impressive
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ABSTRUSE said:Woohoo, now do another!
No ... and you can't make me.
And the Bitch is gone....an exercise in writing.
- Thread starter ABSTRUSE
- Start date
No ... and you can't make me.
impressive
Literotica Guru
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ABSTRUSE said:That's because you CAN'T.
Believe what you wish.
impressive
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ABSTRUSE said:
RhymeFairy
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I would love to
provoke
my Muse.
He sleeps,
slumbers,
while I walk
... pace.
Shall I
pounce
him awake.
Or give him
slow
tongue slides.
Down his
hills
n valleys,
thighs and
chest.
Stopping only
to
Taste ...
Dip
into his
nectar
of nasty
love.
Swallow
silken
sins ...
If only,
my muse
was awake.
if only ...
*pacing ....
cloudy
Alabama Slammer
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ABSTRUSE said:this was fun, so I thought I would bump it for the newbies.
North:
The lanscape gradually changed over the hours from one of plants and trees already beginning to green to that of a land still locked into the last throes of winter. I finally gave in after twelve hours and rolled the window up, turned the heat on, and heard the faint growl of the engine adjusting to the difference.
The first traces of snow greeted me like a long-lost friend after fourteen hours, and still the miles flashed by. I was getting closer, and although the air around me had gotten colder, I was getting warmer.
ABSTRUSE
Cirque du Freak
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wonderful, thank you.cloudy said:North:
The lanscape gradually changed over the hours from one of plants and trees already beginning to green to that of a land still locked into the last throes of winter. I finally gave in after twelve hours and rolled the window up, turned the heat on, and heard the faint growl of the engine adjusting to the difference.
The first traces of snow greeted me like a long-lost friend after fourteen hours, and still the miles flashed by. I was getting closer, and although the air around me had gotten colder, I was getting warmer.
Salvor-Hardon
A kiss is still a kiss
- Joined
- Jun 20, 2004
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South
The gentle thrum of the car engine, and the winds roaring through my open window. I can always tell when I am getting closer becuse the air smells different. The salt air, sure, but also the suntan oil, the beer, the charcoals grilling steaks and burgers, all the smells that remind me of this place reach me before the sights or the sounds ever do.
Up over the bridge, and as I crest I see the shore line, out just beyond the parking lot and the beach. This is not my beach, this is for the tourists, the snow birds or the families visiting. I take the turn to drive by teh hotels and shops, impossibly slow as people gawk at palm trees, or try to glimpse the water between the buildings. Its ok this time, I'm not in a hurry. The wind blows the frawns of the palms like waving arms along a parade route, cheering me, welcoming back as if I were a hero. I'm not, no where close but its nice to feel the beach itself reach out to me.
I park across the street and then dodge traffic to get to the bar. The pale blue walls with pink and green accents hasn't changed since Miami Vice was in its hey day. Twenty more people and this place would be filled to over flowing. But this is not a sit down bar. This is a walk in, grab a drink and walk back out bar. The Corona is so cold as I take bottle, and I smell the lime juice as I try to squeeze it into the neck. Nearly home as I take a long drag and feel teh citrus acids and alchol burn in my throat.
Off the porch and onto the sewall, low bricks rough from wear that have been battereed by storm after storm and still refuse to fall. I climb up and look out on the waves, past the horizon and fill my lungs with the scent of teh coming strom. The electricity tingles in my nose and my skin puckers to feel teh chill in the air.
Blue skies turn grey then darker still. White lines of clouds are singed to black from the crackling lighting inside them. Then the first bolt escapes, reaching down to snap at the water. The winds howl now, moaning and wailing as the storm comes to shore. I feel the rain drops on my face. They are not the wet lover's kiss of summer rains but sharp nearly piercing dots of cold fast water. I stand there, letting the wind whip around me, being assaulted by the rain and just take another drink as I stare down the storm.
Load angry cracks of lightning with ominous bellowing thunder on its heels scream at my persistance, but I just stand there, drinking, watching, standing. Water streams down my face, and I have to squint my eyes to brace the storm, but I came here to do this, just this, and I will stand firm. Another drink, longer deepr, more of a burn as I swallow it down to ward off the chill of the rain and wind. Then just as quickly as it came up, the storm is gone again.
