Memories

Memories Memories

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

Stian Elberd recounts the university days back when he met his loving and gorgeous wife, Ragnhild Ascwin.

Summary

Stian Elberd recounts the university days back when he met his loving and gorgeous wife, Ragnhild Ascwin.

Content

Submitted: February 16, 2015

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Content

Submitted: February 16, 2015

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Some university days back when we first came face to face…

 

Like lightning, I—Laurente Stian Elberd—go out of breath the instant my eyes glimpse and notice her. She is attractive; no more than in the springtime of her life, and decent-looking, and knowledgeable and perspicacious likewise. Her hair is an aglow and lustrous brown, her eyes a shining and glinting chocolate, her skin a blooming and flourishing darkish gold. Frankly put, she has a surpassingly charming and terribly good-looking face. Just like those wonderfully pretty ladies and girls that I lie down with and shag in my bed every twinkling and split second—day in and day out if you like it better that way.

 

Ragnhild Ascwin herself this afternoon is attired and garbed excellently and acely fantastic. She is eye-catching and irresistible in a dark gray skirt suit with gray flat-leveled shoes and a gray hair knot that fastens and trusses her frizzy, kinky, and curled lots of hair. Her trendy and snazzy jacket is squeaky-clean and neat as a new pin, just like her voguish and schmick white-gray shirt. Yes. She is enchanting and drop-dead in gray—distinctly put.

 

I swallow and slurp down hard. Should any slot or fitting moment come to light, I will utilize it to entice and have intercourse with the irreproachable and well-intentioned girl who sits three tiers further away from me. She turns out to be loving and bounteous with everyone whom she slams and crashes into—which is most likely a good thing indeed. My invocation and plea is that at the fitting and well-suited time she happens to clash and come into collision with me. So that, well…I can befriend her and then at long last place my hand into her pants the next time we happen to come face to face.

 

Before the vigilant and earwigged (or eavesdropping) class of sixty-three university scholars, Ragnhild Ascwin stands up erect and upright, gazing direct and straight at Don Neal Carton—who is conversing and shooting the breeze with her. A growing old, well-informed, and self-regulating man, he is the Principal of Paranormal and Spectral Studies at the fashionable and for the most part swarmed and flocked by the well-off and stinking rich Kent University of Kent, Iceberg.

 

“What proof and affirmation have you, Miss  Ascwin, that our university should accede and yield to the unheard-of and left-field imaginary and nonexistent anecdotes and urban myths that your passed on grandfather, Milburn Kerr Ascwin, a one time academic and expositor at this university itself, scribbled and inscribed insanely and dementedly in his books, The Truth About The Sex Demons sequences?” With a staid and humorless face, Don Neal queries Ragnhild before the plonked and seated trainees, his hands intertwined and folded across his chest, his apt eyes alert and wide awake to her slight body rhythms and movements.

 

“My grandpa transcribed no folk tales or urban myths, Don Neal,” she echoes back staunchly and through thick and thin.

 

“Surely?” It appears as though Carton is caricaturing and scoffing her off. “Did he verify—or can you confirm and bear it out yourself—that those made-up and unreal things of his called Incubus and Succubus have breath and existence?”

 

“I can’t prove it now, but I perhaps will one day. Mark my words.”

 

At this point, the entire class bursts and cracks up into laughter along with Don Carton himself, with the omission of I myself—Laurente Stian—who is tightly and unflinchingly eyeing Ragnhild, leching and giving her the glad eye. She has to be spied on and paid heed to—no misgiving and indecision about it. Or else she will take the wraps off and make known what demoniac beings and critters there are out there that are lodging and hanging about resolutely in your very own human world, intermingling and commixing with you.

 

Albeit through and finished with be the taunting and chaffing lecture with Don Carton, it is not so with Ragnhild herself. At the end of the class, she packs and bales up her books and stuff, hurriedly and at full tilt, and then she withdraws and flees away from the riotous and vociferous class, scowling and making a disheartened face to herself. Carton is off base and in the wrong; and she is going to evince that to him one of these coming days—it plainly and patently seems.

