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A Walk In The Woods

A story written for InMyHandsAudioErotica

Sound coming soon


Walk In The Woods – Male POV

The woods were dark and full of shadows. This was his favorite part of the path, where one world ended, and another world began. The branches of the trees were closely interwoven above and around the narrow walk, blocking out the sun. The air here was warm, drenched in an embracing promise. He had a soft place to stretch out and relax in the heat.

Until he heard the light step of a woman on the path.

She was careful, as if she picked her way among scattered stars of flowers, not wanting to crush a single petal. In silence he watched her, a basket in her hand, taking the short-cut through the woods, but in no hurry to reach her destination.

She must know of the dangers. This part of the wood held a reputation for dark lurking things.

Her dress flashed bright in the dim, flags of translucent, tempting white. Her blouse, low and square across her chest, revealed the exposed base of her throat, the gentle lines of her clavicles, and sloping curves of her breasts.

Sensitive skin. Kissed with the humid air.

As yet, untouched. Unmarked.

She moved free and sensuous unbound by all restraints. His dark, hungry self uncoiled and stretched. Readied. Blooded tension filling his muscles, his limbs. It looked to him like she wore no undergarments - the excess trappings and bindings of life discarded before coming to this deep, dark wood.

She was an invitation to a wolf like him-a hungry monster of a male. He couldn’t remember the last time he feasted on a woman or held a female soft and receptive beneath his hands, his body and his bite.

Coming out from the trees, he blocked her path, offering her his best smile of welcome. Her restless daring made his mouth water.

“Hello there,” he said, as if licking at a sticky drip of glowing, golden honey.

A tiny gasp escaped her, a burst of breath past full lips he found enticing. He saw the rise of her breasts beneath the thin, clinging cotton of her top, shadows shifting as she raised her arms, and pulled her basket to her chest.

A defensive response, but she did not run. She didn’t even look around for a way to escape. Her hands clenched and unclenched and hips shifted beneath her skirts, from side to side, as if the humid moisture of this place clung and beaded in her swelling secret places.

Such delicious possibilities in discovering secrets. The idea slid down his spine in a flow of molten desire.

"Where are you going today, little girl?"

Bowed before, she straightened, and chin lifting. She was not a little girl; he was well aware. But he knew to watch for how a woman responded to playful endearments. When she lowered her backet, he saw the outline of peaked nipples. And her hips shifted yet again, legs rubbing. Were her inner muscles clenching? He was Hunter, aware of all the signals she sent him. The ones she planned and the ones she had not.

He waited for her answer, smiling and open, letting his intention show in his eyes as he took in her presence in this space. His space. Giving in to the urge, he swiped his tongue over his bottom lip, teasing her. Tempting her.

All she needed to do was say the words, and he could be using his tongue to lick other places, seek out other tastes and textures. Intentionally, he softened his aggression, cocked his head, rolled his shoulders and opened his arms, daring her to touch him and discover where curiosity might take her.

He was blatant invitation.

They were all alone here. Enclosed in the velvet heat of a pine needle bed. Anything could happen. She could be who she wanted to be- he would not reject her. From virginal innocence to educated courtesan, none of that mattered if she consented to his fingers on her skin and his hands discovering secrets.

His cock warmed, swelled, ready for her answer.

Together, they were the cusp of a whisper, the answer to an intimate question, the unfolding of carnal, raw knowledge. The hum of anticipation singed his belly with building urgency. He said, “Perhaps you are going nowhere. Perhaps you were just coming here. To me?"

He took one step towards her.

She took two steps back.

His growl escaped him. Rather than send her running, his sound rippled over her skin, her gasps turned to swallowed moans. She felt him.

She liked it.

The pink of her cheeks deepened down her neck. Lower. How low? Her breaths turned to pants. Shielding her eyes from his knowledge, she tried to hide herself, but her body responded honestly when her mind confused simple questions. He recognized the contradictions.

She wanted.

But her yes was undecided.

He grinned at her, let his smile split wide. As sweet as a lamb, as careful as a vixen, she did not know who she wanted to be today. But he–he had no doubt of his hunter, his hunger, or his wolf. Predator need flooded his senses, full and hard, the want leashed with her continued silence.

The scent of her danced, a perfume quivering with her quickened heartbeat right at the edge of his awareness. Deliberately, he covered her with a half lidded lambent gaze, bold with the hot of his desire to chase down that scent and capture it for his own.

She watched, mesmerized, as he licked his bottom lip again, tasting the salty musk of a curious, needy woman in the air.

How she wanted to pet him. And he knew it.

He knew it.

