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Antoinette M–

~ The Chronicles of a Smut Monger

Antoinette M–

Monthly Archives: September 2012

The Vampire Rubbed My Dick (M/M)

13 Thursday Sep 2012

Posted by antoinettemsmut in Free Smut

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

gay, oral sex, Vampire

The second installment of my search engine inspired smut, the gay version of The Vampire Rubbed My Cock (the straight version is on Literotica, getting read like a hussy). In another two weeks, there will be more search end inspired smut. I’m thinking either “i want to lick that pussy he rub force vampire” or “superjail uncensored episodes”. All right, I’m 90% sure it’ll be smut featuring the Warden and Alice.

The vampire rubbed my cock. I felt bad for him. No one to look after him, no one to tell him what a slayer looked liked and to not go after his dick. Even in the dim light of the alley, I could see a human need in his eyes.

I would not enjoy this kill. God, he had to be eighteen when he was turned, and that wasn’t long ago.

He kissed me. I should have a stake in his heart, and instead I was letting him kiss me. Vampire or not, he had to be half my age. His tongue touched my lips, and I opened my mouth to him. I hadn’t gotten drunk in ten years, too risky, but my head was spinning like I was on a bender.

I grabbed his tight little ass and pulled him closer. He could snap me in half, but his build was so slight I could pretend I could crush him. The way he shivered, he was pretending too.

His teeth snicked out and I clenched the stake behind my back.

He pulled away. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve been sleeping all day. I don’t normally even go to clubs like this. I’ve just been so…” He didn’t say hungry, he thought that emptiness inside him was just garden variety horniness.

Fuck, he didn’t even know he’d been turned. I was forty-five years old with millions squirrelled away in foreign banks. I didn’t need to be out getting high on adrenaline. I certainly didn’t need to be slaying vampires that were victims themselves.

They were the worst, creatures who had done no harm but had to be euthanized because one day they would. Their pleas echoed again in my head, the look of betrayal in many of their eyes, their claims that they didn’t kill humans, that my masters were wrong.

“I can’t do this,” I said, turning away from him.

He clutched my hand. “Please, please just touch me.”

“C’mon, I’ll buy you a drink.”

To my surprise, he nodded. “Thanks, I could use one.”

If he was still able to eat and drink, he must be under a month old, a baby. The bartender nodded at me and threw two whiskeys in front of us.

The boy smiled. God, what a sweet fucking smile. Like a daisy in the middle of Mount Rumpke, so pretty you couldn’t smell the waste. I tossed back my drink. He took a sip and made a face.

“I got what you need,” I said. I took his cold hand, and for once in my life, I wasn’t afraid. If I wasn’t afraid, I was going to get killed.

He stalled behind me, shaking his head. “No, I’m not going home with you.”

I took a breath and relaxed. That lithe body of his was getting ready to run away faster than he knew it could move. If I spooked him now, he’d be dead in a month. I stepped into him and leaned down to his ear. “I know what’s happening to you. You went to a bar, met a cute boy, you made out. You must have drank more than you thought, because you blacked-out. Your neck hurt like a son of a bitch the next day, and that bastard left you with the worse hickey of your life.”

“It was a party,” he whispered.

“Please come with me. It’s not safe out here for you.” I kissed his ear. “You skin is so cold.”

He wrapped his arms around me. “I know. Okay.”

Everyone stared as we left. Vampires preyed on pariahs: the homeless, prostitutes, drug addicts, and for a very long time, homosexuals. As societies’ attitude started to shift, so did the vampires’ tastes. Only old ones hunted these bars anymore. The phrase “you can’t teach an old dog new tricks” was doubly true for vampires. I guess it was true for me too, because I was here killing them ten years after I should have retired.

“Holy shit,” the kid said when I stopped in front of my car.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“I’ve never ridden in a Ferrari.”

I unlocked the doors, shaking my head. “I’m Brutus,” I said, sliding into my seat.

He snorted.

“Yeah, I know.” I scanned the street. I always knew it would happen some night, my turn to slip away into another life. I’d never pictured a vampire at my side, although it did happen from time to time, with suitably tragic endings. “What’s your name?”

“John. How’d you know about what happened to me?”

I sighed. “It’s my job to know. I kill vampires.”

Somehow, John managed to flush paler.