 

The raw, chill, and bleak wind outside tonks and beats her, buffeting and wafting her extensive, fine bulk of hair this side and that other. As she snaps up open the door of her car and inches and drags herself quietly and coolly inside there, I peer and gaze at her, carrying on to dash and hurry towards my car shortly just after hers has skedaddled and wheeled away.

 

All pitchy black and splendid and glittering, my automobile is bright and burnished and sheeny to look at. It is a Bristol fashion motor, all high-priced and lush and ritzy. It has solely room to seat two people; its windows are tinged and shaded a wholesome and dingy dark; and its wheels pirouette and reel and rotate on the highway with such momentum and swiftness and prowess that would drive anyone eyeballing and goggling at them giddy and dizzy.

 

In forty straight minutes, I turn up at Ragnhild’s home erelong after her. Her house is elephantine and humongous and attractive and genteel. The windows are all hulking and spacious and mammoth; the carroty and bloodstained roof is Trotskyite and left-winger resembling. Flowers—streets apart and contrasting and discrepant—enwreathe and girdle and fence it inside in. It is an enchanting and handsome pageant indeed!

 

While Ragnhild marches and promenades her way into the pint-sized, gygmy, and private inlet room, flinging and thumping shut the door behind her, I Stian myself, with my car stopped and stationed a few yards away from her house, toss and launch my door open, sliding and dropping out to the dimming and withering out sunlight. While I toddle and plod on toward her house, I notice the room on the third floor blaze and brighten up with luster and luminosity from an intense and lambent bulb.

 

With my eyes checking down beneath me, I lob and heave myself high up into the air, flitting and taking wing up to be clear-cut, until I clasp and brace to the exterior wall and partition with my strenuous hands and feet themselves. Yes. I inch and wriggle and worm my way up the soaring and elevated partition and wall, just like a spider and lizard and cockroach does, meticulously well and scrupulously, but comfortably and simply with ease and leisure and unconstraint on the other hand. I am an Incubus after all, am I not? Yeah…my father is an Incubi and my mother is perfectly and one hundred per cent human.

 

The drapes and portiere to Ragnhild’s room on her wide and expansive window are not every inch shut and closed. Through the gaping extension and margin, I peer straight in, squeezing and narrowing my eyes, and what I note and sight with my eyes is rather terrible and godawful.

 

Ragnhild is taking off her clothes. Gradually and at a snail’s pace while some euphonious and silver-toned bit of music plays and croons out loud. The lyrics are erotic and sensuous themselves, trilled and purred out by a woman with an apt deep and heartrending voice.

 

This is my body
Every slice and piece belongs to you, baby
Slap my titty breasts
Slap my softy smooth bums
I give it all to you
Yeah…every crumb and mite of me
Wrench my panties down, will you?
Come, let’s play shag-shag-shag!

 

Yeah, baby
Lie down on this bed silently and noiselessly
There is no grunting or moaning
No crying or whining out loud
I am going to take a seat right on top of you
I am going to dance right on top of you
Let us swing and rock and prance and jig it
Let us play and compete in the for-two-alone ball game

 

Yeah, how do you like me grazing and touching myself
Look, I am caressing and stroking my very own breasts
I love to have fun and fool around with my titty breasts
I love it when I finger and sport with your balls and rocks and nuts
See, I am smelling and sniffing them
Yeah…yeah…they are so sweet and fresh
I am getting wet and soggy, baby
It is about to shower and rain—that I am free from doubt of

 

I can see the rainbow all about me
It is Day-glow and multicolored and jazzy and picturesque
Baby, can you see the rainbow too
Whenever I look skyward, I can see the whole of Paradise
When I look down, I think the earth and sea is convulsing and quaking
Yeah…baby
I give you every small piece and scarp of me
Take me—I am all yours
Do whatever it is that you want with me
You are all mine after all, aren’t you, babe?

 

First, Ragnhild pitches the doors of her closet open and then slings and heaves a couple clothes out. Then she works loose and frees the buttons of her jacket and her sheet and sends them flying off to her bed. Her brassiere is gray and squeaky-clean too. She takes it off, and there her shorn and buck naked breasts are, prancing and jigging and cavorting this side and that other whenever she flings herself this side and that other—all in blameless conformity and concord to the music pealing and thundering about her.

