touched by a man Celeste?” the dragon whispered, closer now, the warm breath touching her face.
Confused, Celeste opened her eyes, the dragon’s eye was directly in front of her and she gasped, mesmerised by the sparkling, swirling facets in every shade of gold and sapphire blue.
The dragon asked again somewhat impatiently, “have you known the touch of a man?” shifting its weight it stood over her, her body between it legs and looked down at her.
“No” Celeste answered hesitantly, not entirely sure of the dragons meaning “I was selected to come because I am still a virgin.”
The dragon reached out one razor sharp talon and touched her neck; Celeste whimpered and closed her eyes again. The talon rested against her throat for a moment and then slit the heavily embroidered ceremonial dress from neck to hem like tissue paper.
Celeste gasped as the cold air rushed over her naked body, she felt something warm and wet against her breast and opened her eyes a crack. The dragons tongue, three times the length of a man’s arm and as thick, curled around her breast, squeezing gently. She gasped as the tongue slithered over her stomach and slipped between her legs. Celeste laid her head back and moaned softly, her body responding to the dragons touch.
some great stuff this month.
keep in mind if you chucked in any fancy formatting it may have got lost - sorry shit happens.
Entry one
Sex was evil; at least that’s what my father believed. All things sexual were bad, including females. I was born a female, therefore I was bad. My four brothers, who had committed every infraction to human decency, were angels in his eyes but I, the daughter whom he kept locked away, was a demon to be punished. That is why I was so terrified when I was finally allowed to go on my first date at age seventeen. I knew that I would have to fight those basic urges that all humans have and I also knew that I would have to fight my date’s urges.
It wasn’t too difficult a fight. We stayed with a group of friends for most of the evening. The boy got me home in time for my curfew and all was well, or so I thought. Standing on the front porch saying goodnight was the only challenge. He leaned close to me and requested a kiss. I had had a good time and genuinely liked this boy so I thought it was only fitting. The kiss was sweet, closed-mouthed and innocent. After, with a shy smile, I bid him good night.
I stepped into the darkened house through the door and turned to close it behind me. The boy waved widely at me as he moved to his parked car. I could see the joyful smile lighting his face. I felt truly good about my evening. I had been a good girl and I had had a good time. I turned to walk to my room.
Suddenly the entire living room exploded in shards of colored light as I was propelled back against the door. I hit the floor with a loud thud, raising my arms to shield myself from an unseen foe.
Entry two
Trond Larsen disappeared on a Friday; it was his birth date and the day of his retirement. Having no family in the conventional sense a few days passed before anyone missed him. His disappearance might have gone unnoticed for longer had it not been for the discovery that several priceless works at the museum had been replaced with competent forgeries. Larsen had been the Director of the museum up until that fateful Friday night. His birth date, the twenty-ninth of July, coincided with the Flag Day for Norway’s patron saint, St Olav. It was no coincidence that the famed alter front depicting the martyrdom of said Saint was among the missing works.
Larsen’s interest in history probably stemmed from a childhood birthday when he mistakenly thought the flag decked streets were in his honour and for a while he, like other children who share a birth date with an iconic notable, speculated upon whether his parents planned the day for his birth. He was far older than he really ought to have been when he finally came to understand the impetuous and capricious nature of sexual attraction… and the impossibility of ever planning for the day of a birth. Even then, he never spotted that his parents wedding anniversary preceded his birth date by precisely the requisite amount of time. Up until he met Catherine, he had lived the majority of his life innocent of worldly pleasure accepting, without ever giving the subject more than a passing thought, that abstinence brought him closer to the religious artefacts upon which he had built his career.
Entry three
Peace and Life and Mary Beth
The explosion sent twenty-four soldiers sprawling. Dust and acrid smoke filled the air along with the sound of men cursing and scrambling for better cover. There were no screams of pain.
Sergeant Mike Floyd hugged the ground and told himself there were better places to be and things to do. His first choices being home in the back seat of his car with Mary Beth Riser.
He was tired of death; tired of trying to kill unknown men who were doing their best to kill him. He wanted peace, and life, and Mary Beth.
Today’s plan called for his recon platoon to leave the shelter of a jungle-like wood line and cross a large expanse of dry rice paddies to a village. The word was it might be a staging area for the Viet Cong or the North Vietnamese Army, maybe both. If everything went right, the infantry company and the troop of armored personnel carriers left back in the wood-line would then move out and join them.