“You were going to kill me.”

“Yeah, but I thought I’d retire instead. Unfortunately, leaving you out there would be the same as staking you, and now you’re in the car.”

“What’re you going to do with me?”

I wished I could take my eyes off the road and turn to him, soothe him. “I’m going to teach you what your maker should have taught you, like not to go into dark alleys with vampire slayers. And I’ll feed you.”

“Why the sudden change of heart?”

“I’m tired of slaughtering the innocent with the guilty.”

An unsettled silence clung in the car. By the time the garage door was creaking open, John was bursting with questions. The first one surprised me.

“Are you really gay, or do you just pretend to be to hunt vampires?”

I gave him a smirk, then pressed my mouth to his. When he responded, I sucked his bottom lip between teeth and nipped him.

“Does that answer your question?”

“I’m not convinced,” he said, his voice low and husky, his eyes dark.

I gripped his hair and smashed his face to mine, my tongue licking his teeth. John threw his arms around my neck, crawling onto my lap.

“Hey, let’s wait until we get inside,” I said.

He gave me a sheepish smile, then wiggled his hip against my erection as I pulled into the garage.

“We’re leaving in the morning,” I told him, opening my door so he could slide out. “So don’t get too comfortable.”

“Can I go out in the day?”

“Shit, no. There’s no way I can get something organized before dawn. I guess we’ll leave the next day.”

I locked the garage down before opening the door to the house. Funny taking precautions against vampires when I had brought one home.

“Am I allergic to garlic and holy water?”

I snorted. “No. In fact, churches are a favorite hiding place for vampires because of myths about them and Christianity.”

He followed me into the kitchen. “Where did vampires come from?”

“That I don’t know.” I poured myself a measure of whiskey and got out a wine glass. With a paring knife, I cut a horizontal slash in my wrist and bled into the glass. Letting a new vampire feed directly from me was not a good idea. “Here.”

John’s nose wrinkled even as his fangs slipped in. While he was distracted I nicked his hand. “Hey, ow. What was that for?”

“Vampire’s blood has the power to heal.” I held up my bleeding wrist to him as I swiped the blade across it. “You can lick, but you can’t bite.”

I suspect it was my flesh that was more appealing to him, looking at the erection he had. He lapped the blood from my wrist, then drank down his glass.

“Thanks. I feel a lot better. Will I have to eat a lot?”

“No. That should hold you over for a few days.”

“So, you could feed me?”

“Yes. It’s not unusual for a vampire to keep a human to feed from.”

“Can I ask you something personal Brutus?”

“Yeah.”

“Why do you hunt vampires?”

I tried to shake away the image of her dark hair in a pool of blood. I didn’t understand what I was looking at, it was a shiny pink and red mess. A big man with a red stake in his hand found me crouched by the hair, stroking it, covering it with fat child tears. He picked me up, grabbed a teddy bear that wasn’t stained in gore, and carried me away.

“That’s a story for another day. Let’s go to bed.”

John fidgeted in his seat.

“You don’t have to share my bed, or if you do, we can just sleep,” I said, touching his hand.

“No, I’m just nervous. Can we just fool around?”

I kissed his cheek. “That sounds heavenly.”

I didn’t bother turning on the lights; we could both see well enough in the dark. I grabbed the hem of my shirt and John stopped me.

“Let me,” he said, stepping close to me, his cool fingers trailing over my waist.  “Are vampires very strong?”

I chuckled, lifting my arms over my head. “You could beat my ass black and blue.”

He took my belt buckle and walked me backwards to the bed. “I’d rather hold you down and have my way with you,” he whispered. His cold hands touched mine. Like little ice cubes, his fingertips crept up to encircle my wrists.

My heart juddered in my chest. Being overpowered by a horny vampire, the thought I jacked to when I was drunk enough to not be ashamed. Fear jolted my senses, bringing the world into focus. The scent of blood on his breath, his hard erection against my stomach, the tension of the bed pressing into my knees, begging me to fall.

John kissed me, his mouth bright with the taste of pennies. “You’ve jerked off to this, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What happens next?” He lips brushed against mine as he spoke.

“You fuck my mouth.”

He licked my lips. With his new found strength, he pressed me to the bed. I resisted him a little, letting him feel how powerful his body was. “Is this okay?”

