like a piece of meat like a piece of meat she told herself this was the only way and they inspected her up and down flesh giving way to cold sterility only she wasn't only she knew she wasn't and they knew she wasn't because why else would they be here like a piece of meat and when he chose her she was pleased in an impersonal way like she'd won some prize open my legs close my heart like a piece of meat she was consumed and then discarded like a piece of meat
I don't usually do stream of consciousness but with such a short word limit it seemed more reasonable. Think of it less as stream of consciousness and more as a tone poem. It's informed a little by my own experiences, though I've never been on display for the use of the customer, nor have I ever felt myself merely a piece of meat. Okay, so I've felt that way but not in this context. Sometimes partners make one feel like one could have been anyone, and that's not cool, but this is different.
Fuck it, I like this picture and I'm going to do another.
When he opened the door she was there, naked as the day she had been born, legs wide, face worried. His heart was in his throat. "Do I please you?" she asked simply, looking like the fate of the world hinged on his reply.
"Very much," he assured her, and she relaxed a little, though when it came time for him to shed his clothes too, the nerves were there for both of them, despite knowing that this was the way it would be.
He was hard as her tiny nipples which gave away her desire. He needed no preliminaries, nor did she. He got between her legs, those beautiful long legs which wrapped around him instinctively, and he adjusted himself until his head was at the entrance, then he slowly eased forward. Her eyes were closed, but there was no twinge of pain when he entered her, warm and inviting, wet as he was hard. This was right. This was expected.
They didn't kiss at first, not until he had bottomed out in her, her pelvis shifting to accommodate his pressure, her legs pinioned between them now, arching her back, opening her to his thrusts. Her mouth opened and sound came out, soft sounds of pleasure, which he muffled with his own mouth until their tongues were entwined as he began to thrust more forcefully.
When pleasure overtook her, it was all he could do to thrust home and spread his seed inside her, his manhood pulsing once, twice, then retreating, though he knew this was only the first of many such times.
"Do you think it will happen now?" she asked him after a moment of bliss. "Do you think I will have your child?"
"No way to know," he assured her, already growing hard again.
This one is much more tinged with my own experience, though again, only partially. There's just something ritual about the look of the picture for me, I guess. But that's probably me reading myself into it.
Speaking of reading myself into it, you can read yourself into it by going to Max's blog and joining in the fun. I bet you've got something fun to say about this picture. It's crying out to be used for inspiration. And no one else needs to know you were inspired the extremely bad segue above. You can claim you were just browsing and decided to join in. But I'll know. And I'll judge you.
No I won't. If lousy segues are what it takes to get more people playing, I'll make even worse ones. I haven't even begun to approach the bottom of the barrel, let along scrape it. So I guess you could also be motivated by not having to experience the true depths of awfulness that I can scrape together, in a segue.
You do know what a segue is, right? Oh dear, maybe people don't. A segue, pronounced "SEG-way" like those ridiculous self-balancing scooter things, is a bridge between topics, like, say, a discussion of the literary merits of a particular piece of erotica and an imprecation to join in the erotica-making. A good segue seamlessly shifts topics. A bad one calls attention to itself and usually starts with "speaking of" when no one was speaking of it.
No shame in not knowing this. I delight in teaching people new words.
Speaking of new words, one often learns them by reading (which is why I know what words mean but not how to pronounce them) so even if you're not going to join in the fun of writing erotica, you can enjoy reading what has been written by heading over to Max's blog. He's got oodles of archives and such. And he doesn't use terrible segues or patronize you by assuming you don't know what words mean. Really, he's much better at this than I am.
