The Morning After: Collection of Erotic Short Stories

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So surely if I ensured those needs were met, then all this crazy lust would calm down? I realised, however, that to ensure my need were properly satisfied, I needed to hook up with a real live man. A young woman on holiday explores a local town, and finds herself on a remote beach, with only two dishy builders for company. I guzzled it down anyway because the walk through the village and up the hill had left me completely parched. I knew in this heat it would be stupid to have no water to hand.

Part of me was eager to go down to the beach and take some shots, to paddle in the sea and feel the crystal clear waters washing over my feet, but I had horrible visions of myself passing out from heat stroke or dehydration or something which would certainly not be a good outcome for my first forage into the life of an independent adult.

I needed a shop.

The Morning After by Jae

Plus, it was a great excuse to talk to the builders and check them out a bit closer up. They were back at work when I turned and walked towards them, lifting stones and hoisting them into a large skip. I saw them both glancing at me as I came closer, and realised the hoisting was partly for my benefit, to demonstrate their strength and power. I was suitably impressed. They were both bloody gorgeous. One was about six foot tall, the other even taller. The taller one had darker skin and thick wavy black hair, and the other one had bronze skin and chestnut hair, cropped close in a military style.

When the delivery guy at her new office turns his attentions to newly divorced single mother Darcy, she brushes it off as flattery, but the encounter awakens something deep inside her. A desire, a lust, a growing need for intimacy, for passion, for release. Apparently the mounting excitement was due to the imminent regular Wednesday visit from the delivery guy, some kind of Adonis by all accounts, who apparently caused women to fall over themselves with lust and start acting like hormone powered boy crazy teenage girls!

My plan was to keep my head down, get my work done so I could pay the bills, and then go home to the remnants of my life. Escaping from the craziness of the city after a breakup, the last things she expects is to find romance, but when she becomes lost in the countryside of the North, she takes refuge from the snow in a cozy pub where she literally bumps into a local guy.

Like a pattern left by tea leaves. Not difficult to read the meaning. You know what is coming next. The idea frightens you and twists your stomach into jealous knots. Still, as your wife drops the underwear into the trash and sits on the toilet in an attitude of unconditional surrender, there will be an urge to speak of it, to agree to it. This is no time to be rushing into such a thing. You have to get your head straight. You need advice. Next day, show up at a local pub. Sit at the bar and order a beer with a high alcohol content.

Wait for your friend, whom you think is the ideal confidante. Here she comes, in the usual attire: a collared shirt tucked into trousers. At her wedding, she wore a tuxedo. Tell her, straight up, that you currently find yourself in a position she will understand. Is marriage just a presupposition? On the way home, think only of your wife. Filter out all thoughts of him , who in a way is no one, who will be nothing more than a list of physical traits and genetic data: neither enemy nor friend; never to be seen or heard from; all but nonexistent.


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It is nearly ten of the clock when you open the door. Call out a hello. You will find her on the bed with a glass of wine and a book. Swallow your heart. Tell her. And so did Goodman Pritchard find himself in a great strait. Unable to tell anyone else of his affliction, for he knew they would seem to see what most assuredly had vanished; and unable even to attempt communion with his wife, for how could he enter her if he had no means? He did not return to the tavern those next three night, but sat by the hearth in his home, feeding the fire, watching flame consume wood.

He did not answer, expecting her, as she had done two nights past, to withdraw passively into the bedchamber. But stood in the doorway for a long time while he gazed into the fire. To tell you true, I am entirely amazed. Wherefore marry me, if only to keep such cold company? The fire burned. And still, Goodwife Pritchard stood on the threshold of the bedchamber. The land of Goodman Pritchard, one hundred acres of it, lay by the northern border of the village, not far from the road that led to Boston. Very near the wilderness—and very soon was he in the wilderness. In a sea of trees that seemed endless.

In whose infinitude lurked wild animals, and savages more wild than animals, and, aye, agents of the Devil. On that winter night, as he steered his wagon farther and farther from the village, deeper and deeper into the forest, Nathaniel was affrighted by all such danger and evil. But more affrighted was he by the spectre of a shame to which the embarrassments of the last month would pale in comparison.

So, Nathaniel was terrified now: not only of the real possibility of being called before the reverend and the village elders to answer for his failures but also of the prospect of losing Bridget, in whose bosom his heart had long taken up its lodging, and of a future in which he would be all alone, with no woman and no children. The horse slowed and stopped.

The goodman had reached a very dark place. Where the road was scarcely visible. Where the trees, though stripped naked by the season, blocked the light of the waxing moon, for the upper branches had come to intertwist—and when Nathaniel looked up, he believed the boughs overhead to be writhing like serpents in a nest. And how cold it was! Scarcely did a tear drop from his eye before it turned to ice.

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He wiped the crystal from his cheek. You have some few queer questions. Come down and walk with me, and we will speak on it. Open an account. Decide upon a password. Confirm it. Choose a lost-password question. You can now begin to search for donors by selecting attributes.

