“‘Cum dump’? What the fuck is that?” Rick asked, loudly. I looked around the coffee shop.
“Christ, Rick, a little louder, would ya? I’m not sure they heard you over in the food court.” Both of us were looking around, then. Rick shrugged, sheepish.
“Alright, alright,” he said, his palms bouncing and down as he lowered his voice and leaned in conspiratorially. “Is that what she said? Her words?”
“Definitely. It was one of the very few sentences between us since all this started. ‘I love being your cum dump’ was it. You shoulda seen my face.”
“Fuuuuck. Fuck. Which one is Amanda?” he asked, rubbing his chin. “The tall one, with the hair?”
“No. One of Maggie’s new friends, from school. Petite, but curvier up top than you’d think. Long straight dark hair. Pale skin. Kinda all over dark, you know? Kiley would definitely know her.”
“Shit, man. I’ve seen that girl. She’s like, two years younger than Maggie. Shit. I guess all that time the gym pays off, eh?”
I brushed that off.
“I gotta tell you, Rick. The only other sentences she’s ever said to me were that first time, quietly because everyone was sleeping down in my rec room. ‘We shouldn’t be doing this…’ and I gotta admit, I exploded right-fucking-there. Emptied about three weeks worth, hot and creamy up inside that tight little body of hers. I’m amazed no one woke up. They were all down there, sleeping of the booze. Shit, if Maggie had woken up, I… I don’t know. Ida been on the goddamn news.”
“Shit,” Rick repeated. We sat for a moment in silence, sipping coffee as both our minds raced. There were kids all over this mall Maggie and Kiley’s age, girls dressed much differently than they were back when Rick and I were that age.
“What’s the other thing?” Rick asked.
“Huh?” I said, coming-out of my daze, poking at the last of my iced coffee with the straw.
“You said there was another sentence. What was the other thing?”
I hadn’t expected to tell Rick even this much, but I had to tell someone. He’d been my buddy for ever. The girls had grown up together.
“There was the next time, right? The second time, after the first episode in the basement with all the lights off and everyone sleeping off the alcohol. She’s over a couple days later and of course I’ve been thinking about it. Jesus. Guilty, but also hard as a length of rebar. Anyway she’s over with a few girls wearing not all black like usual, but instead a little red sun dress this time. We hadn’t said two words to each other, that first night or since. At this point I had no idea she had my number to text; that all started later. But she’s there in the basement again, the utility room this time and all by herself. Everyone else is upstairs outside in the pool, but she’s downstairs. It’s like she was waiting for me, but not.”
“Yea. Kids these days, eh? Anyway, she’s got this little dress on, and she kinda surprised me being there, but she’s also got this little smirk. Last time they were all smoking and drinking and being loud, and I let it go because it was at The Pinetree and who gives a shit, right? Kids are kids and they let ‘em drink there, so I was cool with it. But this time it’s quiet, there’s no one around, and there’s no alcohol involved. She looks at me for a second, and then just turns around, puts her hands on the dryer.”
We both sipped our coffees.
“What do you mean, ‘and’? And I fucked her. Like a maniac, I fucked that girl. Like my life depended on it. Probably harder than her tight little body ever had, for two minutes. I was… overcome. Like I was someone else. I’ve never done that before, with Suzy or anyone. But shit in that moment it was just like that first time. Primal. I -needed- to use this girl, Rick. Her tight, young, wet little pussy was mine for the taking. Like, it was an agreement between us, but I gotta say that didn’t really matter. I was going to do it regardless.”
Rick paused while another mall girl walked by us. His eyes lingered on her ass in yoga pants, then back to me. “Did you, you know… Did you at least use protection?”
“Rick,” I said, my hands flat on the table now. “You remember ‘cum dump,’ right? That’s part of this whole crazy Twilight Zone thing. No, I did not use protection. I put my thick, grown-man cock so far up inside that girl she was on her tiptoes most of the time I was ramming her. I fucked her like she was my little harem girl, there for the express purpose. And get this: once I’m up inside, balls deep, she says kinda in her throat ‘fuck me like a whore.’ This girl says that, and it is on, Rick. Even harder than before I fucking lose it. I didn’t say shit the whole time, just made these grunting sounds as I took what I needed from this girl’s body. And I spilled what felt like a gallon of cum up inside her. I gotta tell you after she brought her dress down it must have been running down her leg.”