 

I am hold spellbound and entranced at the same time. When Ragnhild’s chunky and man-size booby breasts switch left hurriedly and briskly, my eyes hastily and speedily follow them too. When they shift U-turn or right all of a sudden and abruptly, I stalk and run after them straight away and without hesitation. I even brush and lap my lips with my tongue while gawping at them, all so hypnotized and magnetized and spellbound.

 

Goodness. This dame…she is pretty damn likeable and lovely and sexy. I can fuck and nail and screw and bonk her all day long. I assuredly and for certain can do that. Can’t you? I exhale and rustle to myself as she strokes and cuddles and nuzzles her very own bare and uncovered breasts. It is like she is seeking to mock and chaff and make fun of me. What can I do? Tear and smash her window and jump in straight to her room to tonk and rap and bash her. Or tarry here while I watch her get all the more stark-naked and unclothed. Which is which, huh? Which exactly?

 

Arghhhh! The manner and style she feels and fingers and caresses herself. It is driving me insane and batty and crackers. Doubtlessly! As her tireless and brisk hands reach for her skirt, I can start to feel my penis rise firm and vertically. I can’t look on at this for longer than already. Obviously not! I must stare away. But then I don’t. Why, you may marvel? Because I don’t have sufficient balls and guts and firmness to do so; first, I am a man. When it comes to sexual subjects and affairs and stuff, I am infirm and effete and frail by nature. Two, I am an Incubi. An Incubus is weak-kneed and indecisive and powerless to all things sexual because that is what it milks and feeds on. Sex and all things sexual! I don’t solely and exclusively nourish and nurture myself nosh-up or tuck-in the way that you yourself so. I consistently and on every occasion feed and nourish myself sexually too. That is my very own and best natural way of eating; by means of sex and lust and licentiousness. If I don’t have any sex or get myself to undergo and live through just about any form of lasciviousness and salacious lust, then I unquestionably and inevitably starve and famish myself to peril and cessation.

 

Gradually and steadily, Ragnhild sneaks and slopes her skirt down so that she can put on show and unveil her panties themselves. Arghhhh! This has never been more stimulating and thrilling and intoxicating than now. I will snuff it and go belly-up from lechery and wantonness. Assuredly!

If I am not beyond any doubt going to pass out and fall into a barely audible and slight faint, then I don’t know what it is that I am sincerely and openly going to do. Goodness. My eyes are so enthralled and charmed and hold spellbound by what I am catching glimpse of and making out. My goodness! Who could have ever pictured and envisioned that Ragnhild could be this alluring and likeable and sexy and charming. Who could perhaps and with no trouble visualize and make up that? Who? Tell me please. Who specifically?

I realize and am aware that I am not supposed to be watching this. My natural world and temperament and character makes it a crumb treacherous and precarious and risky. It hell sure and almost certainly does.  In all likelihood that is. I am an Incubus. And I am sickly and languid and anemic and under-strength carnally and sexually. True. I do wine and dine the typical and habitual way that natural human beings do, but it is only through sexual bits and pieces and kits that my fleshly and immaterial hungriness and ravenousness is wholly and every inch pleased and satisfied.

 

Our romantic and date nights and days with Ragnhild are cracking and pearler. I am the happiest man in the world the day I conquer and secure her heart and affection only for I myself and me alone on my tod. She is jubilant and overjoyed to the farthest-off moon itself when I cuddle and squeeze and hold her in my arms as my woman and mine alone. Yeah, she surely and positively is all blest and blithe. But there is this one thing that I have not stated and let known to her. That I am an Incubus and so is my kinsfolk and ménage. The same is bona fide and factual with my blood line and family tree. And this, I cross my fingers and count on that Ragnhild won’t ever realize and get the wise to. I entreat and petition that she finds out this not. Or will she one at-hand day?

 

Every lapsing by Halloween, my bidie-in and better half himself, Stian Elberd, and I myself—Ragnhild Ascwin—have what we label and describe as ‘daggy and eccentrically out-of-the-way sex.’ In other words, this is the same as outré and uncommon and bizarre sex. Yeah…sex and screwing and matters of lovemaking and fucking that are too weirdie and grotesque and spooky and eldritch to relate and put up in words. This Halloween, we are going to fuck each other in a ponderous and mammoth and substantial coffin that duly and absolutely tailors and fits to be adapted for the big silver screen in some horror and devil movie. Say one that bears the title, ‘When The Heinous Dead Make Love Inside A Coffin.’