For the officer in charge of the operation, the plan had the advantage of protecting the men in his own company while risking a handful of troops. Vietnam was a numbers war. Should recon get shot up, the casualties wouldn’t be figured against his unit’s body count.
It was a scheme Mike and the other men of recon knew all too well. They were the eyes and ears of the battalion, experts at operating alone on intelligence gathering operations. Ambushes, snatches, tracking, manning listening posts at night and observation posts during the day were all considered good missions.
Today's assignment, serving as scouts for a regular infantry company while taking orders from its CO, was not one of those. It meant they were expendable.
Entry four
The snowstorm was gathering strength. He glanced out the window thinking the city was in for it this time, then scanned the room and noticed it on the nightstand.
Transparent, round, and about the size of a softball, he picked it up. Small, white pieces of plastic danced through the clear liquid inside. Amid the swirling plastic was a cityscape with buildings of different heights and shapes and colors. He imagined light and warmth inside those buildings keeping the occupants cozy and unaware.
Looking closer he saw “Happy Holidays” banners in store windows. There was an old fashioned sleigh being pulled by horses, lovers kissing as they rode down the snow covered street. People walked hand-in-hand, or with arms linked. Happy people. People eager to spend the holiday season with loved ones. They’d smile and hug and say they must get together more often, and mean it at the time. Safe and secure. An impossible ideal. Winter was a lie.
To most, the truth of winter is masked by festive sentiments and the beguiling luster of a blanket of white snow. But winter is a season of death. Animals and plants know this and take desperate measures. Only humans imagine they can control their environment, but it’s an illusion. No, he thought, winter is brutal, harsh, and unforgiving to those who don’t know its lie and are unprepared. Or to those whose survival instincts are dulled by modern comforts.
He shook the snowglobe, set it down and looked at the beautiful young woman on the bed, her lifeless body seductively arranged like the others. Detective Bowles answered his mobile phone and closed his eyes as his colleague described the latest horror. The first storm of winter was just beginning and already it looked like they were in for it.
Entry five
It was a warm, cloying breeze that brought her name to him. Gentle and sweet, with just a hint of her perfume, the breeze floated directly to his senses, infusing them with that delicious hint of who she was. He became infatuated within an instant, the image of her burning through his eyes and into his soul.
She sat talking with coworkers at the little bistro table on the cafe's patio. He could tell they all worked together by the uniform shirts and little golden name tags. She was young, but not entirely innocent; the way she sat was almost bawdy, with her legs fanned out, the denim encasing them stretched taut to emphasize the hidden delights within.
She laughed in response to a joke, full breasts dancing beneath the cotton of her polo. Lush lips spread wetly around polished teeth. A brief glimpse of the tip of a pink tongue brought a soft moan from him.
I have to have her, he thought. His eyes darkened. I will have her.
"Joe? You almost done sweeping up?"
Joe grimaced at the sound of his employer's voice, then forced a smile as he turned to Mr. Reynolds, holding his broom as if it were a proud badge of office. "Just about, sir."
Mr. Reynolds indicated the employees-only door from the cafe he held open. "Hurry it up," he said. "There's produce to be put away."
Joe kept the spurious smile frozen on his face. "I'll be right on it."
Joe turned away once Mr. Reynolds slipped back through the door, instantly dismayed at the sight of the empty table at which his sweet angel had sat. He searched around with his eyes, found her strolling to her car. Her jeans did her justice, Joe decided. His heart fluttered with anticipation.
"I'll see you again, my sweet Anna," he muttered under his breath. "You will get to know me very well...."
Entry six
Crack! Crack! Thud!
The sounds of gunshots and a falling body filled the air.
A moment of silence, and then a yell of “Cut! Wrap it!” from Tom
Nelson,
the director, broke the stillness, followed by a smattering of polite
clapping from the small crew.
Hamish Campbell slowly got up helped by Justine Brooks, his much
younger
and much more decorative costar. Tom’s enjoyment of her ass and back of
her legs and the thought of fucking her till she screamed in ecstasy
was
only spoiled a little bit by the thought that a) he would never have
the
looks, personality, clout, or whatever turned her on, to actually get
her into bed, and b) past experience had shown him that none but the
least discriminating woman really screamed in ecstasy after a session
with him; and c) it was doubtful that he could get it up for a good
fucking session or keep it up long enough for anybody involved to utter
a whimper of satisfaction much less a scream of ecstasy.
