Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica

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Mocha Cake

I am gullible, I believe in many things; yet, chance, coincidence, nor accidents are among them. So, after repeated failed attempts to contact you, I knew that I had to take the two hour drive down to see you. For the duration of the trip I wondered what could have happened this time that kept you from entertaining my calls.

It didn’t take ten minutes for the two hours to pass by… thinking of you has always accelerated time. I had nothing more to do than to follow the aroma of mocha from the entrance of your building, up the escalators, right into your flat on the fourth floor. Knock, Knock… The door opens to your presence. I can already notice from your hair that the past few days haven’t been much of a joy. It’s not that the hair is unsuitable for visitors, but that it was cut shorter than you had confided in me last we spoke. The displeasure was apparent, and to increase lament, your precious mobile laid on the floor in pieces. You tried to salvage it from a small water accident but, it’s condition on the floor spoke of failed attempts.

We never really do speak much when in person. This time was much the same. A gentle embrace while softly whispering, “I’ll help you forget. If just for a few minutes.” Quickly after, we walked over to the kitchen where the one solution to the ordinary week was brewing: baking – the one discipline that lured you from lament straight into sensory intoxication. I came precisely at the correct time. The kitchen at it’s usual mess when you bake… a lovely sight, actually.

I opened the fridge, grabbed a large bowl filled with raspberries, placed it on the countertop, then pulled a bar-stool chair and sat down to watch you bake. You are a flawless lover to the kitchen. Knowing how, why and when to raise its temperature, or simply cool it off. I don’t watch in jealousy, rather in bliss. I dream of your hands not grabbing the handles of a baking tray, but holding my hands and creating with me the delicacies made in that oven.

I wanted to be a piece of that mocha cake, stand back, unmoved, stoic, and watch as your hand came in my direction with the total intention of consuming me; to feel the caress of your hand on my body, causing turmoil in my soul; awaiting the final approach into your mouth where I would finally show you how your touch made me melt. I wanted to be intertwined with you tongue, being where I could taste your essence while mine blossomed in your mouth causing you to moan from the oral pleasure. Your saliva joining the moisture being drawn out of me. Oh, how sometimes I beg that I really was made from mocha and chocolate.

But know that I don’t disappear watching you handle the kitchen as you do, because times like now, I get to watch you walk towards me. I hold the key to the completion of this masterpiece: the raspberries. I wait my turn, more times than not, without any dialogue. There need be none, because what you say through the baking of that cake makes my heart skip beats, and my lips palpitate.

It takes a few moments for you to reach me. The ripples sent out by my soul cause shivers in my body. It’s the joy of your expected touch finally coming afloat. I know why you’ve come. And, with pleasure I will server you. The soft of your eyes speak to me as if asking to relinquish a guard where there hasn’t been any. We embrace, chest to chest. I pull my legs apart so that your body fits tightly to mine, where if clothing were minimal, the warmth of our bodies would couple.

Before walking away, we stare just long enough… I’m drawn deeply into you, as you are into me. The separation of our eyes feels like the snap of a rubber band. It takes long enough to gather my wits. I struggle to know where I am, but have no doubt about what I’m feeling. You’ll return into my arms, not too soon, nor late, just when it’s required. It’s time for reality to escape into being that mocha piece of cake.

The piece of cake that leaves traces of itself upon your lips; traces that fall prey to gravity, falling upon your lace apron, which I wonder if you do use… because you lust chocolate as I lust, you.
I’m an attentive man, and I stand back awaiting for your tongue to be unleashed upon your lips to collect the residue remaining on them. I sweat, not because the warmth of the oven is bearing on me. But, because I’ve too, experienced the intimacy of your tongue.

Mocha CakeYour hands work as if with a mind of their own, crafting and shaping layered, marble, and a straight mocha cake. Chocolate covers half the kitchen. You’ve never really been one to care much about remnants of an artist’s work. I can hear the countertop, plates, ladles, and frosting spatula converse of ecstasy, telling each other of the hands that’s handled them; speak of the touch from hands that decay sadness; hands filled with intention; filled with a purpose that emotion is not just a thing to feel or give, but to create as well.

I apologize to myself for the interruption, yet I must speak again. “The raspberries feel neglected. Just a smile, I believe they need it.” You’re in tune enough to walk over. This time quicker than last, much to my delight. You stand in front of me, seducing a man who wants to hold your heart.

