Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica

Happy Birthday

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For years I laid there, unconscious, numb to my surroundings. I couldn’t feel, I didn’t want to feel. It is as I had been told for years: there just isn’t worth in people’s words, their actions. So I asked myself, why I should feel embarrassed about my state of being? Or as I prefer to call it, a state of non-being. There was just nothing for which to be a being. I might as well have been in a coma, no one would really ever notice. I was a thing to most. In fact, I can’t recall ever having been a being. I never stumbled upon an encounter that noticed more of me. It was the usual tiresome result. Me, me, or did I say “ME”. Oh, wait, it was just me. Yes, me, me as in him.

It was no different with him, I laid there, day dreaming, offering a place where he could subdue his whim. It became common practice for me to claim celibacy. If I wasn’t aware of what was happening to my body, then can I really be said to have knowledge of it? I was always unconscious, unaware as to the beginning and the end of whatever this may be called.

Sometimes I didn’t mind. I would use to opportunity to visit places far and away where my salary was unable to send me. I’d meet interesting personalities in each trip, one time I even rode horseback behind Genghis Khan’s battalion. It was wonderful up until the point where I was arrowed right through the back from friendly fire. When I returned from the struggle, I noticed I wasn’t really dead, but that he’d just finished his business. Why couldn’t he have lasted longer to allow me the taste of victory?


One day it all changed. I found it kind of surprising, it was intriguing. I left wondering why I hadn’t stumble upon this sooner. As usual for his birthday, he wanted to stroke his ego by punishing me in some sort of haphazard fantasy. I played along, I just didn’t understand the interest of him to have me dress like a school girl with pigtails. I’m really not Asian, nor do I find this fantasy, well, a fantasy.

He had me lay face down on the bed, hands back holding my legs by the ankles, legs slightly a distance from one another. I wore no panties, he seemed to be enticed by the idea of a short skirt without “under-covers”. He was already undressed, walking around as if he’d won the bingo, his member nearly about to scream it out: B…I…N…G…Ooo! He grabbed me from under my arms, and pulled my body up to where my face hung from over the edge of the bed.

Upon his grasp of my pigtails, it all changed. I began to percolate, not the type of annoying drip caused by a faulty gasket in an old faucet when trying to sleep at night, but that of a broken faucet, the type that firemen wished to have available when fighting a fire. That’s how it felt to me. I was aware of it all, face down in bed, elated from the events. He was behind me, his mouth tracing the contour left exposed by the skirt. Hands sculpting my figure, pushing them up and down, rocking my body as I danced with my pelvis. He slid his hands under my pelvis, and pulled me up a bit. The position caused cool air to rush to the area giving me the goosebumps just prior to feeling his tongue slide me from my tail bone, ever so slowly stopping at the center of attention, proving to me that there was more of him than I had come to know. There he stayed a while, pulling up on my hips while attempting to enter his tongue in such a small area.

I didn’t think I could have yearned him at all, but when his right hand slid from the side of my hip down to my secret, I wanted to faint. His hand found the most of my sensitive parts, and fervidly pleasured me. His hand was not enough of a receptacle to collect this broken faucet, the saturation overwhelmed both his hand and the bed-sheet under me. It wasn’t enough that I was experiencing sheer lust, he had to resume the journey started at the small of my back. He reached where woman differ from man, there, with my legs apart, face down, pelvis lifted in the air exposing all of me to him, he pushed through with his tongue, piercing me as if a knife upon a melting butter stick. He almost collected all of my percolation. All of it, I deny it not, hide it less, he did his most ardent impersonation of a bath towel. I looked back and saw his face, his lips, nose, chin all covered in me. What I couldn’t see, is how I looked to him. How, after such a event, she had been holding up. Whether she was visible distressed, smiling even, or asking for a continuation…. with a brusque shove down on my butt, he pushed me hips flat against the bed, closed my legs together and proceeded to sit on my thighs. Using his finger, God I wish to know which, he ran it from my tail bone, following the valley between mountains, until I felt something that I just knew wast an extremity of the hand, push in with little effort causing me to scream, to tell him that for his birthday, he could beat this girl.

I’m unsure as to what stopped it all, but when I opened my eyes, he had yet to pull my face towards him by my pigtails. He seemed sort of confused, looking at me body as if I had gone somewhere alone, leaving him to fend for himself. I smiled, said happy birthday, and walked away. He was aroused, but unsatisfied. That’s the last I heard of him.

Author: jibarican

https://crimsoncrossing.wordpress.com

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