Erotica Readers & Writers Association
Home | Erotic Books | Authors Resources | Inside The Erotic Mind | Erotica Gallery
Adult Movies | Sex Toys | Erotic Music | Email Discussion List | Links

Story Gallery | Treasure Chest

Erotic Fiction
Queer Fiction
Kinky Erotica
The Softer Side

By Alan
Other News

By Alice Gray
Slick 50
The Fourth Veda
Stolen Hour

By Amanda Earl
Daddy Complex
The Graffiti Artist
Sex With An Old Woman
The Vampire Responds
The Afternoon Circle Jerk Society
Beating the Gothic Out of Her
Real Irish
Mercy and the Man. . .
The Revenant
The Vessel

By Ann Regentin
What Never Dies

By Arthur Chappell
Tedia, Goddess of Boredom
The Too Beautiful Boy

By Big Ed Magusson
The Fix
Like a Brother
Old Dogs

By Brady Sutton
Girls for Leash
The Peculiar Case of...

By C. Sanchez-Garcia
An Early Winter Train
The Doll
The Lady and The Unicorn
Riding the Dog
You Belong to Me
Soul Naked
The Girl With Kisses...

By Cervo
An Evening At...
Readiness Is All
Chinchilla Lace
Fridays At The Benoit
Cruising On A Sea...
Bitsy Takes a Test
Touring Persephone
Are You Kidding?
Quigley’s Harvest
Mr. Merridawn's Hum
Angels’ Spawn

By Cherry Black
Mrs. Priestly
Face Down
Just A Simple Black Dress

By Chris Bridges
The Whitechapel...
Passing Notes

By Daddy X
Nikki Didn't Like It
A Woman in My Position
Never For Punishment
Carnival Ride

By Dominic Santi
Kiss of Peace

By G. E. Russell
Judgement Day
First Love, Last Romance
Snow White
This Desolate Eden
The Glass Cage
You Like It Like That...

By Helen E. H. Madden
When The Angels Fall
Husbands and Wives
The Fifth Horseman
The Monster Beneath...
Neighbor of the Beast
Over the Rainbow
Going Viral
Virtual Love

By Helena Settimana
Highway 69
The Space Between

By Huck Pilgrim
Goodbye Roger
He Sends His Regrets
A Small Favor

By J.T. Benjamin
The Question
Thornburg Sex Survey
Alternating Weekend
Secret Lives and Lusts
What are Friends For
Olivia's Ulterior Motive
Advice From Miss Millicent
The Baby Doll
The Journals of Chastity
Use Me
Zachary's Perfect Date

By Jill
Sheila Discusses ...
It's About Sex
A House On Fire?
Maureen and Sheila...

By john e
I Wish My Dick...
johnny's jackoff journal
Saturday Morning
Ava's Honey

By Julius
In Praise of Pussy
Tight, Tighter, Tightest
You Rang Madam?
The Newcomer

By Juniper Maclay
Lunch Break
The Scientist
Public Transportation

By Keziah Hill
Laying Down the Law
Strawberry Flavoured Joy
The Second Coming
Dutch Masters

By L.A. Smith
Missionary Position
Both Hands

By Lara Nickles

By Lilie Berlin
Naughty Little Girl
Color Less Ordinary

By Mike Kimera
Soft Option
At the Adult Bookstore
Playing With Barney
Deserving Ruth
Till Death Do Us Part
Happy Anniversary
Mating Calls
It May Not be Art...
Living With It...
The Last Taboo
Fucking Ugly
Paying For It
Sex with Owen
Ask Alice
The Sisters
Bar Snack

By Nan Andrews
At Rest
Spirit Guides

By Nick Nicholson
The Room
Grigore & Tatiana
Land of Smiles
The Uniform

By Nikki Isaak
A Rathskeller Jar
The Dread That Stained Kalos

By Oxartes
Maybe You Can Go...
I Am Not A Scorpion
Babylon Nights
Eat Your Veggies
What Would Aristippus Think
The Vow Part I
Fiend in Need Part II
Androids Behaving Badly
Innocent Flower
Eclipse Sex

By Raziel Moore
Invisible Lines (Novella)

By Remittance Girl
The Central Registry
The River Mother
Things Bettter Left Unsaid
The Baptism
The Other Side
I Waited for You...
Pleasure's Apprentice
Fixed in Amber

by William S. Dean © 2007

Wilmer was torn.