White and yellow streaks break through the clouds, making the sands the sparkling white they once were, though mottled with the grey still shadowed from the sun. One such beam moves across my face and the warmth is reassuring, comforting. I finish my beer, and take the cold smooth glass bottle back inside, setting it on the bar for Maria to pick up. My shoes make an odd squishing noise as I walk, wet footprints on the linoleum tiles. Then back across the street again, touched and purified by the storm.
The gentle thrum of the car engine, and the winds roaring through my open window. I can always tell when I am getting closer becuse the air smells different. The salt air, sure, but also the suntan oil, the beer, the charcoals grilling steaks and burgers, all the smells that remind me of this place reach me before the sights or the sounds ever do.
Up over the bridge, and as I crest I see the shore line, out just beyond the parking lot and the beach. This is not my beach, this is for the tourists, the snow birds or the families visiting. I take the turn to drive by teh hotels and shops, impossibly slow as people gawk at palm trees, or try to glimpse the water between the buildings. Its ok this time, I'm not in a hurry. The wind blows the frawns of the palms like waving arms along a parade route, cheering me, welcoming back as if I were a hero. I'm not, no where close but its nice to feel the beach itself reach out to me.
I park across the street and then dodge traffic to get to the bar. The pale blue walls with pink and green accents hasn't changed since Miami Vice was in its hey day. Twenty more people and this place would be filled to over flowing. But this is not a sit down bar. This is a walk in, grab a drink and walk back out bar. The Corona is so cold as I take bottle, and I smell the lime juice as I try to squeeze it into the neck. Nearly home as I take a long drag and feel teh citrus acids and alchol burn in my throat.
Off the porch and onto the sewall, low bricks rough from wear that have been battereed by storm after storm and still refuse to fall. I climb up and look out on the waves, past the horizon and fill my lungs with the scent of teh coming strom. The electricity tingles in my nose and my skin puckers to feel teh chill in the air.
Blue skies turn grey then darker still. White lines of clouds are singed to black from the crackling lighting inside them. Then the first bolt escapes, reaching down to snap at the water. The winds howl now, moaning and wailing as the storm comes to shore. I feel the rain drops on my face. They are not the wet lover's kiss of summer rains but sharp nearly piercing dots of cold fast water. I stand there, letting the wind whip around me, being assaulted by the rain and just take another drink as I stare down the storm.
Load angry cracks of lightning with ominous bellowing thunder on its heels scream at my persistance, but I just stand there, drinking, watching, standing. Water streams down my face, and I have to squint my eyes to brace the storm, but I came here to do this, just this, and I will stand firm. Another drink, longer deepr, more of a burn as I swallow it down to ward off the chill of the rain and wind. Then just as quickly as it came up, the storm is gone again.
White and yellow streaks break through the clouds, making the sands the sparkling white they once were, though mottled with the grey still shadowed from the sun. One such beam moves across my face and the warmth is reassuring, comforting. I finish my beer, and take the cold smooth glass bottle back inside, setting it on the bar for Maria to pick up. My shoes make an odd squishing noise as I walk, wet footprints on the linoleum tiles. Then back across the street again, touched and purified by the storm.
Salvor-Hardon
A kiss is still a kiss
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ABSTRUSE said:
Kind of fits the mood of the moment...... I miss that bar, that beach, and those storms.
impressive
Literotica Guru
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impressive said:
This one grew into a whole story:
http://english.literotica.com/stories/showstory.php?id=205221
Salvor-Hardon
A kiss is still a kiss
- Joined
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ABSTRUSE said:
If I win the lotto tonight, you're all invited to that bar in Florida. Storms I can't do much about though.
thambok
Really Really Experienced
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North will take you through a snowy forest
I had to get out of this weather. The driving rain was quickly turning to ice, the invisible crystals stinging my skin like a frenzied swam of bees defending their nest. Struggling to see through the sheer fabric of the storm, I could barely make out the line of trees to the north.