“Shit. She could get pregnant, Park.”
“Yea, tell me about it. Every time. Because that’s how it goes. Every. Single. Time. There’s always some risk, always some other people around, usually my daughter or her friends. It’s crazy. I don’t ask, she doesn’t bring it up. She doesn’t give a shit. About that, or her boyfriend obviously. Or Maggie, I guess. Ugh neither do I, apparently. But every single time, I fuck her like I’m going to bruise her pussy, and I leave a load of hot cum deep inside of her.”
I finished my coffee, lost in thought.
“How many times has this happened, Park?”
“Rick,” I put my cup down.”You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.” I look at my watch. “And, I’m supposed to meet her at Macy’s. In ten minutes.”
“Are you fucking with me?” Rick said, loud again, but I let it go. “Are you going?”
“What do you think? Of course I’m going. I’m a mild mannered suburban guy, fit, grown man with a daughter. But when I get around this girl, this quiet girl no one would ever guess anything about, I turn into this crazed, primal neanderthal bent on one thing – taking that girl’s pussy, my pussy that she happens to have, and filling it with as much cum as I possibly can. Then just walking away, leaving her like that. To go about her goddamn day.”
“‘I love being your cumdump,’” Rick said, flatly.
“Exactly,” I replied, standing up.
Mike finished his coffee. “I want in,” he said. Wiping his mouth, like he was in TV show and now he was leaving on a mission.
“How long are the stories you write?”
I hear this from almost everyone who knows about this little hobby of mine. For reference, let’s look at a summary of what various sources call works of various word-counts. I’m talking about stories, here – works of fiction that have a plot, characters, theme, conflict, are done in acts, have dialog, and so on.
I write mostly short stories, “short form” in the writer’s slang. How does this fit in length-wise with other forms? Here’s a handy table:
“flash” fiction – around 1000 words long
a short story – 2.5k to 7.5k words
novelette – 7.5k to 17.5k
novella – 17.5k – 40k
novel – 40k+
These numbers are sort of fluffy; different sources might have slightly different values for the different types, but most are pretty close.
“But Parker, how many pages is that?”
If the conversation about writing and word-length continues, usually the person will ask me about pages. It’s nice to be able to classify different-length works according to word count, but what does it all really mean?
How many pages is all that?
Estimating page length is not an exact thing. Lots of different variables go into computing an overall page length figure: how many pages printed? What size book? On an electronic device? How big is the font set to?
All of that matters, but really this is just kind of avoiding the question. Let’s consider a “typical” erotic story – dialog takes more vertical space than narrative or exposition, because you’re adding a new line each time the speaker changes. All of this goes into figuring out “how many pages,” and your own mileage may vary; if you write more dialog, you’ll have more pages, but maybe not more words, right?
Looking at a few of my works of various lengths and doing the math while standardizing format to size 11 Arial font in Google Docs, I come up about 3.38 pages per 1k words, with my particular style of writing. That gives us this a new table:
“flash” fiction – 1k – about 3 and 1/3 pages
a short story – 2.5k to 7.5k – about 9 to 25 pages
novelette – 7.5k to 17.5k – 25 to 59 pages
novella – 17.5k – 40k – 59 to 135 pages
novel – 40k+ – more than 135 pages
Admittedly, 135 pages is pretty weak for a novel. Most well-reviewed novels are closer to 80k words, that is 270 pages or so. Many are longer.
How much do you charge? How much do you make?
Ahhh, a magic question.
This is usually more artfully disguised when a friend asks. “Can you really make any kind of money, doing this kind of thing?”
How much, and the details… are the topics of some other blog post.
A body’s language can also be spoken, and heard, with touch.
We each have our own applied body language, the many ways we love to be touched; gestures of the hands that form unspoken words of caress and knead. These “words” flow into sweet sentences, paragraphs that a talented masseuse whispers to your body, and your body responds. Some of the phrasing we know, long for. Much is undiscovered, waiting to be brought to light.
In the best of massages, it really is a conversation – the masseuse is speaking to your body, and you’re speaking back to her. Often it’s with your own body’s responses; a subtle arching of the back, a tightening followed by loosening.
An acceptance, and invitation of the touch, to “talk” further.