He had to face it; he was on the long downward slope of a failing
career
and diminished prospects and advancing years and declining hope. His
life, which had seemed so bright and full of unlimited vistas only a
few
short years ago, was now filled with disappointment and faded hope.
“Great work, you guys. I think we’re really on to something here.
Thanks
Hamish, Thanks Justine. And thank you to the whole crew. Great work!”
He could feel their eyes boring into him, the crew members and the
so-called talent up front. They were counting on him to pull them out
of
their own career traps, and they knew it just wasn’t panning out.
Entry seven
Dismembering her body was not difficult; a simple matter of cutting the muscles and ligaments, then breaking the joints with a hammer. There was a substantial quantity of blood quickly washed down the drain, followed by a gallon of ammonia. Quartering the torso was more difficult, but…
My apologies, I must seem rude. My name is Baxter, George Baxter. I am a senior accountant for a major firm in the city. I have worked there twenty-four years and have been content until she entered my life. She of the red hair, the infectious giggle, the flirtatious walk, the curvaceous body; she who turned my safe little world into chaos.
She was hired as an assistant accountant and was assigned to me for orientation. Her name was Becky Sanders, a recent graduate from business school, eager to learn and quite cooperative. In the weeks that followed we became associates, then friends, then one evening, lovers.
Becky had begun flirting with me from the very first. I passed it off as youthful exuberance, I was fifteen years her senior; what could she see in a skinny, balding, shy bachelor like me? One evening we were working late and she began kissing me. I was startled, but responded to her advances and soon we were making love on my office couch. We continued our passionate coupling until we were totally spent.
Things were never the same after that. We became lovers and I gloried in the relationship, developing a deep affection for her. I thought it was mutual until I discovered she was using me, as well as others, to advance in the company. I was devastated, and upon reflection, decided she must be punished.
Little did Becky realize she would be the first woman, but not the last, to feel my wrath.
Entry eight
She had it at work. Wanted it there. From voices through the phone, she imagined the rounded curves of their unknown bodies as plump apples, a sheen of moisture standing out on the taut skin. One beaded bud in particular crested defiantly at the very top of the swell.
Fat and shimmying, it began the slow descent, leaving a trail of shiny residue before bowing to gravity. An inexorable splash- one concentrated, seizing moment of pleasure.
The bulls-eye.
Which vice embarrassed them wetly, these strangers? Prompted a fervent touch in the bathroom, or the unconscious clutch of a breast, nipple stiffening?
What if someone licked an unbroken line across the valley behind an ear and whispered the word “Torrid” deep inside? Drew the two syllables out in silken sensuality, with burning breath?
Thoughts built up like grains of rice inside a saltshaker. Accumulated. And there was only so much room.
Every moment she wanted it. To spread her legs wide, in business dress, at her desk in the center of a busy workplace; during calls, action, and a host of everyday moments. To pivot her pelvis downward and slowly grind back and forth. Nub unfurled against panties, through slacks, and dipped into the coarse, rounded seat below her. Friction.
Entry nine
“Ladies and Gentlemen! Welcome to Katherine Steiner Galleries and to the opening of our latest show. Tonight we will introduce you to the work of Alan Franks and Melody Hirst.
This is a collaboration of a nature I am sure most of you will never have seen the like of before.
Please make your way into the main gallery.”
As the doors were opened a waft of vapour drifted out. The space was dark.
Intrigued by the theatrics, Michael was drawn into the gallery. On entering, a soft pool of light formed over a suspended work hanging in the centre of room.
As his eyes adjusted, the picture became visible. Her bent form, tightly corseted, breasts spilling out, eyes shut against the obvious pain from her arms chained behind her.
The sudden surge in Michael’s groin, his body stiffening, his breath suddenly ragged caught him by surprise. Transfixed, he stared at the image of the girl chained, on her knees. Its power radiated.
Adjusting to the gloom, he became aware of something other in the big gallery space. Tearing himself away from the picture, he was drawn to a dark form just visible in the wisps of vapour. As he approached, another soft pool of light formed from above.
Silvery chains sparkled in the light play seemingly alive. He traced their path toward the floor. An involuntary gasp escaped his lips.