He loved him some good puss—and if the pussy he gravitated toward ended up beating his heart to death, splintering his soul, sucking the sanity out of his mind?

It wasn't his fault.

But the price tags kept gnawing him slowly like trained rats in a dungeon.

A glance at the cheap plastic traveler's clock told him he'd been staring at the patch of window light for half an hour. It was the blinds that did it.

Slanted shafts of shadow, like prison bars. He knew those shadows like ten months of friendship. Like ten long damp months of stoic enemies watching his every twelve by twelve move. From the metal bunk to the cell door, from the cell door to the wall, from one wall to another. Wilmer knew what a cage felt like to a trapped beast and why—so seemingly serene—an animal might sit motionless and watch the light and shadow. And wait.

It was deep thought, more like a dream. Through a morass of self, Wilmer dissected and probed for each sensory input that coursed between his flesh and hers. It should be more foggy, he reasoned. Empty hours, weeks, months separated what had been. Yet, as he sat on the lumpy edge of a well-used bed, he could taste the sweet liquid that coated the swollen pinkness of her cunt. It should taste more bitter now. It should make his tongue recoil, not urge it into a ballet of licks, a pirouette over her clit, a long, sweeping airy glide over the arch of glistening skin. The present, the recent past should distort—at least monstrify—the low groan from her mouth as it replayed again in his mind. Her taste should be poison, was poison. And still, he hungered for the Judas kiss of her soft lips upon his cock head, her thighs squeezing together as she climaxed. Was starved for the satisfaction of her which madness of desire built within him.

The bold murder she had committed was of him. He nodded at the thought with a chuckle. It was all rush from beginning to his arrest. And what a fool he had been, a perfecting one. Oh, crime was never unknown to him, he admitted. Everyone has stolen a little something, sometime. It was the thrill of the getaway that made the blood rush through the body and brain.

The intense excitement of forging beyond the tepid taboo of righteousness and order. A tiny inconspicuous theft here, a bit of rule breaking there, the con jobs of a child, the lies and protestations of innocence afterward.

To whom was any of that a stranger? The hypocrites only lied with less sincerity, more oiliness.

She spread her lie—the huge one—that love was all they could need.

But man and woman have never been merely Adam and Eve, living in idyllic pretense. Wilmer sensed it was amusing and chuckled again. The need for each other was a charming gloss, covering the baser ones: food, shelter, protection, luxury. Good times. And if she could whore herself for the occasional payment of rent, the odd flirtation of scandal with a rented motel room in another city? What else could he do but steal. For her. For them. What else?

She had a girlish coldness, harboring all her passion for the acts themselves. Fucking, sucking his cock, getting her cunt eaten until she came so hard, sometimes—once at least, or twice—flooding out the stickiness when he ravaged her G-spot. In the bedroom, perched on a child's wooden stool; in the public Jacuzzi; on a rotting mattress in a friend's outback shed with the sunlight spilling between the cracks in the slats...they fucked out in the world, raw, careless. Beautiful. And fulfilling.

Wilmer realized he could condense every hour spent with her into a micro-second flash that sped like electric current through him. With a start, he looked down at his clenched hands, fingernails digging into palms, cutting in, making him bleed. Wilmer was torn.

Ten months away from her and he could not get cold. His stillness frightened him. It was the immobile pause before a sniper fires on target.

The quiet monotonous statue-like pose just before the suicide slices down through his wrists. Which was Wilmer? Suicide or killer? Avenger or helpless victim? Wilmer decided it didn't matter. Would only matter when he saw her again. Even if it was death.

Insanity provokes bizarre images in the mind. A unicorn pranced, an indecipherable scroll of her "Dear John" letter wrapped around its horn.

Dear Wilmer. Blah and blah. "Try to understand..." " to live."

All the etceteras of poorly written love tales, echoed out in her handwriting. Delivered to prison, read by censors, stamped, initialed, orderly as a certificate. Thus and so. Now you may cremate the earthly remains of...

But Wilmer—even in the stagnant, sweat-stenched, violent, chaos of prison—was immortal. The first weeks he had thrown all pride down the seatless shitter in the cell's corner. Cock in hand, he lay, bathed in fantasy and memory. Being with her, yet racked with the vacant place beside himself, he jerked off, painfully. Then came a month or more of wretched disgust at his own genitals, at his sappy heart, at his trenchant memory. At last, it was all replaced with that brutish, brooding animal stillness. Staring for hours at the dim patch of light through a barred window. And now. Now, the animal was freed.

