D.E.S.I.R.E.

Delectable, Erogenous, Salacious, Insatiable, Rousing, Enticing

 

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Suggested Audio Jukebox:

[1] The Smiths Stop Me If You Think You’ve Heard This One Before
[2] Don Pablo’s Animals Venus
[3] Philip Bailey & Phil Collins Easy Lover
[4] Chris Isaak Wicked Game

 

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desire
noun: a strong feeling of wanting to have something or wishing for something to happen.

You guessed it Grueheads, the time has come for me to cast my roving eye over desire, an emotion so powerful that they went and named a streetcar after it. So let’s roll those sleeves straight up shall we? Tell you what, I’ll get the ball rolling. Desire is something that exists in every single one of us and, while hysterectomies and vasectomies may stem the flow to certain regions at least, it manifests in so many other ways than the plain obvious. We all feel it, whether spotting a pair of kickass sneakers in our local Footlocker or salivating over the last segment of praline chocolate prancing tantalizingly before us in its foil negligee, regardless of whether or not it is headed straight to our hips. Given that pro-creation comes so naturally to us humans, I have decided that my focus here will be on desire of the more sensual variety as there is little that fascinates me more than working out what makes us tick as sexual entities. Well that and the fact that the sight of exposed flesh gets me all hett up and I’m reasonably assured that I’m not flying solo here.

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As you will no doubt be aware by this point, I have scribed numerous erotically charged pieces during my tenure as Keeper and adorned them with all manner of enticing images of the fairer sex in various states of undress (and gents wherever possible out of the utmost respect for any insatiable female readers). Given that censorship is a swear word on Rivers of Grue, the amounts have been known to be copious and certain pieces of literature would be advisable not to peruse in your workplace as you may well get your wages docked. The way I see it, we’re all sexual beings and, besides, the naked form is something of great splendor and certainly not something to be ashamed of in my opinion. That said, I have decided to show a dash of restraint on this occasion and my reasoning is simple: less can also be more. Granted, more has a canny knack of being more also, but stop being pernickety dagnabbit or I’ll write about speckled ostrich eggs instead. Don’t make me wag the finger now as it just had a Little Jack Horner moment and broke through the tissue during the obligatory back-to-front wipe. Too much information perhaps? Okay, then please allow me to rein us back in some and remind you that I was merely joshing on this occasion.

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It’s the hint of firm nipples through a silk blouse, the visible shape of rounded buttocks from beneath a veil of polyester, and those come-to-bed eyes which tease us into submission whilst keeping us on a short leash like lap-dogs. On these occasions, less is more, and all we need to feel that twinge in our hubs. You see, once we have been introduced to enough bare flesh, eventually we become desensitized and the naked form can misplace some of its seductive swagger. My case in point is this: I love Orange Matchmakers and could eat a box in the time it would take a paralyzed sperm whale to sink to the algae. However I have eaten enough of these infuriatingly moreish little buggers over the years to shit a nobbly terradome and, as a direct result, they just ain’t quite as delightful as they once were (I’d still snort ’em like a meth-addled anteater if you placed a box on in my lap hamper, let it be known). But there ain’t that a great deal to spare since my serotonin feeders went on strike in The Great Depression of 2013.

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I’m always game for an experiment so tonight my lovelies I shall attempt the unattemptable. I’m going to settle for less and feel quietly confident that you’ll still find much within this gift to desire. Call it my science project if you like as I wish to reveal all sides of myself and, if some of my previous erotic pieces have suggested me to be some kind of sexual panther, then it might surprise you to learn that I’m actually shy, respectful and a most courteous lover. I know right? You would have sworn blind that I was a deviant but, the truth is, I’m actually rather old-fashioned. Sorry to disappoint any demented heathens amongst us but I have never actually attempted to fuck around corners and neither can I boast of a thousand sexual conquests. Perhaps that is why I tend to “act out” here in my comfort zone. It’s either that or engage in a furious wank on my rooftop and I swear blind that some of the slates have been loose up there since the great storms of 2012 so it just seems safer to use prose as my cock and balls.