“Yes.” I bowed my head to nuzzle his chest.

He pushed me onto my back and the bed thumped against the wall. “Sorry. Guess I don’t know my own strength.”

I took his hand and guided them over the scars on my body—the puncture wound that almost pierced my lung, the slash that left my glistening viscera exposed and my GI tract eternally altered, the multiple stab wounds from an attempted exsanguination.

“Fuck,” John whispered with a bit of little kid awe. His hands were on my arms, squeezing my muscles, caressing the hard flat planes of my chest. My balls tightened as my blood rushed to my dick. “Fuck,” he said again, remembering the game we played, and who was on top.

He crushed his mouth to mine, his tongue forcing my lips open. I touched his face as my panicked heart screamed at me to get away. He pressed my thighs apart with his knees and rubbed his hard erection against mine.

I moaned into his lips and nicked my tongue on his tooth.

“You’re just a big scary vampire hunter who’s thinking with his dick instead of his head huh?” John said in a sing-song voice. He took my wrists and held them over my head. My heart stopped.

Fuck, if this is how it ends, it wasn’t a bad way to go. Besides, whoever John really was, he was good, he deserved this kill. I made myself open my eyes and look at him.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” John let me go and scooted away.

“You’re not an assassin hired to kill me?” My voice was shaking.

“What? No, I was just trying to get into it.” He gave me a sheepish smile and touched my hand. “Christ Brutus, you’re scary. You know, I always wanted a scary boyfriend.”

I laughed. “I guess I always wanted one too.”

He jumped back on top of me and sucked my neck. His hands found mine again, and he held me beneath him, grinding his cock against mine. My hips bucked up at each thrust. The cold of his skin seeped through his shirt and my nipples hardened to points.

I whimpered as he pulled away, but fell silent when he took off his shirt revealing his flawless skin. The sound of his belt being unbuckled made my dick so hard it hurt.

He climbed over me, his thick white dick getting bigger and bigger as he came to crouch above my face.

“Suck it,” he said, grabbing my hair and pulling my mouth over him.

Moaning, I clutched his hips and guided him deep into my throat.

It was all the encouragement he needed. He slammed into my mouth while I choked and slobbered on his marble cock. I reached down to touch myself and with a growl John slapped my hand away. His other hand tightened in my hair, the pain making my eyes water.

John’s dick surged in my mouth and I drank down his salty cum.

Panting, he flopped down next to me. “Give me a minute and I’ll repay the favor.”

I kissed his sweaty brow before I got up and tugged at my curtains, making sure no light would burn my lover in his sleep. Luckily for him, I was no fan of the sun myself.

“Can I have some water?” he asked.

I got him a glass from the kitchen and myself another slug of whiskey. “You know, at some point, this stuff’ll start making you sick.”

“Water?”

“Anything, water, whiskey, you’re a vampire, your kind lives off of blood.”

“Oh.” He stared at his glass. “So, I shouldn’t drink this?”

“No, enjoy it while you can. Just know, soon you won’t be able to keep it down.”

He guzzled his glass then got another one from the bathroom. “You know, I love water, my friends always thought I was weird, but I dunno, I just always really liked water.”

He caught the shit eating grin on my face.

“What? Why’re you staring at me like that?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I’m just glad I didn’t make the biggest fucking mistake of my life tonight.”

“You’re supposed to say that after I give you one of my world famous lazy blow jobs.”

My dick, which had resigned itself to sleeping alone and was just getting settled, sat up at that. “World famous lazy blow job? I won’t knock it until I try it.”

John made me sit against the headboard. Laying his head on my stomach, he played with my dick and holy shit he did not lie. He spent a lot of time seeing if my dick fit between his teeth and cheek (it didn’t, not even if he shook it), if the top tasted different than the bottom, if his lips should go over his teeth or if they should be allowed to scrape me gently. All the while he played with my balls, pressed his hand against my taint. When I finally came it was a surprise. All the build up from his gentle stimulation had my hips bucking into his mouth and my balls plastered against his body.

“Jesus Christ John, I think you took ten years off my life.”

His smile was pure pride.

“Is it okay if I just pass out?” I asked.

“I’d be insulted if you didn’t,” he replied, giving me a wet sloppy kiss. “You forgot something though.”