Her alabaster skin shone in the soft light, the black leather of her garments stark against her paleness. Tiny beads of perspiration glittered on her face, the strain of her confinement evident.
A commanding voice shattered his personal reverie. The girl on the floor stiffened and attempted to straighten herself. Her obedience despite her pain stirred a feeling in Michael he could not explain.
Raising her eyes reluctantly, she looked straight at him as ordered.
Entry 10
The girl kept her eyes tightly closed in an almost primeval attempt to block out the terror; if her hands had not been tied firmly over her head to the pole she would have them over her eyes as well. As the dragon moved closer she began to whimper softly.
“What is your name girl?” the voice whispered softly in her ear, making her jump.
“C-Celeste” she answered, clenching her eyes tighter.
“Have you been touched by a man Celeste?” the dragon whispered, closer now, the warm breath touching her face.
Confused, Celeste opened her eyes, the dragon’s eye was directly in front of her and she gasped, mesmerised by the sparkling, swirling facets in every shade of gold and sapphire blue.
The dragon asked again somewhat impatiently, “have you known the touch of a man?” shifting its weight it stood over her, her body between it legs and looked down at her.
“No” Celeste answered hesitantly, not entirely sure of the dragons meaning “I was selected to come because I am still a virgin.”
The dragon reached out one razor sharp talon and touched her neck; Celeste whimpered and closed her eyes again. The talon rested against her throat for a moment and then slit the heavily embroidered ceremonial dress from neck to hem like tissue paper.
Celeste gasped as the cold air rushed over her naked body, she felt something warm and wet against her breast and opened her eyes a crack. The dragons tongue, three times the length of a man’s arm and as thick, curled around her breast, squeezing gently. She gasped as the tongue slithered over her stomach and slipped between her legs. Celeste laid her head back and moaned softly, her body responding to the dragons touch.
jomar
chillin
- Joined
- Nov 7, 2006
- Posts
- 27,558
Good work everybody - some nice stuff here. I thought they were all nicely written.
1. The second and third paragraphs were very sweetly done. Based on her father's views I wondered about her self-esteem and even wanting to go out. I guess she has a strong spirit! And I assume it would be her father, but could be a brother assaulting her.
2. A well written piece that conveyed a sense of a complex and interesting individual. Though by the end of 300 I was not pulled in as deeply as I wanted to be.
3. Nice opening punch and a nice toss off about the opposing interests of politics and boots on the ground - who counts in a 'body count,' still going on. I'm not sure I bought the sarge would be reflecting on things at that particular moment.
4. I liked the 'storm's a coming' wraparound beginning and end. And the reality versus perception thing.
5. A nice one full of creepiness and danger. I like the author using the smell of Anna's perfume - made me immediately think of obsession and as I read it quite fit.
6. Good opening bait and switch. I liked the humor in the middle part that listed his shortcomings. I couldn't help wonder though, why they pinned their hopes on him if he was on the decline.
7. Another one I liked. The deranged accountant with impeccable manners. For me it worked better without the last sentence.
8. I'm a little curious, but not grabbed by this. Maybe I'm too conventional with openings and should read more. Or maybe I'm not in the mood for this style right now - that does happen to me.
9. Nice opening line. There was some awkward phrasing to my ear, but that could be a local thing. And I'm not sure why she was ordered to look at him but I want to find out.
10. Ack! Creepy dragon sex with the helpless virgin sacrifice! Can true love be far behind? Well written and disturbingly hot!
1. The second and third paragraphs were very sweetly done. Based on her father's views I wondered about her self-esteem and even wanting to go out. I guess she has a strong spirit! And I assume it would be her father, but could be a brother assaulting her.
2. A well written piece that conveyed a sense of a complex and interesting individual. Though by the end of 300 I was not pulled in as deeply as I wanted to be.
3. Nice opening punch and a nice toss off about the opposing interests of politics and boots on the ground - who counts in a 'body count,' still going on. I'm not sure I bought the sarge would be reflecting on things at that particular moment.
4. I liked the 'storm's a coming' wraparound beginning and end. And the reality versus perception thing.
5. A nice one full of creepiness and danger. I like the author using the smell of Anna's perfume - made me immediately think of obsession and as I read it quite fit.
6. Good opening bait and switch. I liked the humor in the middle part that listed his shortcomings. I couldn't help wonder though, why they pinned their hopes on him if he was on the decline.