I place a raspberry between my thumb and index finger. I watch, because I know what’s coming. The slight break of your lips, exposing your upper teach, slightly opening just so that I can reach with the raspberry and place it between your lips. I’m at a loss whether to lock sights with you, or watch the berry be taken inside of you. I swear I can hear it speak as you squeeze it, releasing its nectar. “I’m finally yours!”, it says, “I’m finally yours”.

This time you just don’t leave me behind, but lean over, reach just slight to the side of my mouth. That little corner of my lips, where they end, and the cheeks begin, and place a kiss entrenched in chocolate, mocha, raspberry and your essence. “I love you”, I whisper as she walks away with soft eyes.

Even the imperfection of your hair, and the scatter contents of your mobile make my whim beg to be touched.

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Alley Cat

I can hear the city wake up slowly. The sounds of the multitude soon to drown silence disrupt the smells that overtake the city at night when very few are awake. I’ve grown accustomed to them, not the people and noise of the city, but the concoction of aromas in the wee times of dawn. I’ve wandered up and down these streets as if a vagabond searching for redeemable bottles, learning the intricacies of the night and its players. I’m not someone in the city, I’ve become part of the at dawn

I walk with a purpose but not a destination. For the past few hours I’ve been fooled by wind tunnels rushing around parked cars, tall buildings and dark alleys. They carry a foreign scent intently masking its origin from me. But I don’t care. I’m far too versed at this game of hide and seek. Sooner or later I’ll win.

I had expected the wind to calm down much sooner allowing an easier path to victory, but at last the still of the wind reveals the destination of my purpose. I walk hastily towards the taller buildings with bedroom lights sporadically turning on. I walk with my head down and hands in my pocket concealing a defensive apparatus that’s kept me safe tonight. It’s my handy companion through the back alleys that few find appealing.

The aroma intensifies as I approach the darkest part of the city known for the plethora of night plays. Plays that many fantasize about but few carry out. This close to the scent it is easy to track where I will conclude my venture. My walk has gone from a near gallop to a leisure. I’m in no hurry to discover what awaits me. I’ve been here before believing it was time for me to take role on a play, but I’ve but been moved by the finding.

I expect the result to follow the ones before it: a bewildering aroma turned futile. Between car horns, and the few garbage trucks cleaning the city, my footsteps cut through the silence of the night. The acute paddling of my footsteps echoes between the tall buildings. I am very close to the source of curiosity. I ignore the rustling coming from one of the alleys at the west side of the street, there are more important thoughts to appease.

There it is! I look to my left, my right, behind and in front of me. Between the two buildings, hiding amidst the stench left behind by the drunken few who’ve disgorged a good night in the city, along with urine, and broken bottles of emotional liquid suppressant, that musk blares at me. It’s the scent of man. I don’t know who. But, if the smell of cigar soaked in aged whiskey reveals anything to me, he can’t be another ignorant shrivel of man laying on his own regurgitation waiting for waste management employees to waken him in the morning.

city at dawnCigarette lights, I shake the match’s light off, and toss it in a puddle of water at the entrance of the Alley. I hold the cigarette, look ahead through the darkness and proceed. It’s dark in there, only a single-dim-light at the end of the corridor keeps total obscurity from taking over. A mob of cats is heard shredding a poor rodent that wasn’t too swift to out run them. There are a few garbage cans; some are house sized cans, while others are the type that needs to be lifted with forklifts. I haven’t any fear, I firmly grasp my trusty protector and advance towards the aroma. My heart hesitates to pulsate trying to keep all of my focus in sync with my safety.

I can’t see the person but, the smell of the cigar and aged whiskey, along with that seducing musk that’s brought me here is at arms length. I don’t know if he can see me, but if he’s half alive, the piercing sound of my shoes approaching him should have alerted of my presence. The continuous sound of a striking objects is distinct; someone is trying to ignite a friction match. I lowly inform the person to try a new match. The strong flame and smell of sulfur caused by the combustion make me look away.
There isn’t a need to place that match close to my face. I’m as appealing in the dark as I am in daytime.

The voice of man asks of me to follow him closer to the end of the alley where the lighting is appropriate for night encounters. What have I to lose! I pull my faithful companion out to greet the night, take a deep hit on the cigarette and follow the splash of his footsteps. By the time the spotlight at the end of the alley shapes more of his figure, my conviction has shed all doubt and readies for a play. Don’t walk any farther mister, I notify him.