 

The coffin is burly and bulky and gigantic and spacious and sumptuously and lushly decorated and furnished and purveyed inside. Its ceiling and roofing has got splendid and dazzling and ablaze amber lights and lanterns tacked and annexed to it; its walls and barricades and bulwarks are wholly and in every respect white like death warmed up and snowy and pale hued and tinctured. There are cushy and soft and comfortable and overpriced hassocks and headrests and squabs and bolsters arrayed and jacked up sleekly and neatly inside there. Yeah; so; so; spick-and-span and shipshape and well-kept and spruce to the very heart and crux indeed! Is this not Promised Land and Zion itself? Hell yeah…you know what? The majority of the dead and deceased have lavish and flourishing and palatial and overpriced homes than the ones that we settle in, don’t you think so? Yeah. I do believe and in fact assume so myself.

 

The outward and surface and intact exterior of the large, massive coffin is this grand and sumptuous and ornate too. It is formed and built and fashioned of the most excellent and masterly and exceptionally imperishable and immortal wood itself. Yeah. I desire and wish that this was my very own home and Eden. But then come on, I am still alive and kicking and breathing, am I not? Duh!

 

Tonight, with all the lights in our house flicked and flipped and switched off, and the darkly and shadow-ish and dingy candles twinkling and glimmering and glistening ablaze, it is all calm and serene and hushed and inaudibly low-pitched like there is not any small creature or being breathing and animate and kicking inside our house—or is there?

 

I am robed and frocked and gowned like a vampire femme fatale or Lorelei or enchantress all in all. A vampire cocotte and streetwalker even. My dress and apparel and raiment is blood coral and red and roseate in tint and shade. My large, sensuous, and kissable jugs and boobies and breasts are uncovered and unclothed and fully starkers in this good-looking, cutely, and beautiful vermilion dress that I am putting on. At the heads and points and nibs of my nipples is smeared and spread with frozen and glaciated ice cream. Yes. While it melts and unfreezes and defrosts, it surges and drifts and tide-ways down my bulky and chunky breasts themselves, stimulating and whetting and whipping me up sexually as I think up and envision Stian’s hands haring and loping and creeping down them. I swallow and slurp down hard as this comes about.

 

The dress and raiment I am having on strips and bares my bums and hindquarters and big, massive, and prepossessing arse behind. Yes. It is all bare and uncovered and buck starkers. I grin and twinkle and beam to myself when Stian Elberd slap bangs and smacks and spanks and clobbers it with his macho and well-built hand while surveying and reccing and poring over it. Yeah. It all feels so delightful and pleasurable and lekker indeed, doesn’t it to you?

 

Whenever I take a stroll and tramp and traipse about, my very large, mega eye-catching and cumber fuckable ass behind wags and jiggles and squirms and wiggles on carnally and erotically and voluptuously. Stian loves and adores it whenever I do that. It makes him lap and brush and thrash his ravenous, puckish, and sharp-set tongue over his famished, starving, and athirst lips. Yeah; so; so delightful and delectable and to my liking indeed!

 

Other than this, my vagina and pussy and clitoris and thighs are one hundred per cent and from first to last stripped bare and nude and scuddy naked altogether. Yes. Stian even goes on to feel and finger his hand in my pussy nicely slow and sluggish and laggard and dawdling. Don’t you like that? Of course, I myself love and appreciate and relish it.

 

Arghhhhh! Stian is super and mega hot and enjoyable. This man is the awesome and cracking top and smashing boffo example and specimen and representative case of what it means to be sexy and come-hither and beddable. His blooming and robust and in-fine-fettle muscles are powerful and vigorous and hard-wearing than ever before. I can picture and conjure up them sweating and drudging and laboring intensely hard to cheer and satisfy and gratify and give uttermost pleasure to me. Oh yes! They assuredly and certainly will be doing that. Without a doubt indeed!