I snorted. So he needs flatterly like he needs blood. I grabbed him, pulling his body against mine. “Is it telling you that going out tonight was the best decision I ever made?”

He squeezed my arms around him and fell asleep holding my hand. It took me a bit longer to drift off. By habit, I listened to my house make its settling down noises before I slept.

Dickens

11 Tuesday Sep 2012

Posted by antoinettemsmut in Uncategorized

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Tags

dickens, great expectations

I picked Great Expectations again recently, and am surprised at how much I’m enjoying it. The whole “eat your heart and liver” bit was great. Pip’s young child terror was palpable. In the back of my mind is the thought that this book is much better at thirty than sixteen.

I’ve always maintained that Dickens was a talented hack. In high school I read a few short stories, A Tale of Two Cities (loathed it) and Great Expectations (loved it, and I call him a hack because he capitulated to public opinion and wrote a happy ending). I didn’t understand why we were reading him though. It certainly didn’t reflect how they wanted us to write. Dear god, the man talks about everyone being a little tipsy in the most convoluted manner. “The sergeant took polite leave of the ladies, and parted from Mr. Pumblechook as from a comrade; I doubt if he were quite as fully sensible of that gentleman’s merits under arid conditions, as when something moist was going.” Even rewriting this, I want to revise it. “The sergeant took polite leave of the ladies, and parted from Mr. Pumblechook as from a comrade. I doubt he was aware of that gentleman’s merits under arid conditions, as they were currently moist.”

No, I’m not improving upon Dickens, but trying smooth it out into something more familiar. I’m supporting my point with my own urge to render his Victorian script more modern. For that matter, while we’re talking about books read in high school, my teacher didn’t even bother trying to get us to read Shakespeare. We watched the movie instead (I still read the book, but I like Shakespeare). I’d like to point out, we weren’t supposed to be writing like Shakespeare either.

Now, it’s been forever since I’ve picked up J. K. Rowlings, Vonnegut, or other books favored by that set, but they were probably more along the lines of what we should have been writing like in high school. Funny thing, you get to read those authors in college (along with greats like Shakespeare and Dickens). I don’t understand why they don’t shuffle it around a bit, give the teenagers crap they like to read, and they can read Shakespeare and Dickens and Hemingway when they can appreciate it.

Although, I should note, I don’t protest to the entirety of the high school curriculum. In general, I like short stories. If it’s difficult to read, it’s still of a manageable length. Hemingway, Dickens, Flannery O’Connor, Truman Capote, wrote delightful short stories. Hell, even Steinbeck wrote of few humorous novellas (Tortilla Flats being my favorite). Sprinkle in some Rowlings and other popular YA authors, and kids might actually enjoy high school English. They won’t have to wonder why the hell they’re being told not to write run-on sentences while reading (I’m looking at you Dickens).

I’m going to finish up Great Expectations, and after that, I’ll give A Tale of Two Cities another go. Who knows, maybe the behemoth will grow on me. I might round it up Moby Dick, which I haven’t read. I seem to through English periods in my reading (this spring it was Bronte party time).

Git yer Dickens at Gutenberg! Along with many of the other authors mentioned here.

The Golden Coin (#10)

09 Sunday Sep 2012

Posted by antoinettemsmut in Six Sentence Sunday

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Tags

Six Sentence Sunday, SSS

Jose Tapiro Y Baro [Public domain], via Wikigallery

I jumped into the room when a hand touched my shoulder. Jafari shut the door behind him, then joined his wife in feeding.
My heart pounded in my chest. Stop it, please stop it. If you keep making all that noise, they’ll hear you. It kept beating my chest, battering my breastbone.


This is an original story, chronicling how three of the characters of my upcoming novelette, The Vampire’s Gallery, met. What you missed can be found here. It’s part of Six Sentence Sunday. Click the link for more awesome stories!
Please note: This is set around 1 BC, and is light when it comes to historical accuracy. I mean, no one’s going to whip out some matches or a PSP, but there are probably details I’ll get wrong.

From the Mouths of Bulljerks

08 Saturday Sep 2012

Posted by antoinettemsmut in Writing (Amateur)

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Tags

goals, Writing

The easiest way to describe my dog Popeye to you is to say, “Men with award-winning mustaches stop us to tell us how beautiful he is.” He’s a 90 lb. American bulldog, Johnson variety, white, with black spots that are on his skin but not his fur. He’s a rescue, pretty happy-go-lucky all things considered, well mannered. His biggest drawback is if you don’t kennel him in this, he’ll break out with his face.