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Thus I have scoured the worldwide web (no apologies please, I don’t mind really) for erotic content which hints rather than forces, caresses rather than pummels and, most critically, evokes desire without spelling out the blatantly obvious. Any misguided notions that I’m going soft are both accepted and rejected graciously. And if you’re thinking me to be some kind of almighty tease then how do you like this warm apple pie? Keep scrolling once this article draws to a close and I’ll tighten those nipple clamps some by slackening the reins of good taste some. Then I’ll leave it up to you fine people to decide which is the more arousing. Of course, there is no right or wrong answer, only perspective and we all possess one of those so I’d rather you make your own mind up than offer presumption one way or another. Should I censor myself then, regardless of intention, I’m giving away your right to decide. By skirting the issue it remains taboo and I risk compromising my own beliefs. It all makes sense in my mind, everyone wins right?

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So about that breakdown then. Delectable, Erogenous, Salacious, Insatiable, Rousing, Enticing – that appears to be it in a nutshell. As already confessed, I have actually had very few sexual partners and here is my reasoning. You see, I herald from a close family unit with parents who remained united through thick or thin and three older sisters to pound me into submission should I dare exhibit even the vaguest lack of virtue. Consequently, my values are somewhat Elizabethan. I believe in courtship, prefer to explore gradually rather than go in all firearms toting and, crucially, only ever take things to gutter level if that little cherub has scored a direct hit with his arrow prior to engagement. It is my opinion that sex is not a race but, instead, a rather beneficial cardiovascular exercise that can also massage one’s soul to the power of two. I don’t desire to see what you had for brunch on our very first date, I would rather guess what the soup of the day was and soldier on with the excruciating small talk. As my dear grandmother once said – all in good time my boy, all in good time.

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Call it personal preference and I shall call it as correct as I believe that, once those endorphins begin to eject from their launch pads, there’s a tendency to blunder forth with burly trojans and man the battering rams with a valiant roar. However, in doing so, miss the whole build-up entirely. One case in point would be the rather à la mode one night stand. Whilst never one to consider myself prudish, this has always appeared something of a hollow affair. Don’t go twisting the twizzler just yet as there is much to be said for two unknowns relinquishing life’s stresses (and a fair few thimbles of sweet honey nectar) by fucking like minks and this is as dandy as it is fine should both parties consent much at the admittedly fleeting planning stage. For the record, here is how that traditionally plays out for those one-nights in heaven.

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“Wanna fuck”

“Yeah”

“Cool”

[DOINK!]

[SNOOZE]

“Zoiks!”

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Indeed, it is here that it starts to get a tad sticky Grueheads. While not a crossed word can be said of the night before’s events (ordinarily down to alcohol induced short-term memory loss), come dawn’s early(ish) light, one or both parties semi-wake to a feeling of blind terror and spend the next three agonizing minutes sliding from beneath the bedsheet like Don Juan, tracking down a pile of sweat-drenched linen, hooking it with their toes, and dragging it into their personal airspace, before wrestling into as many clothes as are necessitated not to be handcuffed the very moment they run for the hills (expendable items such as stockings bid their adieu at this point). Of course, should those easy lovers be similarly light-sleepers or rouse to violently evacuate absinthe down the side of their beds, thus sussing out the wanderlust, then cell numbers will need to be shared as is mandatory when attempting to keep face. Whether said digits are ever likely to be thumbed is by the bye as the unbearable tension has been endured and Steve McQueen would be proud. Sorry is supposedly the hardest word and ta-ta just rolls off the tongue that much easier with a stinking hangover.