We engage in small chitchat for sometime. By now a few more dormitory lights from the adjacent buildings have turned on. And, the sun is no less than a hour away from illuminating the autumn sky for the first time. He pulls out a flask out of his jacket, discards the cigar, and takes a solid drink. He hands it to me, but I decline. Of vice I only have cigarettes and the insomnia that keeps me roaming the nights.

It’s not difficult to know that I’m not one for games when it comes to play. I take the flask from his grasp, and toss it on the floor. Grabbing his hair I push him against the wall. He doesn’t have to tell me he’s not from around. His scent as well as his mannerism and speech reveal he’s as foreign to the city as his aroma is to the stench of beer spread throughout this alley. Still grasping his hair, I use my free hand to entice his right hand to lift my dress and feel the heat trapped behind my panties. He’s shy, but I’m not. So I force his hand to caress me. I pull my legs apart to clear an entrance for his hand. He plays, teases me by circling about the wet of me. I pull out his shy hand and slide my finger between my legs and right into me. Oh, I’m as warm as I am wet. Once, twice, trice, I slide in and out, up and out into my mouth, into his mouth.

The aged whiskey, the cigar, the aroma that brought me here, it appears they were all but a front to the shy man inside. He’s heart beats scared. It tells me that he fears that I’ll take his innocence without respect or care. I tell you, I do not… care. One by one each button holding my dress together from the very top to the bottom is released. Here is my body. I stand exposed to all the filth in the alley. I’m going to use whatever moral degradation resides in the alleys of this city and use them as a tool of pleasure.

With the stench in the alley he can’t possibly pickup the desire dripping from inside of me. My finger is still in his mouth. I know he likes the taste of my essence by the way his tongue is massaging my finger. I pull him down by the mouth right down to this knees. Had I been a man I would have shoved me deep inside his mouth looking to restrict his breathing with each thrust of my hips. I manage to place my left leg over his right shoulder, thrust my pelvis forward and use my hands to push his head forward to just where I want his mouth to land. Whether breathing easily, or with difficulty it’s not a care. Of interest is what I want to get from this play.

Every so often I loosen the grip of my hands against his head allowing him to freely moves his head, allowing his tongue and lips the ability to please me as he desires. I enjoy feeling that supple and moist body part separating my lips, stroking around drawing gratification from me. I like the times he uses his tongue to push my soft muscles aside, reaching inside in a prelude of the hard girth that awaits me. Enough of the sensuality, I shove his head against me again, but instead of waiting for his lips to move about, I tell him where to go, and how to go about it. My hips shift around, grinding on his mouth. He’s unshaven. I can feel the stubs of his mustache and beard irritating my skin. He’s trying to punish my audacity, but I like the feel of it all. Makes me feels decadent.

I didn’t walk the night to climax in a dark alley while shoving lips against my lips. I push him away, and again rub myself just to get a taste of how badly I want him to finish me off. I unbuckle his belt, the pants, slide his zipper down, and slowly lower his slacks down to the ankles, and pull the right leg right out of them. I bite my lower lip, run my tongue through the outline of my entire mouth, reach towards him and grasp him right under the entire package. I hold the sack on my hands, but not just it. I reach far behind with my index finger. He seems unwelcoming, but I tell him that in the alley, the ruling is of the feline. That, fortunately, is me. He clenches his posterior muscles, but all that’s going to happen right this second is a feel his discomfort.

I massage him slightly then proceed to engulf him with my mouth. In the deem light not much can be seen. I wish I could see the reaction in his face. My lips wrap tightly around him, my mouth soaks him, my teeth purposely scratching the tip. I hope it scratches him because a little discomfort is always necessary. Not only am I sucking him, I’m trying to inhale him. I wish him to feel the warmth of all of my mouth, just as I want him to feel the comfort of my throat. I gag, but just a little. I push his pelvis forward while still holding him and reaching between his legs far to the back. I’ve made him forget about where my index finger has rested for the past few swallows.

Now I’m pushing in, weakening him, taking him close but no so close. I love the feel of the body going all the way in and coming right back out continuously retrieving saliva out from my mouth into my lips. The veins… how easily it is to feel the shape of his every being when I push in meticulously; ever so meticulously that despite the clench of his buttocks, my index finger has entered where I’m positive I wasn’t asked to reach. The reaction of his knees tell me that not only am I correct of where I’m going, but that he didn’t think pleasure laid in the action. As deep as he reaches inside my mouth, is as pleasurable as I reach in him. The feel of my mouth, my tongue sliding out when thrusts of his deep into my mouth make him want to go in as far as he can in search of climax. I bet he likes the feel of my nose pressed against his lower abdomen when he’s fully in; how I gently nudge my head side to side clearing space for him to disappear in me. He’s liked it, both the slight abuse of my throat, as he has the feeling of my index finger expanding his vocabulary of debauchery.

