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fiction, the erotics

Make Me Real

I told her: “Make me real.”

She pressed her fingertips to the socket joint of my shoulder; it sang and tingled. Then tips to my lips; I bit down on them with pleasure, I could feel. Her hair brushed my collarbone, my sternum, my breasts, my stomach; they trembled in the coolness of the night air.

Toes awoke my ankles, her legs intertwined with mine (my thighs, a revelation, my knees, quaking and bending and made weak in their new power), and then her mouth to—

Oh. Oh. I am alive, alive, and made to live under her geas for as long as the sun rises and sets. Her tongue is my possessor, the strength in her jaw my taskmaster as she uses her hands to bind my newly risen wrists and press my body to this bed that is her workshop.

Her touch is an undeserved gift and she, this woman, an undeserved love.


About Quinn

In it but not of it. A reformed player, now watcher. Speaker of raw truths.


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Raison d’etre

"Raw," she said. "I want something primal. I want something bare and naked. I want you to give me this life raw, unbidden, unhidden, free, fair, and true. Can you do that? Can you do that for me?"

One may only try.

May 2013
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