7. Another one I liked. The deranged accountant with impeccable manners. For me it worked better without the last sentence.
8. I'm a little curious, but not grabbed by this. Maybe I'm too conventional with openings and should read more. Or maybe I'm not in the mood for this style right now - that does happen to me.
9. Nice opening line. There was some awkward phrasing to my ear, but that could be a local thing. And I'm not sure why she was ordered to look at him but I want to find out.
10. Ack! Creepy dragon sex with the helpless virgin sacrifice! Can true love be far behind? Well written and disturbingly hot!
Last edited:
Iconoclast99
Experienced
- Joined
- Oct 7, 2007
- Posts
- 88
One reader's opinion:
Entry One - 5
Definitely a 5 in my book, with the minor caveat that I reserve the right to close my eyes tight if the next few paragraphs get too unsettling. I think everything that I value was covered within the limitations of an opening page.
Entry Two - 3
I enjoyed the premise and the taste we got of the protagonist’s life, but I found it hard to read. It might have been the sentence structure or perhaps the overly long paragraphs, but I found I did not really want to find out more until the last part of the last sentence “…brought him closer to the religious artefacts upon which he had built his career.” Only at that point did I really want to find out more.
Entry Three - 3
I had difficulties with this one from the point of view of verisimilitude This is most likely due to my own ignorance of the reality of the terrain in Vietnam, which I think of as wet tropical rainforest, so references to an explosion sending up dust and having to cross dry rice paddies were enough to jolt me out of the story. I certainly wouldn’t recommend that the author change it to cater to my ignorance.
Entry Four - 5
The mood was done well and I wanted to find out more. The last paragraph was slightly disjointed, and upon rereading I began to wonder why the protagonist was in the room alone and why he had picked up the snowglobe, surely a no-no during an investigation. I would read further just to confirm or deny my suspicions.
Entry Five - 5
I’m giving it a five even though psychopathia sexualis is not to my taste. Those for whom it is will want to read on. I was somewhat confused about the use of the name Anna in the last paragraph until I read the story again and realized that his knowledge of her name had been explicitly mentioned in the first sentence.
Entry Six - 4
I found it distracting to read with some of the obvious line break problems. Some of the paragraphs, especially the one listing his failings, went on a bit long. The paragraph near the end which talked about the downward slope of his career seemed a bit too clichéd. Needs some work, but a good beginning.
Entry Seven - 3
As with entry five this is not a story I would personally want to read. However, in addition to my personal opinions of the story line I was also jerked out of the story by what I consider writing errors. The first paragraph is well done and sets the desired mood, but I was broken out of that by his self-introduction in the second paragraph. I couldn’t help thinking “My name is Bond, James Bond.”, even though that was not what was written. The very last sentence of the story is too reminiscent to me of hardboiled detective fiction, which completely does not fit with my conception of the “skinny, shy balding” protagonist.
Entry Eight - 3
It is hard to express obsessive compulsive thinking in words which can be easily understood. I did not understand the meaning of the first two sentences and after rereading a few times I am still in the dark about the meaning of the “it” referred to. The rest of the first paragraph is also unclear to me, as I did not really understand the wet apple analogy. There are some nice turns of phrase in later paragraphs, but I could not get past the hurdle of not having any clear idea of what was going on. I gave it a 3 because I think it has possibilities, but I wouldn’t read past the first paragraph until mood was replaced by clarity.
Entry Nine -
I personally would not read this story as I have zero interest in BDSM. As a result I have no conception of what an aficionado of that genre would consider appealing. The technical stuff such as grammar and punctuation seemed well done and the reactions of the protagonist were well presented.
Entry Ten - 5
I don’t like most fantasy, but I found this preamble oddly arousing. All the technical stuff was fine and the writing is very evocative. Good work.
Iconoclast
Entry One - 5
Definitely a 5 in my book, with the minor caveat that I reserve the right to close my eyes tight if the next few paragraphs get too unsettling. I think everything that I value was covered within the limitations of an opening page.
Entry Two - 3
I enjoyed the premise and the taste we got of the protagonist’s life, but I found it hard to read. It might have been the sentence structure or perhaps the overly long paragraphs, but I found I did not really want to find out more until the last part of the last sentence “…brought him closer to the religious artefacts upon which he had built his career.” Only at that point did I really want to find out more.