When a woman has written her farewell and goodbye, she may not yet be convinced all is done. History, life, itself, is filled with episodes of love regained after such goodbyes. Hope is a madness, too. It can rage like impossible wrath. Tear apart the flimsy constructs of distance, shatter down the fortresses of rejection. Wilmer coached himself with such ideas and stood in the small hotel room, walked across the tattered, stained carpet, opened the door to sunlight and stepped out. Toward her.

He was blind on the way. Nothing registered. Not traffic lights, not miles of homes. He felt he was running fast, unseeing. And yet. Every place he passed at which they had fucked leaped on his shoulders. He was a human snowball, gathering a weight of mnemonic torments, each bowing him deeper until when he stood at her doorway, he was hunched as if carrying his own avalanche-debris of emotional roiling.

Her eyes didn't widen in recognition. She didn't smile. Didn't frown.

Didn't slam the door in his face. She opened her lips slightly. Breathed out. Inhaled.

"I was so torn," she said.

Wilmer became The Wicked Witch. A Kansas farmhouse crushed him to the ground. A bucket of water splashed and he melted as he watched himself.

She was torn? He wanted his face to become ugly, to curse her with eternal pain. He also wanted to embrace her, fall to his knees and worship the goddess of his destruction. He wanted to fuck her.

Instead, clumsy, awkward as a suddenly animated stick, he stumbled over the threshold, felt her close the door behind him. Her fingertips touched his face, down to the bone.

"Baby," she whispered.

"Become one," he whispered back.

Her lips brushed over his. Hers felt soft, yielding, new. His were pulpy, scabrous, wounded, bloodless. Their lips opened over each other and she breathed into his throat. Without more words, her hand slid down his chest, groped at his steady hardness, fisted around his cock.

"Mmmm," she said into his ear. "Is this for me?"

It was the old craziness on him again. She unzipped his jeans, gently pulled his shaft out, went down on her knees, and rolled her wet lips on him.

Wilmer thought he would pass out. Out of his body. Out of this world. Out of consciousness of himself.

A quirk in the mind zipped past. "The mantis eats her mate," he remembered reading once. Her teeth nipped gently on the head of his cock and raked along the shaft as she swallowed him in. She sucked greedily, slid back up along him, dragging her tongue, popped the head out from between her lips with a loud smack.

"I need this inside me," she said, looking up at him. She took off her glasses and lofted them away. "Now. It's been so long."

"It should..." Wilmer thought briefly, "It should be the hiss of a cobra I'm hearing." Like in the old days, they tumbled to the floor in kisses and fumbles. He licked down the pale expanse of her neck, trailed his lips over her shoulder—pulling her blouse off—and down to the ecstasy of tasting her skin, her breast, cupping her rigid nipple between his lips, sucking.

Her own hands were busy at her jeans, unfastening, unzipping, stripping them down. One ankle still coiled in the tangle of denim, she curled the other leg behind his hips. He sank into her. She winced at first, then—growing wetter—took him deeply.

"Oh, shit!" she sighed, cheek against his face. "Move me."

It was her magic words. Wilmer never had been sure what she'd meant by them, but it was her code. "Fuck me hard, plunge into and take my heart, sweep up my soul to somewhere else, fuck me harder, make me come." He supposed it meant all of this and more. It was what he was meant to think she meant. Maybe, it was just a gibberish phrase, but what did it matter?

Ten months away from her. Ten months of longing, wanting, needing those kisses, touches, needing to be inside her, like this. It washed over him in moments. What did anything matter to Wilmer now? She flipped over and straddled him, riding his cock as if she wanted to use it all up. Hips rocking wildly, cunt grinding over the scratchy hair of his balls, rising up and shoving herself down with a twisting of hips, breasts swaying, taunting, as his hands reached up to cup and squeeze them.

She cried out sharply and kept riding, cried out again, once more, then sank down along his body. Wilmer felt her lips pecking over his face. She licked the tip of his nose.

"So good," she murmured. "I wanted you to come back. I knew you would."

Wilmer smiled up at her. "I love..."

She put her hand over his mouth and shook her head. She looked away, toward the door. "He'll be back soon."

Wilmer's eyes unfocused. Hot warm tears glazed the corners of his eyelids.

"But it's so good," she said, nuzzling his cheek, licking at the wet salty droplets.

Wilmer tried to speak. Words were disjoined. "Prison." "Stole for you."