I could feel my muscles shutting down, as I reached for my pack. It had been hours since I had the energy to shiver. I slid my right arm through the first strap of the pack, gritting my teeth, as the gathered ice slid along my raw skin. My body's desire to live was no longer as overwhelming as it had been. My mind was beginning to introduce new thoughts. I was already cold. I was already in pain. Every movement brought agony. Whereas my thoughts had drifted occasionally to just stopping and giving up, now htey were stuck there. Only my body's primal will to live kept me going now.
My shoulders screamed in protest as I contorted my left arm through the other strap, but I was jolted back into reality by the feel of the icy pack settling against my shirt. The sharp tendrils of cold raced through my back. As the overworked muscles clenched involuntarily, they brought me sharply back into focus. I had to get to that forest. My own survival was no longer a factor; I needed to finish.
The first step was the most painful. The numbness and swelling made it difficult to control my balance, but nothing had prepared me for the pain of setting that foot down. Needles shot through my foot, turning it to shards of glass. I could feel the trickle of blood teasing its way down my lip, from where I had bitten it. Forcing myself to move on, I waited for the impact of my other foot hitting the ground. As I reeled in pain at its arrival, I realized that if I knew the pain was coming, I could steel myself against it. With renewed resolve, I took a third step. The now familiar glass was there again, but I was able to process it. I would be able to make it.
Each step was like wading through molasses. I had to consciously encourage my legs that the end was near, if only they could make a few more steps. I squinted my eyes closed, focusing all of my faculties on encouraging my legs forward. I didn't even notice the rain stopping, until the first large flakes landed on my face. I opened one eye, and noticed the downy snow beneath the canopy of towering pines.
The steps hurt less, as the needles beneath the snow cushioned the impact. As I trudged further into the trees, I could feel the flakes gently caressing away the stings of the icy rain. The flakes fell sproadically, filtered by the thick canopy above. I raised my weary eyes, and there I saw the fallen tree ... and the dry area beneath it.
I had to get out of this weather. The driving rain was quickly turning to ice, the invisible crystals stinging my skin like a frenzied swam of bees defending their nest. Struggling to see through the sheer fabric of the storm, I could barely make out the line of trees to the north.
I could feel my muscles shutting down, as I reached for my pack. It had been hours since I had the energy to shiver. I slid my right arm through the first strap of the pack, gritting my teeth, as the gathered ice slid along my raw skin. My body's desire to live was no longer as overwhelming as it had been. My mind was beginning to introduce new thoughts. I was already cold. I was already in pain. Every movement brought agony. Whereas my thoughts had drifted occasionally to just stopping and giving up, now htey were stuck there. Only my body's primal will to live kept me going now.
My shoulders screamed in protest as I contorted my left arm through the other strap, but I was jolted back into reality by the feel of the icy pack settling against my shirt. The sharp tendrils of cold raced through my back. As the overworked muscles clenched involuntarily, they brought me sharply back into focus. I had to get to that forest. My own survival was no longer a factor; I needed to finish.
The first step was the most painful. The numbness and swelling made it difficult to control my balance, but nothing had prepared me for the pain of setting that foot down. Needles shot through my foot, turning it to shards of glass. I could feel the trickle of blood teasing its way down my lip, from where I had bitten it. Forcing myself to move on, I waited for the impact of my other foot hitting the ground. As I reeled in pain at its arrival, I realized that if I knew the pain was coming, I could steel myself against it. With renewed resolve, I took a third step. The now familiar glass was there again, but I was able to process it. I would be able to make it.
Each step was like wading through molasses. I had to consciously encourage my legs that the end was near, if only they could make a few more steps. I squinted my eyes closed, focusing all of my faculties on encouraging my legs forward. I didn't even notice the rain stopping, until the first large flakes landed on my face. I opened one eye, and noticed the downy snow beneath the canopy of towering pines.
The steps hurt less, as the needles beneath the snow cushioned the impact. As I trudged further into the trees, I could feel the flakes gently caressing away the stings of the icy rain. The flakes fell sproadically, filtered by the thick canopy above. I raised my weary eyes, and there I saw the fallen tree ... and the dry area beneath it.
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