Entry Three - 3
I had difficulties with this one from the point of view of verisimilitude This is most likely due to my own ignorance of the reality of the terrain in Vietnam, which I think of as wet tropical rainforest, so references to an explosion sending up dust and having to cross dry rice paddies were enough to jolt me out of the story. I certainly wouldn’t recommend that the author change it to cater to my ignorance.
Entry Four - 5
The mood was done well and I wanted to find out more. The last paragraph was slightly disjointed, and upon rereading I began to wonder why the protagonist was in the room alone and why he had picked up the snowglobe, surely a no-no during an investigation. I would read further just to confirm or deny my suspicions.
Entry Five - 5
I’m giving it a five even though psychopathia sexualis is not to my taste. Those for whom it is will want to read on. I was somewhat confused about the use of the name Anna in the last paragraph until I read the story again and realized that his knowledge of her name had been explicitly mentioned in the first sentence.
Entry Six - 4
I found it distracting to read with some of the obvious line break problems. Some of the paragraphs, especially the one listing his failings, went on a bit long. The paragraph near the end which talked about the downward slope of his career seemed a bit too clichéd. Needs some work, but a good beginning.
Entry Seven - 3
As with entry five this is not a story I would personally want to read. However, in addition to my personal opinions of the story line I was also jerked out of the story by what I consider writing errors. The first paragraph is well done and sets the desired mood, but I was broken out of that by his self-introduction in the second paragraph. I couldn’t help thinking “My name is Bond, James Bond.”, even though that was not what was written. The very last sentence of the story is too reminiscent to me of hardboiled detective fiction, which completely does not fit with my conception of the “skinny, shy balding” protagonist.
Entry Eight - 3
It is hard to express obsessive compulsive thinking in words which can be easily understood. I did not understand the meaning of the first two sentences and after rereading a few times I am still in the dark about the meaning of the “it” referred to. The rest of the first paragraph is also unclear to me, as I did not really understand the wet apple analogy. There are some nice turns of phrase in later paragraphs, but I could not get past the hurdle of not having any clear idea of what was going on. I gave it a 3 because I think it has possibilities, but I wouldn’t read past the first paragraph until mood was replaced by clarity.
Entry Nine -
I personally would not read this story as I have zero interest in BDSM. As a result I have no conception of what an aficionado of that genre would consider appealing. The technical stuff such as grammar and punctuation seemed well done and the reactions of the protagonist were well presented.
Entry Ten - 5
I don’t like most fantasy, but I found this preamble oddly arousing. All the technical stuff was fine and the writing is very evocative. Good work.
Iconoclast
Three Hundred Words or Less to Grab Me
The authors are to be commended. They all met your criteria for a quick short grabbing of the readers interest but some were better than others. My personal preference is for number one - a definate five in my book and as this is a contest with a winner then the rest must receive lower marks. A quick rundown of the stories marks follows without me critiquing their works - totally unnecessary for all these good authors:
Entry One - 5 [hooked me the most]
Entry two - 3 [just did not pull me in quickly enough]
Entry three - 4 [good start, would definately read]
Entry four - 4 [worth a 4.5 in my personal book]
Entry five - 3 [sounded predictable]
Entry six - 3 [just no interest here]
Entry seven - 3 [so he cuts them up]
Entry eight - 4 [this one is different, maybe a 4.5]
Entry nine - 4 [has strong possibilities]
Entry ten - 4 [this is my second favourite, a definite 4.5]
Thank you all for sharing your talent.
The authors are to be commended. They all met your criteria for a quick short grabbing of the readers interest but some were better than others. My personal preference is for number one - a definate five in my book and as this is a contest with a winner then the rest must receive lower marks. A quick rundown of the stories marks follows without me critiquing their works - totally unnecessary for all these good authors:
Entry One - 5 [hooked me the most]
Entry two - 3 [just did not pull me in quickly enough]
Entry three - 4 [good start, would definately read]
Entry four - 4 [worth a 4.5 in my personal book]
Entry five - 3 [sounded predictable]
Entry six - 3 [just no interest here]
Entry seven - 3 [so he cuts them up]
Entry eight - 4 [this one is different, maybe a 4.5]
Entry nine - 4 [has strong possibilities]
Entry ten - 4 [this is my second favourite, a definite 4.5]
Thank you all for sharing your talent.
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