Sex,Life & Frilly Bits

The Collector IV (final)

Thought I’d kick off Monday with the final, gruesome instalment of The Collector, which can be found in its own index/page. It has a few themes that I thought necessary for the main character (Samantha) to have, elements that chart her evolution. The Collector was, from its conception, a horror story and it's not for the faint of heart.

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Impressive, there was no other word to describe his robust capacity to endure the sun, and maintain a steady clipping pace. They’d filled two wooden crates, and left them in the center of each row for her to collect at the end of their session.

Crouching, with a half full bottle of water, she watched James straightening up. The moment took on a different air. Samantha likened it to the unknown, that which seeped through the collective conscious of everything; much like a waking dream. Déjà vu.

The Collector - III

The first two parts are accessible through Categories: The Collector.

The Collector - III

Looking up, ignoring the sun’s crisp glare, she smiled at his wincing face.

‘Going slightly over the forty-five degree mark makes you quiver,’ she maintained her grip. Her knees dug into the earth; she stared at her static hand. ‘You’d like me to continue….like this…’ each dry stroke pained him. Searching his eyes, she locked into his displeasure.

‘So Pavlovian. You’d like me to suck you, but you’re willing to take the second option,’ she said, her mouth widening with each passing second. ‘Does that feel good? No? Too dry…’

‘Then wet it…’ his hands gripped her shoulders, digging into her shoulder blades.

The Collector - II

I was going to apply a few dark shades to the story today, but thought it too early. When the heavy duty stuff comes out, I'll post a pre-emptive warning sign or something and the content will be under the continuation cut.

The Collector - II

Her warm, aching thighs gradually ushered her to consciousness; she sluggishly pushed through a dream, attempted to run, and awoke to the aroma of burnt toast. The odour, long absent, dragged her out of bed; she recalled her last breakfast in the kitchen, balancing on the stool as her brother Roddick hulked over the gas stove. She’d just turned eighteen; they barely knew each other. Roddick returned to sort out the estate after their mother died. Freshly divorced, he relaxed into his role as her sole guardian. It took him little time to promote himself, and fully transform into the Lord of their ramshackle manor.

She entered the kitchen; James stood, clad in a towel, over the sink.

“What are you doing?” she’d asked.

“Cooking, or trying to. This toaster’s stuffed,” he stood at the sink, scraping the sooty bread.

“Forget it. We’ll eat later; get something at the diner…”

“Meant to ask you…Do you study insects or something? The den’s crawling with butterflies. How long did it take?”

“How long did what take? I’m not an entomologist. It’s a hobby.”

“Just like the coasters, teaspoons, books…Anything you don’t collect?”

The Collector - Fiction (Part I)

I haven’t felt any urges to write pleasurable erotica, not since January anyhow. I’m hoping to continue having fun with Metamorphosis, the contemporary sans Christianity themed vampire story I started last year, but for today I thought of another kind of story. The Collector isn’t a touchy feely story. I’ll tell you from now that it won’t have a nice pretty ending. The sex is as far from the romantic stream that one can get. It’s not erotica, but a story containing sex. The two things that I thought of as I began it were Bluebeard and vineyards.

The Collector - I

The night sky exploded in splashes of quicksilver. Each vein impregnated the sky before knifing the earth. Samantha deeply inhaled, folded her arms across her chest and felt the type of accomplishment one felt after a tumultuous round in bed. Renewed, she turned, and smiled at her visitor, who sat with his back against her timber bed head.

“Better be careful,” she nodded toward the makeshift shelf above his head.

“It could be dangerous,” the man replied, eyeing the precarious evenly spaced stacks above his head. “They’re in need of a bookshelf.”

“D’you think so?” she raised her right arm, like a game show model. Vanna White meets Samantha Dubois, small town spinster or at least that is what the locals thought. Thirty two, no suitor in sight. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt, she thought.