 

Stian is arrayed and rigged in a superman like robe and gown. It is not that very extensive and far-reaching and stretched and extended; it nips in the bud and ends somewhere about his backside and butts and haunches. Worn over the pitchy robe that is snapped and torn and rent on either sides is a very snug and cosy and tight-fitting shirt. This one is pitch-black and pitchy too, but it is very much seductive and eye-catching and irresistible than the pitchy robe. Down there on his legs he dresses in nothing but very sensuous and suggestive and titillating underwear and smalls and undies. I love them. Just the sight of them makes me want to touch and entertain myself with his giant, elephantine Willie and plonker—who even now when he is still fast asleep and napping and so dead to the world, is still that ginormous and fuck-off big enough to scare and frighten the hell out of my hole and cunt—and cutely and exquisite balls and family jewels. Oooh! Blood is thrusting and pressing and jamming faster and more faster into my veins, piercing and jabbing and ballooning me with just too much licentiousness and concupiscence. Yeah…

 

And action time…

 

First! We take the first step and put our hand to the plough with the snogging and kissing and canoodling thing. Arghhh! It feels so enjoyable and fun and congenial to snog and kiss and canoodle and smooch, doesn’t it? Yeah…it hell sure and fire definitely does. Stian and I peck and snog and buss while grazing and caressing and stroking each other until we both tumble and plummet down inside the commodious and roomy and homely coffin. As it shuts and seals up by itself, we press and carry on with the kissing and snogging. Of course! There is oxygen and air in here, which is doubtlessly a good thing to our benefit and boon, or is it not?

 

Stian is on top of me and the way he is snogging and stroking and necking me expresses and reveals to me just how so much in love he is with me. Arghhh! I heave and buoy and hoist up my head whenever he smooches and busses and pecks and brushes my throat and chest and breasts themselves, gratifying and cheering and tickling me to the very core and hilt. I am so in love with him and all of this…I idolize and think the world of him and everything that he is doing to me right this very moment.

 

While he kisses and snogs and caresses me, he shifts and switches and stirs one hand to my clitoris and punani, where, once he has stroked and caressed and patted and petted it, he pokes and jabs and prods and nudges his fingers deep inside it, tickling and tantalizing and arousing me high and higher and more higher each time that he does this. Yeah. I don’t want him to break off from accomplishing and performing this. I don’t want him to do that. Not ever!

 

With my ecstatic and stoked so as to float-and-hover-high-up-in-the-air hands, I make it to his underwear and smalls so as to lug and wrench and wrest them off until I have his tool and knob and John Thomas and cojones and family jewels in my very own seize and grip and clinch. I don’t clinch and clutch them painfully though. I do it all properly and nicely and beautifully in a fashion and style that does not hurt and bruise him but amuse and gratify and gladden him instead. Hell yeah. I can hearken to him whinge and groan and moan out happily and with joy and yet still be all the more punch-drunk overjoyed and chuffed still. Aren’t you carping and bitching and whining along with us as well?

 

Our lips and mouths come across and stumble upon each other…and as that ensues, we both osculate and snog and smooch and kiss exceedingly and greatly till we have made it past the topmost nth degree. I split and disjoin and disunite my legs just in time enough for him to make an entrance and cross the threshold into me. Arghhhhh! While he gets and slumps into me steadily and at his own leisure and sweet-most lackadaisical pace, I grasp and hold on to both sides of the shut giant and titanic-resembling coffin, all on a grand scale and by leaps and bounds stoked and floating in the vast air and illimitably on cloud nine. Is this not what you call sugar and rapturous sex inside a glorious and ravishing coffin? Is this not it?

 

Once he is every inch and heart and soul inside of my vagina, Stian starts to blow and rump up and aerate into me, heightening and jacking and putting up more and more speed and tempo and momentum as he goes on. I am so over the moon and in seventh heaven and overjoyed and rapt about it. I genuinely and verily am. I bellow and bawl and hollo out, all the more boisterous and obstreperous and clamorous and riotous as he thrusts and bulldozes and prods and jostles into me all the more harder and faster. I am sweating like a pig ad sticking it out like no man’s business. My hands ploddingly but in good time make it to his butts and hindquarters. I nab and seize and capture and entrap them like nuts and crackers. Yeah. They are fleecy and smooth as a baby’s bottom indeed. So, so downy and velvety like nothing more pleasurable and delectable to pat and pet indeed. Holy goodness! I am going bananas and batty. All because of his baby smooth bottom and arse?