The massage studio is a place of intimacy. It’s warm, soothing, and accepting. You shed your clothes and other armor, and let your body be spoken to by one who knows how. They receive you, starting the intimate conversation with their hands, and more.
Getting to know a skillful masseuse, visiting her again and again, brings the dialog, the body languages being spoken, to a different level. Is your partner an intimate of yours, or someone specifically trained in speaking your body’s language?
Either way, letting someone become fluent in your body’s language with a long, intimate massage, you learning the language f their hands and other parts upon you, and how you express back to them with how you move your body under their hands, are all signs of an afternoon well spent… Heavenly, you could say.
Have you ever fucked in a public place?
You know how it goes: there’s the initial looking around, the nervous smile, slipping away. Pants undone and skirt up, panties pulled aside… maybe a hand over your mouth to help you keep quiet.
That delicious urgency, the rush of possibly being caught. The sounds of people fairly close. And then wondering if the world can tell you just got fucked, back there.
The smug idea you just got away with something. That sort of thing.
I’ll be in a major US city for the winter quarter and I’m looking to do some research for a series of stories I’m writing, and some related blogging. You’ll never be named or photographed, but I’m looking for someone a bit adventurous.
We’ll explore the idea of public sex – quiet corners, coatrooms, handy stairwells, changing rooms, and so on. I have a list of 20 landmarks in this amazing city of big shoulders; I need a creative partner to help me knock out this list.
I’ll pay all fees, tickets, meals, etc. It’s all research, right? I prefer students or would-be writers, but these aren’t hard requirements. If you like to write that’d be sweet, but I can handle that end of things.
If this sounds interesting to you (or a fun friend of yours), message me. Put a location or landmark you can imagine fucking at in your subject so I know the idea made you tingle.
It’s hard for an educated woman to turn her head off. That’s part of the joy of being a submissive. None of the decisions are yours. When you can’t refuse anything and can’t even move, those voices in your head go silent. All you can do, and all you are permitted to do, is feel.
– Cherise Sinclair
The craft of a master is not imposing dominance, but winning submission.
– Ann Somerville
In my “About Me” section I make the bold assertion that if you follow this blog, I’ll send you a D/s short story that’s not published anywhere else. This is true, and the story is waiting for you.
The issue is I can’t seem to pull an email address from the WordPress “Follow” button… which is a source of frustration. Send me an email at parker -dot- d -dot- dupris -at- gmail -dot- com and specify you’ve signed up and you’re wondering where the hell that story I promised is. I’ll send it straight away.
Thanks for your patience in these trying times. It truly is one of your virtues.
More on the subject of rituals, lately I’ve been thinking about the idea of marking her, endowing her with some sign of being mastered, dominated, or being owned. I understand there are many levels at play here, different assignments of intensity and “ownership.” I’m not thinking too much here about “how much” she’s owned, but rather just about the visible sign that she is.
Imagine a dominant man and a submissive woman have a relationship such that she surrenders some of her freedom to him. This can be an occasional thing like bedroom play, or it can be more serious… more of an investment on both their parts. In our lives this is consensual, born of trust, and a thing of beauty. In fiction or fantasy it can be something darker all together; a taking, and appropriation through strength and will.
We have signs attributing ownership already – engagement and wedding rings, heart pendants, hickies. I’m talking about kinkier marks.
One of the traditional rituals associated with ownership is the marking of property or territory. For the owner, it’s an exercise and a visible show of control, of egis. For the submissive, it’s just as physical a sign. It can say that she’s surrendered to him, that she acknowledges his dominion over her in some ways. When she’s away from him, the mark is a hallmark that says he’s still with her, that his will still covers and commands her.
It can be comforting to both of them.
How do you mark her as yours?
Some marks are temporary. Some marks are subtle, while others would definitely draw eyes and whispers in polite society. Like oil on a canvas, each has a color, conveys a different mood, each describes a different form of ownership.
Thumb rings through collars, welts and facials.
It is a primal urge to make what’s yours. I’d go further and say that its just as primal to accept the mark, to wear it with the knowledge of being owned.
From her point of view, I enjoy the idea that she revels in being marked as mine. That she feels like the mark is enduring, carries a bit of me with it, but also that it has to be renewed somehow.
How do you feel about it?
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The Forgotten Writer
If you search for the light, you will find it.
The writer gives life to a story, the reader keeps it alive.