100 Words

ok, confession....I masturbate a lot. I don't now how much other people do it but I do it at least once a day, < most days> My partner at this time is vanilla, very vanilla...with no sprinkles. I was in the past a bisexual switch...I like to get dressed up and I talk nasty. I like it when my partner talks nasty as well...a little deviance and rope is the spice of life. I don't get it...sexual repression that is. It's fear that holds people back. I think the biggest turn on <for me>is finding boundries and pushing them, just a little...go on...go do something that will turn your face red.

You might decide you like it. :kiss:
 
I admit, I'm a control freak – borderline fanatic and I'm fighting the urge to count the words in each posting in this thread. I a) should trust people to do the right thing and b) what the heck does an extra word here - one less there - matter? Rules are made to break, right? I just don't seem to be able to break them, knowingly, at least.
I subscribed to this great Australian site of mini-videos. It’s very erotic in this age of porn, just face after face in the throws of orgasmic pleasure. Many are truly very beautiful.
 
Sprinkles are my new fetish. I like to shake the bottle till I'm red in the face.
Sabina_Tolchovsky said:
ok, confession....I masturbate a lot. I don't now how much other people do it but I do it at least once a day, < most days> My partner at this time is vanilla, very vanilla...with no sprinkles. I was in the past a bisexual switch...I like to get dressed up and I talk nasty. I like it when my partner talks nasty as well...a little deviance and rope is the spice of life. I don't get it...sexual repression that is. It's fear that holds people back. I think the biggest turn on <for me>is finding boundries and pushing them, just a little...go on...go do something that will turn your face red.

You might decide you like it. :kiss:
 
I have wanted to write to him for the last couple years. I know I never will, he is three children and a wife away from me now. So, here it is in the mass of the ever expanding cyber universe...let it be absorbed by the mathematics of life playing over and over again in my head like the sad key's on a piano.
75 words to good bye. Nothing more is needed...but god, I wish I could kiss you again.
 
"You know I want you?" As your fingers moved down over the peach-skin softness around the tiny bulb, vibrating in anxious want I shiver a groan, my answer.
"Open this for me. Spread your legs," a short silence as your tongue delves into the quicksilver elusiveness your fingers have stroked awake, "like that. God!"
I can't understand your noises since your tongue is speaking to me in a voice that drowns passion in a roar of need. Did you say, "Cum for me," or did I misunderstand? I only hear the liquid press of fingers and delighted squeals.
 
He reminds me with tribal talk of Bobby Rose and her son Alias.
"Indian's don't like paper" she say's. "That's the white man's world."
the sparkle in her eye is undeniable.
She feeds me beans and rice until my belly is too full, top's it off with ice-cream.
You can't say no politely, you just have to smile and eat.
Later she takes me to see the eagle pen and holds the golden on her arm while his wings beat six foot wide. She shows me how you don't have to be an animal to be wild.
 
Not in the mood for syllabification rules, vowel sounds. Not in the mood for verb sequences, pronoun referents, small faces crunched in consternation, but I’m not in the mood for pages and pencils: Understand me sometimes language is not enough and it’s fucking below freezing. I’m layered up--cotton, Irish wool, schoolgirl shoes, academic organizer. My hair neatly pinned, clean face, neat earrings, nails polished anew and I’m not in the mood for anything but your arms, the words that curve your lips. Oh I just want to stay home my Terence and kiss you. Can I call out lovesick?
 
You write wanting me to be compassionate to you and this situation but what you are asking is in itself, impossible. I have little compassion for you, something about your personality does it to me... turns on that switch that would have you licking my boots on your knee's metaphorically or physically...I know you love me I don't need to be reminded. No, I won't say it back no matter how much you want me to. Because, that is all I can give you... heal ground love left in ashes on the sidewalk where the wind blows you away...
 
clutching_calliope said:
He never says sorry like he doesn’t know the word, hasn’t heard of it before. Like he’s explaining away his misnomers and misgivings with logic like some Doctor Spock but without the funky ears. He wouldn’t survive on earth if it wasn’t for Trivial Pursuit and Jeopardy!. I ask him why Jeopardy! insists on the exclamatory like it’s dangerous or something. He wiggles his terribly small ears and hunches his shoulders like Quasimoto. I wonder when I’ll stop comparing him to fictional characters.

I think Spock was from Mars. Someone should write a book, one with a lot of questions.
I challenge him to Ponn Farr!
 
There is resistance as the blade pierces skin, like popping a balloon with a pick not quite sharp enough. The glide as tendon and ligament give way and you know the shell is breached. Such Godlike power as the decisions of a lifetime lie inert in your hands.

Just an hour ago, he trembled before you and begged you to cut him through. Now, the wound gapes open and a beating heart waits for you to make it stop. One well-placed insult and then time works against the odds. Surgeon, you heal the sick through making an organized injury.
 
She once told me I would regret the fact that my wedding cake was chocolate and not vanilla for the rest of my life. She should have known better too. Her white words sealed that cake’s fate in a deep, dark way. Don’t place anything in front of me with signs that say please don’t touch or hand me maps for places you want to see. It will only make you fume when I touch whatever I want to, wipe my dirty hands down the back of my pants and throw your ripped up instructions into the quickly sinking past.
 
The beer was stale, but I didn’t really pay much attention to it. It was just something to do to keep my mouth from drying out and my tongue safely behind my lips and teeth while I sat in my usual booth and watched the girls on the runway shaking and shimmying and generally doing whatever the music brought to mind.
That was legal, at any rate.
I had gotten the idea that there were probably several of the girls here who might very well enjoy a few illegalities now and then. Possibly had even enjoyed them in between sets.
 
I'm baaaaaa-aaaack...just this once...

“Darlin’…”

“Yeah, Baby.”

“You know I love you, don’t you?”

“Yeah, Baby, I know. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, Darlin’. It’s just that—“

“Just talk to me, Baby.”

“Well… I’ve… I’m in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I just don’t know how to say it.”

“You know I"m here for you, Baby. I love you.”

“You are so beautiful.”

“So are you, Baby. So are you.”

“But, Darlin’, it’s just that I… I killed--”

“Killed? Who? What happened? Are you okay?”

“Well, not 'killed,' but a rabbit died.”

“You… killed a… Are you--”

“Baby’s got a baby, Darlin’.”
 
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