 

Arghhhh! Stian is thumping and thudding and clanging and buffeting all the hell lot faster and harder into me. I adore and cherish and treasure it so very much. Not solely does that gladdens and gives me so immensely and exceedingly a pleasure. It is as well to some small degree or extent flushing and tingling and electrifying and titillating. But the sweet-most and saccharine delectation way far high makes up for the slight and minor galvanization and rouse and thrill that I am undergoing and feeling right now, or does not it? Yeah. It hell-flames-blaze-up and come the fire and brimstone does!

 

As Stian shoves and bulldozes and impels and jostles his Willie deep and more deeper into me, I proceed on to clutch and snap up all the tighter and more firm his Brobdingnagian, silky like a baby’s bottom, and flawlessly and impeccably curvilinear and full-fleshed bottom and bums toward myself. Yeah; I am rejoicing and reveling and delighting in this so, so, so very much unquestionably! What could be any and inexorably better than having sex and screwing and shagging and humping up each other in a goddamn and god-doomed coffin? What, huh? What methodically and literally? Make it also known to me please!

 

I don’t frankly and sincerely know how many minutes and hours have gone past since Stian and I wrapped up and rounded off having sex in this denationalized coffin of ours in the solitude and privateness of our home. I just helplessly twinkle and wink and flutter my eyes inside the mega, gigantic, and bulky coffin itself. Not at a push or exclusively is it all this. It is ornate and lavish and ritzy too. I am pondering and asking myself and cudgeling my brains on how much it was explicitly and distinctively that my spouse and better half, Stian The Baas And Overlord himself, purchased and procured it for. How much scrupulously? I don’t know…I have no scanty and express hint and inking and pointer on that; and it seems and looks like I won’t ever dig up and bring that to perspicacious and hunk-dory light. Or will I?

 

I knit my brows and wheel and pivot my eyes. Damn Stian and his obscurity and ambiguousness and closed book! Damn him for it! I can’t take a nap or slumber anymore. I peek and snatch a dekko at him. He is zizzing and resting in the arms of Morpheus well and soundly. He nailed on and ineluctable is; and I Ragnhild myself? I have just had a surefire and unfailing bad dream; a night terror in other creepy and Kafkaesque words. Hell on Earth—you may style and label it that way if you single the epithet out. Yeah. It was doubtlessly Tartarus and the bottomless pit on Earth.

 

For the hell of it—or hell for leather—I must have certainly yelped and squealed out. It was all spine-chilling and spooky and bloodcurdling. To see the one and only man that I loved, who is Stian without indecision or lack of conviction and irresolution, step and march towards me in a bodeful and intimidating and looming manner and course of action, until, startled and daunt-shocked, I wheeled round at full tilt and ran away from him like greased lightning and nobody’s business. He raced and dashed after me as well, leaping and hopping up to a far-off wall where he began creeping and inching and worming his way after me, terrorizing and scaring the bejesus out of me. It was whilst shrieking and screeching out that I roused from my sleep and bestirred up. And there he is, sleeping and dozing off noiselessly and silently. Goodness! It is just a bad dream and nothing else more on my side and role, right? I reckon so.

 

Halloween is now bygone and a shred and wodge and scrap of ancient history. It ensued a week ago and now we are in the dawn of November. All frosty and wintry and freezing out there. I don’t understand why; but that night hallucination of Stian putting up a fright on me and running after me while dragging and inching himself on the wall? It has stressed and worried and affrighted me like it is a piece of realism and actuality. Is it genuinely?

 

I don’t know. I just can’t let the cat out of the bag on this subject and affair. Maybe I should narrate and give an account of this to him; perhaps I should not. What must I do precisely? Will someone abet please lend me an easing and assuaging hand? Please!? I won’t let Stian know as regards this. Why? I don’t know precisely. But it is best if he doesn’t bring this to his light and insight. Yeah…surely! I won’t get this off my chest to him. No, I won’t!

 


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