It Started With a Kiss

It Started With a Kiss

Status: In Progress

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: In Progress

Genre: Erotica

Tags

sex, etc

Summary

Oddments This is an odd selection. When I wrote these I was getting bored with writing wordporn. I mean, how many ways can you describe the same acts? So, there are the short pieces – these were written as challenges. I think benawriter might have been involved. Can you write a story in 500 words? 200, 100? Stuff like that. That covers ‘Goth’ (500), ‘Hors d’oevres’ (200) and ‘Watching’ (200) and ‘First Time’ (100). I really do recommend challenging yourself to write in your genre with a small word limit. Can you do it? The last three oddments, I didn’t actually write. They are ‘prentice pieces; written by students of mine – I may have tarted them up a bit and claimed them for my own, but they are by another writer – maybe two. ‘Silver’ – historical wordporn. I don’t do that. I like my fantasy ladies in lingerie, these bodice-rippers tend to lack lacy bras, sheer panties and fishnet stockings…. ‘Her Big Chance’ is a big cock story. I don’t write big cock stories because a) I don’t have one and b) they are so fucking obvious and all the same. ‘It Started With a Kiss’ is just plain weird. So, why did I post these and claim them as my own? I said already, I was getting bored with the old in-out; but I still had an audience. They filled that gap. As stories, they aren’t bad. Just not me. And that is it. That is all that was on the flashdrive. If you can think of any others, let me know. But I can safely say that I don’t have them.

Tags

sex, etc

Summary

Oddments
This is an odd selection. When I wrote these I was getting bored with writing wordporn. I mean, how many ways can you describe the same acts?
So, there are the short pieces – these were written as challenges. I think benawriter might have been involved. Can you write a story in 500 words? 200, 100? Stuff like that.
That covers ‘Goth’ (500), ‘Hors d’oevres’ (200) and ‘Watching’ (200) and ‘First Time’ (100). I really do recommend challenging yourself to write in your genre with a small word limit. Can you do it?
The last three oddments, I didn’t actually write. They are ‘prentice pieces; written by students of mine – I may have tarted them up a bit and claimed them for my own, but they are by another writer – maybe two.
‘Silver’ – historical wordporn. I don’t do that. I like my fantasy ladies in lingerie, these bodice-rippers tend to lack lacy bras, sheer panties and fishnet stockings….
‘Her Big Chance’ is a big cock story. I don’t write big cock stories because a) I don’t have one and b) they are so fucking obvious and all the same.
‘It Started With a Kiss’ is just plain weird.
So, why did I post these and claim them as my own? I said already, I was getting bored with the old in-out; but I still had an audience. They filled that gap. As stories, they aren’t bad. Just not me.
And that is it.
That is all that was on the flashdrive.
If you can think of any others, let me know. But I can safely say that I don’t have them.

Content

Submitted: August 02, 2020

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Content

Submitted: August 02, 2020

A A A

A A A


Her cunt clenched around his pounding cock, she arched her back, threw back her head and howled as her orgasm burst through her body. Her cry broke down all hope of him holding back and he roared like a beast as his sperm jetted into her. The feeling of the spurting spunk increased her arousal and she ground her matted mound against his thrusting pubic bone, the pressure on her swollen clitoris creating wave after wave of orgasmic bliss as they bucked and humped together until, panting, sweating, tearful, they collapsed in a satiated heap on the rumpled bedclothes.

It started with a kiss.

It was a warm, sensual, delightful kiss. The first kiss of a couple destined to be lovers. The kiss that warrants a response, asks for attention, demands reciprocation.

But was that where it started?

Surely it started when she touched his hand and they looked, deeply and with longing, into each other’s eyes, oblivious to the thumping noise of that crowded club. After they’d had that shouted conversation about that movie they’d loved or that band they’d loathed. After they danced, eyeing each other like fighting cats. Or after that vodka and tonic he’d bought her. Or even the response to that first “Hey, can I buy you a drink?”

But surely it started before that.

As he looked appraisingly at the pretty girls and saw one that stood out for him. And she noted with pleasure that the boy looking at her had blue eyes and a smiling mouth. He was scoping her legs and her arse, checking the swell of her breasts, feeling the beginnings of possibilities. She glanced at his trim waist and looked at his hands, could those hands touch her right?

Maybe it started as he shaved after showering, looking in the mirror and thinking, “Tonight, let it be tonight.” Or as she zipped up her dress thinking, “Time for a change.”

Perhaps it started when he came back to his flat and found his fiancée sucking his best friend’s cock. And he dwelt for a time in a dark place, desperately wanting her back, bitterly cursing her very existence, crying in pain at the betrayal and loss, forcing himself to listen to their song, again and again and again.

Maybe it was when she realized that girls were fun but she really did like boys after all. When the passion for her princess lessened and slackened until they drifted apart, still friends but unsure where the lust had gone.

Or it started in the frantic teenage basement fuckings, the anything-goes atmosphere of the discovery and enjoyment of early sexual experimentation.  Those teenage days when her t-shirt was on but her panties off. The first exploratory tastes of salty cock or sour cunny. His feeling of power and fulfilment as his cock felt that same taught tightness that made her cry in pain and shame when the boy turned her round and forced himself into her claiming “everyone does it.”

Maybe it goes all the way back to the first time. That kind patient girl who helped him find his way. That sweet boy, whose kisses and gentle touches made her melt.

Did it start with his energetic wanking to a billion internet images of pneumatic airbrushed females in impossible erotic poses and outrageous actions. The daily morning flushing of piles of Kleenex, the stuffing of crusted pyjama pants to the bottom of the laundry basket. The changes in her body, the new pains, the downy hairs; the overpowering desire to touch and explore herself but not daring to – sure that someone would somehow know she’d been … naughty.

Or was it when he didn’t catch the Frisbee on the beach because suddenly he noticed the girls in bikinis. When she lowered her eyes and hunched her shoulders if a boy looked her way.

When he needed to see Baywatch on TV, but couldn’t say why. When, in the playground,  she was somehow sad that Jim Thompson had talked to her best friend Barbara.

Perhaps it was that first day of school when they noticed some were in shorts and some were in skirts.

Or did it start in that amazing moment as the eyes focused while the brain was still forming. And the tiny mind realised that there were others in the world apart from itself.

It started with a kiss?

No.

It started with our birth.


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