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So why is the one-night stand so shameful on recollection? Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that both parties have shared in the most sacred of unions, revealed one another’s flaws and imperfections, and punched that fast forward button its 64x speed has been achieved. So when the beams of illumination shoot through the blinds heralding the dawn of a fresh day of nausea, the realization sets in that “I could have sworn she was brunette” or “that perilously primed pustule wasn’t on his chin last night in the club was it?” and we’re left feeling dreadfully exposed in more ways than one. On the flip side, oblivious also equates to one helluva Elvis face cum the all-important “where’s my cheeseburger?” moment. It’s not immoral, just not my personal flavor, and picking up suitors in bars and clubs is a lottery too far in my opinion. You think Charles Mansion possessed exquisite lock-picking skills? Nope, he just waited for the fifth chaser to be knocked back and dashed outside to hail a cab.

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So how else can we lure any unsuspecting victims into our penile zip codes anyhoots? Well that is elementary my dearest Watsons. Ladies arrange their cleavage like floral bouquets and surround themselves with the aroma of forest fruits, while alphas stuff gym socks down their skinny fit jeans with the exact same reasoning – to tease and hoodwink. It’s a relatively harmless pursuit, just suggestive enough to tickle. In the case of the sock offender, this enables them to reel in their unsuspecting quarry with the promise of saveloy when in truth only a party sausage is on the menu. Meanwhile, the tittie tantalizer can console herself with the fact that it will be too late to back out by the time she releases her bra catch and both breasts plummet to the turf like two overspilling sacks of damp cement. Such tricks of the trade are there to make best of the hand you were supplied. Show a little leg, display a tiny flash of naval and stay well away from those polar necks, and the rewards represent desire at its most rudimentary.

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This brings me rather tidily back to the topic of curtailment. So here’s the thing – I just think that suggestion is often more alluring than pushing the envelope until the postal address rubs off and restraint can be your friend if you simply allow it. Ultimately the fruits this bears are just that little more succulent. That said, those easily appalled may wish to blinker those peepers in a mouse drag or two as what’s good for the goose is also pretty upstanding for the gander apparently. While I’m not about to go all “every hole’s a goal” (lookie I just did) or anything obscene like that, I’ve waited years to break the magnifying glass out of its shrink-wrap and, having flunked Biology to the value of F, feel there would be no harm or foul in a quick swat up. Fuck straight-As with shiny stars, they will all amount to little once I fluff that interview anyhoots, an E would be a step in the right direction thus I’m aiming low.

Click here to read F.E.T.I.S.H.

 

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Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,

Richard Charles Stevens

aka

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

First Knight of TOK
#BrutalWordWrangler #CrimsonHoneyDripper #CruelWordSculptor
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013 (Revised Edition 2016)

keeper rivers of grue

El Grand Flop Out

 

aka The Everything Must Go Front and Back Yard Sale

 

Nude#2-full

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Bring out yer dead! No that’s not it. Drop ’em! Now we’re talking. Judging by the above title and mature content sticker, you’d be mistaken for expecting the following gallery to be pretty deplorable right? While the jury remains out until a flaming molotov arrives on my lap with a smouldering brazier stuffed down its neck or I am deemed only slightly guilty, I fancy myself a challenge Grueheads and we can all play this one together. How many body parts can I cram in without surrendering my gentleman status? Could it be feasible for those stiffened chaps and dishevelled flaps make an appearance or, heaven forbid, the old sheriff’s badge itself in all its bronzed glory? “Surely not” I hear you cry and that there is the red cape to a boorish bull if ever I saw one. Should I fail miserably with my commission, then I have but a solitary word for you – oopsie. Please don’t cudgel the UPS guy just because the fine china crockery you ordered from Amazon arrived as an eighty-piece set. I’m just following orders from the balmy little demon on my right shoulder. But lefty will be on-hand as a spotter won’t you Lefty? Lefty…Lefty?

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2 Comments

  1. With naked pictures or without naked pictures, I will always read what you share with us, Keeper. It is your prose, your descriptions that keep us coming back, the pictures merely lucky enough to share the stage.

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