This is not his night to use me. I’m here as the protagonist of this play. Not even as a supporting role, will he get a say in what’s to happen. I shove him by the hips off of me and against the wall. He trips on the flask and it goes flying making a thundering clash when it bounces against the wall and trashes about the floor. It broke open coupling the aroma of its contents to the stench of the dark alley. The few stray cats left behind after their meal hiss and yow before scurrying away. I know what I want and how am going to get it. I think to myself that I must hurry because too many windows now display bright lights. The dark is not even dark anymore, but a gray hue that will soon discern our identities.

I walk towards him against the brick wall, and pull him off it. I face the brick wall and rest my face on it with my left cheek. I look to the side while using my hands as balance against the wall. I’ll need the hands to keep my face from hitting the wall with any strength. I then take a step back creating space between the wall and my pelvis; I ensure to raise my butt, and spread my legs. I tell him to draw close and choose a pleasure.

He comes close and for the first time during the act he speaks. You might have used your finger, but I get to use something more adequate. I can tell you that I expected and wanted it. I spread my legs farther apart, and curved my back as much as I could preparing to be pleased. It was surprising that he didn’t go straight for it, instead he easily slide inside of me proving that nature creates the best of lubricants. He had fooled me, the girth inside of me felt bigger and harder than that I found smacking the back of my throat. Although I tried to cushion the impact on my face against the wall it didn’t help much, he was holding my face steady against it, marking the bricks on my face, scratching my face with signs of desire. I lust for both, the scratches telling me he was real, and the throbbing pushing in and out of me. This part of the scene is comparable to that of my lips – the constant slap of his pelvis against my ass and the withdraw of him from inside of me retrieved saturation that dripped throughout my vulva, just as it did down my thighs. There is enjoyment in knowing that the morning is almost here, that the neighbors can be watching as I take a man without begging for mercy. He works at different whims. He goes fast and hard, slow and steady, short and quick thrusts with just the head coming in and out, then pushing it all in colliding against my butt causing my face to shift around against the bricks. I’m going to need more make up in the morning.

He withdrew, then slid his thumb where he had just been while using his index finger to massage me; to press against me soaking his hand. His thumb but amused me after just being cater to with more mass than it could present. I didn’t want to miss much, so I reached behind with my right hand to feel that girth and pull it towards where I wanted it. He caressed me before he pushed it in. The caress was certainly attempts to lubricate the area before making me feel the bliss remaining within him.

Hold steady, he told me while grabbing my waist with both his hands. He assumed that I was going to change my mind and enter an unwelcoming position. After sweetly caressing me with his fingers, and briefly his tongue, he stood up and showed me the feel of the tip slowly pushing in. I didn’t move, I want to feel how I would wrap around the head. Once I did, I forced back with all my might and took him in. He took a step backwards unprepared for my approach. He had to stand strong and feel shoves of my buttocks back into him. He stood in a defensive position cushioning each strike, using his hands to prevent my full exit when moving forward looking for leverage.

Off all the sounds of the morning, only ours was indiscreet. It moaned, and cursed about wanting to climax in that filthy alley. I wanted to leave my morale there; leave it to whatever audience was present to judge how well I performed; leave it to puritans to forsake my being. The scene spoke for itself – a stranger to the city just had part of the city.

I pushed back constantly, asking him if I felt as tight as he had expected; asking if he liked that he was hurting me; how the hard girth and length made me not want to stop this play, even if I came. But this wasn’t for him. I never intended to fishing. I pulled forward loosening from the grip of my hips. I turned around to look at him. He was sweaty, panting, fully engorged. He looked delightful enough to conclude the scene. city at dawnBut I couldn’t! The sun was out, the night cats were sleeping, the flask was broken void of aged whiskey, and I wanted to stay saturated, filled with desire, and walk out to welcome the multitude with a stench of drunken sex, even if a drop of liquid emotional suppressant I hadn’t…

My back leaning against the wall, I ponder about it all.

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Miso Soup

Perhaps not most times, but this time belongs to some of those when I found the absence of a kitchen-island a benefit. The space was perfect for one. It actually felt sort of incomplete not having one there, but, I’m not complaining. In fact, today I rejoice because there was no island in that sea.