The other big problem with our dog is, as soon as another dog gives him that look, that, You wanna go? evil eye, he’s all: Yes, please! Around most dogs, he’s okay. One of my mother-in-law’s dogs, always starts fights (let’s call him D-Bag to protect the innocent). Putting Popeye and D-Bag in a room together is a recipe for disaster. They’re both being set up for failure (specifically, biting).

It’s easy to do that as a writer as well. While I love the idea of things like NaNoWriMo (and I should be outlining in case I again decide last minute to participate) I don’t know if they’re for everyone. For some people, that much writing, that quickly, is setting themselves up for failure. In the end, I don’t know if it matters so much what your goal is as long as you reach it. Nor is it really the end of the world to miss a few reasonable goals.

During the dog fight (you knew one was coming) husband had Popeye by the scruff, while my father-in-law was still getting D-Bag under control. He’s an old ass English bulldog, and wouldn’t you know the one thing not falling apart in his dotage would be his mouth? This is the part where Popeye, and my husband for that matter, get bit.

Dogs fight. I’m not a fan of it, I do everything to avoid it, as do all owners, but it happens. As a writer, frustration happens, emotions build to stifling levels, and you miss your private goals, or your writing feels stagnant.

It’s one thing for D-Bag and Popeye to get into it once, quite another for it to keep happening. It’s the same thing with succeeding as a writer—you can have a bad day or week, you can miss your goals, as long as you don’t keep doing that.

Part of it is recognizing your limitations. We decided to give Popeye’s leg 24 hours to chill out before we took him to the vet. While the puncture wounds were draining, the inflammation was bad, and he was uncomfortable. We gave him some post-op meds my mother-in-law had. Even though it wasn’t a full dose for him (being prescribed for a dog nearly a third his weight) it knocked him out pretty good. That night he woke us at 4 with a private mouth licking party, or at least every time I opened my eyes and told him, “Stop licking,” his head was up and all the noise coming from his chops or flus.

This went on until we gave him more meds, and they kicked in, a few hours later. I’d gotten like 4 hours of sleep. He wasn’t putting weight on his leg, so it was time to take him to the vet and hope they didn’t charge a fortune because it’s OBX (we took him here, it was $200 and he’s been a million times better ever since so we’re happy).

The first day, when he’d been drugged up, I’d just been hanging out with him, and I reached my goal of writing 3k for the Geek Love Anthology. No flipping way was that happening the next day. I managed to bang out 1k, half asleep, and I was completely happy with that, or deliriously tired, one of the two.

In fact, later that day, I was blithely drooling on my pillow when my husband came in the room and got me up. “Hey, wake up, you have to drink this bloody Mary.” I didn’t remember what he said, but lay on the bed, just barely awake, and kept looking at the bloody Mary, thinking I need to drink that.

There was a point to all this though. Getting 3k on that little sleep while fretting about the dog was a ridiculous goal. I excused myself from working and said I’d do the next 3k tomorrow. I think it’s because I didn’t have anything specific in mind I got the 1k done. If I hadn’t modified my goals, I would have approached the task with loathing instead of a something is better than nothing attitude. For that matter, doing 6k in 2 days isn’t unreasonable for me, but 21k in 7 days is.

So, set reasonable goals, drink a beer to celebrate when you meet them, and two to commiserate failure, but get back on that bulljerk, and keep him away from D-Bags.

My bulljerk, looking uncertainly at my husband’s boss. It’s like he thinks he’s a little dog.

The Vampire Rubbed My Cock Part 2

07 Friday Sep 2012

Posted by antoinettemsmut in Free Smut

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Free erotica, Free smut, oral sex, Vampire, vibrator

So, after posting the first bit on Literotica, I got two comments to the effect of there’s not a lot of smut about lady vampires. Say what? So I’m adding more, kind of a smut-on-demand thing. From now on, it’s living at Literotica, I’m just announcing the project here/pasting Part 2, as it’s still being approved. Enjoy! (Also, don’t fret, the M/M bit is coming out next Thursday as planned).