"Ruined." " life."

"I know."


"You better go now, baby." She leaned back slightly, looked into his eyes, brushed her lips over his.

He rushed away like a man running backwards, seeing the goal recede into that point where infinity becomes a speck, untouchable, unreached.

Later, he sat on the edge of the bed, in the dingy motel room, watching the shadows and light from the window and—at last—remembering that he hadn't even come inside her. Wilmer laughed a long, hurting time. A lifetime, in fact.

© 2007 William S. Dean. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Who is William S. Dean? Read his bio on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website.

Authors live for feedback!
If you enjoyed this story, please send comments to
William S. Dean


  E-mail this page

Search ERWA Website:

Copyright 1996 and on, Erotica Readers Association, Inc.
All Rights Reserved World Wide. Reproduction in whole or in part in any form or
medium without express written permission is prohibited.

By Riccardo Berra
Ligne Claire
The Girl with Two Lovers

By Richard V Raiment 
Ghosts of Christmas Past
Recalled to Life

By Robert Buckley
Absentee Ballots
Making Her Late For...
Brotherhood Of The ...
Convenience Store
Head Games
Practicing Lovecraft
Coins For The Ferryman
Seeing Is Believing
The Mission
A Weekend in Queens..
The Exchange
Close to Hand
Excess Of Light
They Need Me
Bench Mates
Pre Need
Cthulhu's Toad
The Dog Park
Smells Like Money
Extraordinary Graces
What Now?
You Get What You Pay For
The Angel of Loneliness
The Great Sin
Mere Moments
An Unconventional Friendship
Adam and Eve on a Raft
Dead Man's Switch
Does Immortality come with a Pension?
Embraceable Ewe
A Fragile Desire
Surviving Winter
You're the Only One

By Robert GSK
Still Life

By Rose B. Thorny
The Thing Under the...
Only When It Rains
Power and Glory

By Savannah
Naked Ambition
The Principal of the Thing

By Sidney Durham
Junk Yard Goddess
I'm Only Shaving!
Santa, Baby!
Sometimes I Can ...
Speaking of Escher
The Road Not Taken

By Tulsa Brown
Flesh On A Woman
Half Moon Girl
Debt of Honor

By Valentine Bonnaire
American Daddy-O
Bukowski Girls
Bing Cherry Silk
Colony, Collapsed
Have a Nice Day
l'heure bleue
Once Upon A Time . . .
Red Suede
Yellow, like the daffodils

By William Dean
Stranger in the Bonfire
Great Notion
Kiss Me And Then...
Switch Back
A Hand in the Bush
Buy Me Something
Forest for the Trees
Swap Meet
Burning Man
Port Said
Twisted Faith
Political Asylum

Screen Play
by A.F. Waddell

A Filing Fling
by Addison Long

Ménage A Cart
by Adhara Law

Elevator Shaft
by Alana James

Torn in Two
by Alicia Night Orchid

by Angela Caperton

The Lady-killer
by BJ Franklin

by B.K. Bilicki

The Vacation
by Beth Vox

Frostbite the Ice Pimp
by Chuck Lovepoe

The Accidental Fetish
by Corvidae

So Much in Common
by Daphne Dubonet

The Hand & I.
by EllaRegina

Safari Tuesday
by G. Gregory

The Puss Hater
by Inna Spice

One for the Road
by J. Corvo

Full Serviced
by J.D. Coltrane

Naked Over New York
by J.Z. Sharpe

The Chocolate Wife
by James Robert Sands

Once Shy
by Jamie Smithe

by Jean Roberta

Caitlin Comes Clean
by Jerry Rightson

Something To Make...
by Jim Parr

Melanie and Jay Go...
by jtallen

Peeping George
by Jude Mason

It's Lovely. It's Horrible.
by Kathleen Bradean

The Temp
by Kaye Heche

A Husband's Lesson
by Kim Bax

Better Than a Blow...
by Lauren Mills

Page 12 - No. F
by LilyOrchid

In The Name Of...
by Michael Michele

The Classics
by Nettie Kestler

The Wounded Healer
by Nicholas M.

by Nick Santa Rosa

The Cabin
by P. E. Brink

Post Mortem
by Riccardo Berra

Newly Reformed Woman...
by Seneca Mayfair

by Sybil Rush

by Teresa Lamai

Alter Christus
by Teresa Wymore

Shadows of De La Rosa
by Tori Diaz