I had walked into the flat later than usual. The view from the entrance of the flat was the kitchen; specifically, the kitchen sink. But that night I didn’t see a kitchen sink, I saw your body standing half covered, back facing towards the door, heard water running. Your back was covered with my black-button-down-shirt, at least most of it – the shirt hung down on your left shoulder exposing your skin.

Your hips swiveled every so slightly to whatever music was escaping the headphones covering your ears. Whatever music it played, it must have been wonderful because my reaction was immediate. I knew what I wanted to do and how long it would take me.

Miso SoupAs I grew closer to the kitchen, it was apparent that you were cleaning dishes in which to cook and serve your store-packaged miso soup. It wasn’t just packaged miso, you made it your own by adding scallions. Terribly you, enhancing those things lacking character. There you stood, water running through the dish, your hands, lower body swaying to stimulating music, the black button-down intimating delights through the parts unable to cover.

There was no reaction to the touch of my hand upon your exposed shoulder. It was no secret that anyone walking through that door had to be me, there was really no reason to be alarmed. The first reaction came upon placing my lips on that very exposed shoulder. A lean of the head to the right alerted that you enjoyed my presence, even when late without notification. I spent little time indulging your shoulder; the fact was that I hadn’t a care to…

My left hand quickly revealed to the room that hidden behind the black shirt was no other garment. I lifted the shirt, peeked over and smiled at the sight. There was no care in the world in you, no care about what I might have desired. The hips continued to sway slow, fast, slow as if following some sort of syncopated rhythm. It was delight to my whim… made me feel as if a kid during the first field day at grade school: eager to participate.

I took a knee to bring my lips just to the proper height. Pulled the shirt up and slid my head under it hiding my actions from the entire room. My hands ran from down your ankles, slowly up on the side all the way to your hips, and back to meet at the small of the back, where I proceeded to press against each cheek flat with my hands while the thumbs slightly pushed them apart from one another. I continued on that south bound journey until I met her.

I didn’t act immediately, I stood in her presence while waiting for you to stop washing dishes; you didn’t. Noticing that you hadn’t intentions of stopping, my hands retraced their journey back to the small of the back, where I pressed firmly with my lips and began to search for pleasure. I bit each cheek, sometimes soft, other times hard. I nourished on each one and all in between as if starved for a meal. I had all the utensils necessary to consume you. And by your pushes against my face, I knew you qualified as a meal.

A small pull at your waist, a slide of your feet to the sides… there! Time to wander about in a world of delight. But all it took was knowing that you were already saturated, you had readily felt my intentions and planed little resistance welcoming me. Without time to waste, I got on my feet, wrapped you in an embrace, took a hold of the shirt at the buttons seam, and forcefully tore it. You stood exposed to the escape of water in the sink. There was nothing dirty inside the sink by this point, yet the water remained fully opened.

Zipper flies open. There isn’t a need to remove the pants. All I want to do is feel medieval. Out of the zipper opening I came out, already seduced. I pulled the back of the black shirt dangling on the back of your body up to mid way of your back so that a clear path for my vision was created. My hips moved closer, I firmly grasped myself and slid it up and down again, feeling the warmth and saturation awaiting me. I shoved in… quickly consumed by you. I knew you wanted it from your lack of resistance… form the shift of your hips about trying to create a better angle in which to be handled.

Thrusts became increasingly violent, as did my need to consume you. I wanted more of a view of us engaged in full action. Thoughts of animalistic responses overtook me. I pressed down on your head causing your upper body to go parallel to the floor, your head ending right under the running water of the faucet. Water splashed against the back of your head, spreading distress throughout the counter-top and floor.

My pelvis collided against your backside while water struck the back of your head. Your soaked-long-hair giving to gravity crafted paths of joy for the rushing water. I could hear you suffocating in pleasure, and it made want to see your face. A chunk of hair grasped in my hands succumbed to my whim by bringing you up straight. Wet strands went flying in all directions… smacking me on the face. Other stayed attached to your face, to your open mouth while droplets ran the length of your face. By now water had reached your chest, rushing down the belly, the navel, almost meeting the moisture of our actions.

There is joy in the sound of crashing bodies; joy in the sound of saturation as I travel inside and out; joy in knowing that the miso soup was never meant to be had. I had you that day, removed all hunger from miso soup from you.

The package laid there, drenched in distress droplets, waiting to be consumed, just not today.