Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica


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While She Sleeps

Twilight is an invigorating period of the day for me. For the past two decades it has proven antidote to the anticipation of her sight. She’s long in repose upon my late arrival. Yet never once I’ve missed the tokens of her affection left about disclosing she’s missed a kissed goodnight. I haste through musts and what-nots as not to squander precious new memories. See, for the past two decades I’ve engaged in nightly explorations of her sleeping body, admiring the very same lines, curves and shapes as if the very first time… enjoying the obstacles and chances presented by moonlight creeping through the window. She’s become an alluring stranger I must revere while asleep. I cannot and will not stop looking at her. I have, too, in as many nights as I’ve spent staring at her, wondered if she would scare off knowing I struggle to move my away from her? Would she sneak away during daylight were she to learn about my nightly debauchery?

A smile, there is no time to distract… my sight follows her flanks down to the pelvis where her obliques turn inwards into the lines that meet her privacy. She sleeps in the nude: a pledge she made long ago to always be there for me if so I wished to feel her embrace.

Some nights she mumbles requests to shut the curtains to prevent direct moonlight from interrupting her sleep, which I refuse with fear that the darkness will steal memories meant for me. She too, talks in her sleep. Something to cherish because of the reaction of her skin contracting around the trajectory of my finger from her navel to her inner thighs. A strategy that soundly hushes her back to sleep.

Where I a lewd man, more than just crafting memories through the darkness she’d feel. Perhaps a night or two, admittedly so, she’s felt the wicked of my actions when I’ve dared to do more than just memorize the details of her physique.

She wasn’t made like the rest of everyone else. No, sir no. Dare it be said that she must have been crafted by my very self. She is to me what colour is to flowers, to roses, azaleas, gardenias, lilies: all giving sight a reason to see.

Some nights, a double of Gorge T Staggs accompanies me for an hour or so until I savor every last drop of of whiskey while standing at the frame of the door enjoying her silhouette. Most nights, the nights that have come to consume all reason, she sleeps on her side, back facing the door, right leg bent over and across her left leg. Curves from her shoulders down to her waist rise again towards her hip… ah, but I’m no musician that obstructs emotions with aggressive overindulgence. She, she’s to be consumed with the dexterity of time and patience. Someone who can understand the contours of her body strumming together endless riffs and melodies of lust.

She lures me into journeys that shape into lines, mounds, and valley of the sun with each pulse within her chest. I’m as eager to awaken her as I am to watch her peacefully asleep. So I watch her; I watch her sleep night and again, more times than not until the sun comes up. I don’t miss a breath, yet during weakened moments I purposely awaken her purely to watch new shapes emerge from her body.

“Please wake up… share a drink,” I request.

It’s past midnight. Go to sleep. Please honey, I have an early morning,” is her response.

Quickly falling back asleep.

Is it selfish to wake her? To wake her just to watch the slow ascent of my friend Staggs towards her lips? To watch the three finger tumbler surrender upon her touch? Her head tilt and the liquid poor gently into her mouth?

At night sounds grow louder than any other time. I hear her lips grasp the glass, the rush of liquid spill into her mouth, move about her tongue, to quickly descent into her stomach after which she’ll press gently against my chest, steals a kiss, turns and returns between the sheets.

So I watch while she sleeps. Every night I watch her sleep, listening to air escaping her lungs as well as hustling in… wondering if I’m in her dreams.


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For These Times

I’m inherently aggressive. I excuse it as living for these times.

There is no better indication of my exuberant masculinity than my dark ages appearance: pepper beard, un-manicured chest hair, a rough foreign accent and protruding veins running down from my shoulders to my hands. Even from the distance it’s apparent that a no frills attitude, one that takes without remorse whether impacting someone or not, resides inside. I spit on faculties or any variation thereof.

Where should there have been a reason to think otherwise… it would be more of the same indulgences when she agreed to bring me back to her flat.

During the drive I told her all about my plans; that she had no choice like it or not.

She remained silent as if doubtful yet, made no indication to want anything else. Upon sliding the front-door key into the hole and, opening the door to a minimum; I pressed firmly against her. With my right hand pulling her pelvic bone tightly against my crotch.

“Feel that?”

There wasn’t a response; so I slid my hand down her jeans, reaching over with my left and tugging broken the binding button preventing my freedom to touch her.

“Off. take’em off!”

Anticipating that she’d delay as if her opinion was warranted, I drove her towards the opposite side of her flat where tapered glass floor-to-ceiling-height windows, covered the entirety of the wall. The tapered glass shook from our collision against it.

A faint sigh erupted from her slightly opened mouth.

“Take them off,” I commanded.

Standing with her jeans down to her ankles, facing out, fully exposed to the outside world; I took grasp of her mid-back in length hair, and quickly maneuvered her to a mouthful of me.

But, those weren’t my intentions. I wanted to give her what I imagined such a proper lady had never had. So, I shoved her face first against the cool glass once again.

Another sigh.

Face against the glass, pulling her pelvis away just enough to arch her back and raise her perky behind; I freed one of her legs from the jeans, then ran one of my digits through her, abruptly splitting just where I wanted.

The proximity to her persona revealed that she was enjoying it. Her scent reached deep inside me, inducing a relentless throbbing.

“Hands behind your back. Grab your elbows. Keep your face against the wall, and take a small step back. Spread just so.”

So there she stood.

Face against the cool tapered glass.

Pelvis away from the glass.

Legs slightly spread bringing into sight the entirety of her glutes, alluringly sculpting out from her lower back, down, finally meeting at her thighs; overtly exposing the saturation that notified me she’d done this before.

I drove a deliberate spank to her left buttocks, enticing further moisture to seep foretelling her desires.

This is the point in my life where I realized I had lost the dark of the ages, the medieval behavior that had stopped excusing how I lived in these times.

I ran my nose from her inner thigh, tracking upwards to her buttocks farther searching her lower back; again returning towards the separation between her thighs. At times with my eyes fully closed, concentrating solely on the smell; others with open mouth as if an explorer in virgin lands.

After a deep breath my tongue slide out to touch her. The shiver caused by her warm moisture touching my tongue nearly froze my actions. I thought of nothing, saw nothing, felt and smelled her.

Her hair stood stoically as she quietly moaned as if knowing she had won.

A gentle bite, a tender spank, half giggling, half moaning, she better adjusted her person to my touch. I concentrated on the sensation of her moisture transferring to my tongue, the resistance of her figure reacting to the pressure against it, her quiet lust announcing the experience.

Sitting here today writing about it reminds me of her scent once against my mouth, against my nose, on my hands.

Perhaps I gain some solace. A consolation in believing that by jotting it down, that part of her vividly residing in my mind, will remain behind pressed firmly between the white of the paper and the black of my pen.