18+

I awoke to the most delicious scent in the world, my cum and cunny. I lifted myself off my beauty, stretched, and decided I needed a bath. The lovely vampire distracted me.

She was out, anatomically dead. Was it rape if I knew she wanted to dream of me, and by touching her, I would fulfill her desires? I put my hand on her thigh.

“Oh Giles.”

“My sweet thing. Can I play with your pussy while you sleep?”

“Yes…” she hissed.

I wet two fingers in my mouth and stuffed them in her pussy. “Say, ‘Fuck me with your hand Giles.'”

“Giles…”

Close enough. Turning my hand, I curled my fingers against her g-spot. Her muscles spasmed. Adding my mouth to her clit, my finger to her anus, and she came on my hand.

“What’s your name, pretty one?”

“Camille.”

This is too easy.

Showers were something I hadn’t gotten used to, and for that matter, I needed all my strength to go shopping. Camille had one of those gorgeous claw tubs vampires always had and I sank my weary body into it. First I enjoyed the cool porcelain, then the hot water. You wouldn’t know I bathed regularly by the greasy ring I left.

I took Camille’s car to the store and bought myself a lot of steak, a case of beer, and some other food. Next was a stop to my favorite store for some of my favorite things. On the way back I picked up a large bouquet of camellias.

By the time I had a steak frying, I was a little light headed. Once I’d washed the meat down with a cold beer I felt better. Rummaging through the cupboards I found a dusty vase, probably worth a small fortune, and wiped it gently with a damp paper towel, because heaven forbid you break one of their little treasures. Hopefully it wasn’t something she kept out of spite, the last gewgaw from a lover before she ate his unfaithful heart.

I set it where she’s see it, and tidied up the room. Vampires were selective cleaners, sweeping the floors, folding clothes and putting them away, but generally refusing to dust or shoo the spiders back into the wall.  I swept the bedroom, scoured the bathtub, washed my new toys, then curled up by Camille’s side to wait for her to rise.

“Giles?”

“Beside you. Are you stiff? Shall I chafe your hands?”

She laughed. “Yes. They’re stiff. How do you know so much about vampires?”

“Well, Camille, I’m a bit older than I look.” I took her hand and gently rubbed her knuckles before manipulating them.

“How did you know my name? And where did those flowers come from?”

“You told me in your sleep, and I bought them for you. Do you like them?”

“They’re lovely. You didn’t really answer my question.”

“But I did.” I stuck her two fingers in my mouth until she wiggled them out. “I told you, I’m very very old.”

“But not a vampire?” Her body quickened with the darkness, and once again life flowed in her marble veins.

I settled myself between her legs, stroking her thighs. “No, a creature known for its lust rather than blood lust.”

“A satyr?” she asked, sitting up to look at me with surprise.

“Mm…hm…” I told her pussy.

“I do feel different, like I could run through the forest and rut in the dirt.”

“The gift of my blood.” I tongued her clit and brought her off quickly. “The gift of my mouth, my body.” I thrust my fingers into her body and licked her asshole.

“What are you doing Giles?”

“I’m letting you please me, in exchange for your meal tonight.”

She moaned as I worked the tip of my tongue into her ass.

“I’ve never—”

“Hush, please me and I will teach you many things,” I said.

Camille relaxed and let me work my tongue into her asshole. I loved the feel of that thin membrane of flesh moving between my hand and tongue. I stroked her to another juddering climax.

Before she could squirm away my tongue was in her mouth.

“That’s disgusting.”

“How many centuries since you shat? There’s only a toilet in your bathroom because you’re too lazy to strip this house of it’s mortal amenities. With a name like Camille, I would say you’re a hundred and fifty years old.”

“How did you guess?”

I laughed. “Because everyone named their daughters Camille after they read La Dame aux Camélias.”

“I’m not hungry yet,” she said, batting her eyes at me.

“And I’m not finished.”

Last night I had shown restraint with the girl. Tonight, I set her upon my cock and told her to ride me like a billy goat. She giggled. Nothing brought out the young girl in a vampire like meeting someone older. She rode me, her glorious tits bouncing, and I came.

“I’m getting peckish,” she said.

“And I’m nowhere near through with you.”

I put her on her hands and knees. When I opened her drawer, she was surprised to see something new, something long and black with a red round head. I plugged it into the wall, dribbled some lube on it, and scooted underneath her. Even on low, the vibrator gave out a powerful thrum. Camille’s head hung from her shoulders as she watched me.