This 'Bookstore Erotica' Is Being Sold To Raise Funds For A Struggling Independent Bookstore

Ethnicity; height; education level; ancestry. The fathers-to-be have no proper names, only numbers. Donor Making you think of some science-fictional dystopia in which all procreation is controlled by an evil cryobanking corporation that exploits a genetically engineered workforce of breeders. Pay for a Level III subscription and gain access for ninety days to extended profiles, facial feature reports, and childhood photos. You and your wife will search the profiles separately, choose ten donors, and see if you make any choices in common.

Late one night, fifth of bourbon in reach, visit the website. Thinking, while the home page invites you to narrow the search: Christ, even this online. Select the skin, hair, and eye colors corresponding to your own. Then ask yourself: Why the same colors? What is the goal here? To blur the line between you and the genetic father and so secure a future unfraught with suspicions and questions? Click on a profile. Picture of a four- or five-year-old with thick shiny hair and a winning smile, a boy destined to grow up and get paid to shoot his load into a glass tube that can now be purchased for a price between and dollars US depending on motility—i.

In the end, reach a kind of agreement. Green eyes. Average build. Musical instrument: Trumpet. Paternal grandmother: Artist. Favorite color: Cerulean. Number of mobile spermatozoa per milliliter after thawing: Twenty million. And the word of the evil one did prove good. For Nathaniel, on his return from the forest, passed neither cart nor rider; and upon emerging from the trees and coming in view of his frozen fields, saw no wood smoke rising heavenward from the chimney of his cottage.

He stabled the horse. Entered the house.

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Indeed, his wife was still asleep. He laid a log on the embers in the hearth; and with a few breaths directed at the bed of glowing coals, brought the fire to life. He removed greatcoat, then boots. And touched there.

An erotic morning ritual to wake up to...

The bargain he had struck in the forest was no dream. Not only was his member returned to its rightful place—it was erected, and as solid as the rock upon which the Lord had built His Church. They were at table, enjoying a supper of pork and turnips with cups of fermented cider. A tallow candle burning between them. Even in the dim light, the bloom in her cheeks was unmistakable. Noticed you no change in me? But sure he knew. It had happened, as he knew it would. As the Infernal Chymist had guaranteed.

His wife was with child. A fortnight. Such were the terms of the hellish compact. Signed in his own blood. Within a fortnight of the birth day must Nathaniel Pritchard return to the forest. Not alone: with his newborn child. That he was soon to be a father. Or that he had sworn to do a thing that no Gospel Christian would ever dream of. See how similarities continue to accrue.

The Morning After

Of course, if you confide in someone, that person is unlikely to set in motion a series of events resulting in your being publicly burned to death. But this is a question for historians. Not one. However, reason is only part of the picture. Other forces in operation here include: will, emotion, imagination. If you are going to be a father—a real father—you must believe you are one, and must lose yourself in a story of fatherhood, to a point maybe where you almost forget the thing that began the story, in the sense that it becomes so irrelevant over time that, for all intents and purposes, it never happened.

Attempt to explain your position in these terms. She, after giving you a long look teetering on the edge of patience, will close her eyes, shake her head, and, unlocking her phone, proceed to check messages. All through that spring and summer of were the dreams of Nathaniel Pritchard corrupted. He would return to the cottage after a day of ploughing or sowing to find his sweet wife in the kitchen, belly full of child, humming a hymn tune, and he would eat the evening meal with her, speaking on topics such as the making of a cradle or the choosing of a name—afterwhich, frighted, he would carry these notions into sleep, where they would be made monstrous by the powers of the dark.

Day by day did the baby grow in the womb; in the fields grew the flint corn and rye. Until, one Indian summer morn after the harvest, the pains began. In accord with custom was the father sent away. If a boy, the task would be terror enough. But a girl. Dear child. Pray, judge him not. For in those days there was a moving plot in the country and scarce did anything happen but the Devil be in it somewhere.

It was merely one child. Who might in the normal course have been lost to any number of ills or accidents. Over the next twelve year, there would be between Nathaniel and Bridget much corporeal communion.

THE MORNING AFTER: SEXUAL ASSAULT SHORT FILM

Six more children would she bear two would die before speaking a word , but not a single one without the first had served as payment. It may move you little that Nathaniel Pritchard cried an ocean of salt tears the night he stole his firstborn and took her into the forest. But he did cry an ocean. As he would each year thereafter, on the anniversary of that September day. For always on that day did Nathaniel go into the forest, into that realm of abominations, with a garland of wildflowers to lay upon the spot where he had stood that night in , holding the baby in his arms, smelling her milkbreath, waiting for the bootheel of Lucifer.

You are in this dark forest. At least this time no one can see you. Whoever was here is going away—in what sounds like a horse-drawn cart. Clopping hooves, circumvolving wheels. Fading, fading, gone. Leaving you completely alone. Or maybe not. No sooner will her tiny head come to rest on your chest than you will be torn away from that world. Wake up.


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  • The baby—the real one—is crying. Squint at the numbers on the clock. Your wife will nudge you in the small of the back.

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    Your turn. As you go to the crib, the dream is forming again, like a wave, in the deep of your mind, now cresting, now crashing. For a few seconds, you are in that forest again. Holding the baby. She belongs to someone else. Someone long gone into a darkness outside the scope of your subconscious. But you. You are there for her now.

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