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Come Softly To Me

I’m tired and cold. Snow for days, three feet deep. And I miss her.

I. Miss. Her.

All pink freckled flush and shush and shiver. She lives for ice. Dances through frost like an angel. An angel in brown boots and a blue coat dancing through the blizzard and then she was gone.

This house is a tomb, is darkness and hollow breathing. I leave the lights untouched, for now. Thoughts of her seem less painful in the dark. And the snow gleams silver anyway; outside the perfect drifts stretch on and on, and I go blind, turn my grief to the unloving welcome of the bed. My heart is sore. My body is sore.

I close my eyes. There she is. Smiling.


Red lips. Dark eyes. Red lips.

Her mouth is open.

My cock twitches. I open my eyes. No. Not now. Not now.

Eyes closed. She crosses her hands over her bare shoulders. She’s singing. What is she singing? I watch her mouth. Her tongue luxuriates in the words.

I can’t give you anything but love… and slides her hand down her collarbone, over her heart, cupped awkwardly against the breast, the flesh spilling.

She’s naked.

Red nails.

I remember this song.

She’s naked.

I remember this.

Her hands reaching out to me, the buttons soon parted, Her touch. Delicate, like a maid handling fine china. And cold. My ice queen.

I remember her.

If I stare at the ceiling, at the bare, broken lightbulb I haven’t replaced because why, there’s no need. If I do that, I don’t need to think of her. I won’t see her. Hear her.

But the pull is strong. Too strong. Her intoxicant.

I can’t give you anything, but love…

I close my eyes.

And now she’s on her knees and I worship her.

She’s on her knees, I’m in her mouth

oh fuck – oh fuck. She is everything. She is all blushing perfection, naked on the cracked floorboards of this desolate house. My owner. My light.

My stomach clenches.

Her tongue.

My stomach clenches.

Her hands on my stomach. Her fingers knitted through mine as she drinks me down, possessing me. Ending me.

She is regal.

She is incandescent.

She is-

Was. WAS. Past tense perfect and gone.

I can’t give you anything, but love…

No. Only silence now.

Only darkness.

Masturbation Monday

   Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked


  1. KP KP

    That’s beautiful. It’s both erotic and sad, I love how it flips like the mind of a grieving lover must between loss, lust and confusion and guilt.

  2. This is brilliantly written ?

  3. I was so excited and then AWWWWWWW so many feels.

  4. Beautiful writing, a beautiful mix of eroticism and sadness. Love this.

    Rebel xox

  5. Lovely- as the others have said, brings so much out of the words

  6. Wow! Love the beautiful sadness xx

  7. Oh…He feels so real and so sad…his grief reaches out of the page and makes me feel…and whereas some of the stories on this prompt have a more passive feel of pathos, he feels desperate and you have captured the energy of grief beautifully

  8. That is heartbreakingly sexy. And very poetic…the broken lines and images and thoughts to match the broken heart.

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