First I teased her labia and her legs twitched. I worked the throbbing head into the folds beside her clit, above and below her clit, over her wet entrance, until she writhed on the dancing head. I ground the vibrator into her bud, and sweet ambrosia poured from her honeyed lips into my mouth. Again and again she came, and I drank from her until her cold skin was covered with sweat.

She fell forward onto the bed, her limbs shaking. “You feed from sex.”

“Yes,” I said, kissing her damp brow. Fetching a warm wash cloth from the bathroom, I rubbed her and snuggled her body until her stiffness eased.

“Is that why you leave, because two people can’t live off one another?”

“Yes, for a month or two we can live off one another, but after that, we would grow weak.”

“I’m very hungry.”

“Then drink, my love.”

She wiped her cum from my chest before she drank from me. Again I was woken by a predawn thirst that I slaked in the sink.

“Watching you drink like that, I don’t know how I missed what you were.”

I wiped my mouth on my wrist and put no effort into passing off as human. I sank into my haunches, my legs shifting, and two tightly curled horns sprouted from my brow. Camille laughed as I jumped on the bed.

“Today, I want you to take me as I sleep, like this, half goat, half man.”

I bleated and chewed her hair. She drifted into her coma giggling. I was soon behind her, skipping off to the land of Hypnos.

My growling stomach roused me. I ate, I bathed, and I was horny again. I played with Camille’s limbs for a minute, posing her on the bed so her pert breasts pointed to the ceiling, or her clit peeked from between her lips, a shy little pearl.

I couldn’t resist tasting her, getting her off with my tongue. My immortal flower flushed pink at the attention. She twitched a little as she came. The right herbs, and she could be a day walker as well.

I rubbed my legs against hers. “Feel that Camille? That is the coarse hair of you satyr, getting ready to mount you.”

She moaned.

With a tit in one hand, I slammed into her, my dick bending when it reached her cervix. I got her knees up by her chest, and her wet channel gripped me each time I withdrew. Before I came, I pulled my dick out and painted her.

I licked one ear and whispered, “Now, I’m leaving you like this, covered in my cum, while I go run some errands.”

She hissed in her sleep.

“When I get back, I’m going to bathe you with my tongue.”

Camille’s lips twitched upward.

I threw out the wilted flowers. Bloody camellias. I’d have to get a standing order for them.

A Delicious Pairing: The Transvestite Memoirs and Grayson Perry

06 Thursday Sep 2012

Posted by antoinettemsmut in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

abbe de choise, grayson perry, transvestite

I went to go see Henry Darger. If you ever get the opportunity to go see him, I recommend it. Something images cannot convey is the sheer size of his work. There’s also all the parents who have only seen the very pretty pictures, not the dismembered slaves tied to trees with barbed wire (although, it was at the Warhol, it’s not like there’s a dearth of inappropriate material).

But I digress. Downstairs, like the cherry on top of the whipped cream on top of the sunday, was Grayson Perry.

Delightful, absolutely delightful. I remember most this bright vase with a boy dressed like little bo peep jerking off. Everything there was lush, something to linger in front of, rewarding you with little details the longer you stared.

Of the exhibits I’ve seen at the Warhol (which is probably too few to say that with any air of authority, so I guess it’s a good thing I’m writing it), Darger and Perry were my favorites. Perry in particular has something rococo about him.

Of course, rococo brings to mind the Abbe de Choisy. A flamboyant transvestite himself, he was born in the era of all things baroque. A hundred years before his time, he was the first rococo thing in France with his cavalcade of mouches (beauty marks), giant fake diamonds, real pearls, and his little husband at his side (a girl he dressed in men’s garb).

How can I make such speculations? In his old age, the Abbe wrote of his youthful adventures, leaving us with The Transvestite Memoirs (and also of his journey to Siam as part of an embassy, among other things). Not only does he present us with lists of his clothes and carriages, we learn of all those forgotten customs, like sleeping four to a bed, and the fact that going to church was the thing to do. In fact, it was at mass he overheard people saying, “But is it really true that that is a man? He is quite right pass himself off as a woman.” (Pg. 35)

So much of this book is clothes and coiffure, and what else could one write about in the time of Louis XIV? Saint Simon wrote, of the vast sums of money spent dressing to please the King, “There was no means, therefore, of being wise among so many fools.” The Abbe delivers, not only with his vanity and of love of splendor, but with his sumptuous prose. He describes his lover’s bosom thus: “They were two little apples, quite white, whose shape could be seen, with a little rosebud on each; she put a large round patch between them to accentuate their whiteness.” (Pg. 53)

I’m not spoiling any of the naughty bits of the book for you. Let’s just say that regardless of his feminine garb, the Abbe was all man. Also, I love that he’s an Abbe. I think the title was conferred upon him later in life, but can you imagine that happening today? An open cross-dresser being given an appointment in the Catholic church? The King’s brother, Monsieur, was openly gay as well. His lover came to the King one day, complaining of Monsieur, and the King just waved him away with a smile.

But again, I’m off topic. I’ll wrap this up, and leave you with some very important information—making your own mouches is easy peasy. Just find some fancy paper from the craft store and a fancy hole puncher. Punch out what shape you want (I wore a fleur de lis at my wedding), and stick it on with a little eyelash glue. Now ask yourself, what would the Abbe de Choisy do? Why, he’d put on another ten patches!

Spam Reddit ??? Profit

04 Tuesday Sep 2012

Posted by antoinettemsmut in Adventures in Smut, Writing (Amateur)

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Marketing, reddit

The missing bit of that equation is ≠. Don’t get me wrong, I love Reddit, I’m a moderator of r/smutwriters(it’s a private subreddit so you’ll have to contact the mods to get added) started by Virginia Flowers. It’s a difficult group to market to. Make friends, get beta-reads, give beta-reads, yes, but making money off it, no.

Don’t get me wrong, some people do it. The best way to go about it is to provide some service for the community while promoting yourself. I tried it by showing a redline copy I’d gotten from an editor there, and adding a little, “Hey by the way, this is my story,” and I got little to no love. Part of that was probably timing (you want to post your shit before the US goes to work; in fact, since quitting my job, I spend a lot less time on Reddit). Make sure whatever community you’re posting in isn’t in a mood. Yeah, that’s right, you can think of Reddit like a person, and sometimes Reddit gets cranky. Hang out in a community long enough, you’ll see it shift and fragment, little groups breaking off to coalesce or be reabsorbed into the greater community.

Still want to give it a shot?

I think Aubrey Watt had one of the more successful posts there. What she provided was an excellent resource for the community with her GIMP tutorials. She did such a good job in fact, she’s earned several mentions here in my conversations about cover design, though at this point I’ve advanced beyond what she covers. They’re still a great starting point though. She’s doing well too, although if you look at her bullet list, I suspect #2 has a lot to do with it. I despaired until I read that. The reality is, if I tried to write that much, I’d be turning out smut of low to mid-range quality. I suspect Aubrey Watt’s writing is more in the mid to high range, averaging somewhere in the middle.

Of course, your Reddit marketing campaign may not be hampered by the type of social awkwardness that clings to most only children (both my siblings are 10+ years older than me, and I grew up in the middle of nowhere). You may be able to navigate a forum as socially complex a 17th century French court/contemporary high school cafeteria. My advice is your energy is better spent making friends on Reddit instead of making money.

The Golden Coin (#9)

02 Sunday Sep 2012

Posted by antoinettemsmut in Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Six Sentence Sunday, SSS

My Romancing the Hop blog post is here.

Jose Tapiro Y Baro [Public domain], via Wikigallery

Hewa raised her head, blood on her lips, the limp man in her arms.
We stared at one another for a minute.
“He tried to rob me.” The man convulsed, and her long elegant fingers gripped him tighter.
“And I was hungry.” Her graceful head bent back over him, and she was more beautiful than any queen as she took his throat in her mouth.


This is an original story, chronicling how three of the characters of my upcoming novelette, The Vampire’s Gallery, met. What you missed can be found here. It’s part of Six Sentence Sunday. Click the link for more awesome stories!
Please note: This is set around 1 BC, and is light when it comes to historical accuracy. I mean, no one’s going to whip out some matches or a PSP, but there are probably details I’ll get wrong.

Newer posts →

Antoinette M–

SmutWriters, A Resource for Writers and Readers

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