What price could he make her pay for the privilege?
31st May
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Laughter Is Good ... or something like that

This was written as a "spoof," or satire of "bad" erotica.

NSFW warning
CRINGE warning

Mistaken identity

Because Kitten was a very good girl, she knew to check her phone regularly through the day for messages from her Mister. He often had tasks for her. Some chores were mundane, like what to make for dinner. Some more sexy and complicated, like what to wear or not wear, or just how he wanted her to be ready for him when he walked in the door.

There was no message at noon, and none at one, but at two, she saw his name.

“Take the cucumber from the refrigerator
and play with it before I arrive.
Use it in all your holes, your gob,
your coochie coo, your little puckered flower.
Drench it in your spit,
lube only if needed,
have it seated deep,
and be ready, on your back,
legs wide, I want to see you first thing
when I walk in through that door.”

Ever obedient and sweet, Kitten did as she was told. She went to the fridge. Wearing a frown of concern,she saw no cucumbers only a jar of giant pickles. Was that what Sir meant? Would that work? Wouldn’t it be squished and squeezed to nothing? She wondered if just one would do, or if a task like this would take more than two.

She didn’t see, in its clean clear case, the special glass cucumber dildo chilling on the shelf. A gift bought just for her. Kitten was new at this playful game, her Mister Master was the pro. She took him at his every word, asking few questions-delighting in his manly control.

She grabbed two towels, then paused in thought and grabbed three. Spreading them on the floor near the front door, she arranged a makeshift pad all as best as she could think. Added a pillow to the pile as a cushion for her head.

The idea of performing for her lover filled her with joy and pleasure. De-robing from her clothing, she could feel a buzz of anticipation building. Nipples tightening like long eraser pencil ends, puckering-up in hope of finger pulling. Her own creamy luscious, full breasts swelling in anticipation of agony, of being on display. Her belly taunt and trembling, her nerve endings began a low song in hopeful melody. It would be hours before her Master was home, hours of her swelling, gleaming, ripening.

She lay down on the floor setting jar and lube to the side. Her over-eager Kitten fingers danced over the velvet of her naked skin and she giggled, soaking in the idea of this forbidden food sin. The pickle she plucked from the glass mouth felt fat in her hand-nubby, cock shaped, dripping vinegar and fine-chopped garlic.It was so, so cold -made her shiver. She hummed as the pickle juice drippings slipped bright greenish gold over her pale naked skin. Teasing her nipple tips to diamond hardness, basking in the thick green glory pole, her thighs started to quake in expectation.

All her holes, her Sir said, so her mouth would be the first. This giant soured cucumber was thicker but shorter than her Master Sir. She moaned in reverent musing as she rubbed the broad end over her cheeks and lips and teased the top with tongue. Kitten lay back, relaxed, and sucked the delicious, perfect pickle just the way she would suck her Mister Master beefy man stick. Her mouth a ring, her tongue dancing, she let the club sized chub slide to the back of her throat, sucking the imitation love muscle as her favorite kind treat. One hand held the pickle, while her other hand stray to her own dampening feminine landing flaps.

She lost herself in memories, in taste, in smells, trusting the floppy, sloppy vegetable back and forth in her mouth while edging her squish mitten with gentle pressured fingertips. Kitten found herself quickly at the precipice of the ultimate stimulant, where she was forbidden to trespass without Master’s permission. She pulled her hand away, arching, plush butt-cheeks clenching, accidentally biting down hard on the pickled truncheon lodged firmly in her kisser.

Eyes wide, Kitten realized, she’d bitten through the imaginary may-pole of her Mister.

As she continued to chew, she blanched white inside to know, that this would be found disobedient. Teeth on Master’s pecker was an unsanctioned crime of punishable passion. Kitten masticated the evidence as quickly as she could manage. What if he had thought to count each pickle in the jar? What if he knew exactly how many this task would take?

Why a pickle, soft but firm, to shove into every hole? Did he really think a single preserved vinegar cucumber would last the test she’d been set? Why not that nice, cute glass knobby thing, they’d looked at last week in the online store? But it was not Kitten’s job to question and whinging was never permitted. She was to execute the test as best she could, and be ready-spread legged and eager-for when Sir set the key to his front door.

Every hole meant choosing a new pickled poker for the task. She still had her pussy and her ass, but doubted even more now, just how far one jarred green torpedo could last. Her Sir often praised the tightness of her cock sleeve, the sweetness of her back door greetings, and his delight at her deep inner squeezing. Carefully she chose size, shape, and durability, looking for a surrogate rutter that would survive being shoved past her precious rosy pucker.

In preparation she did choose lube, hoping that was smarter. Up on all fours, back-end pointed at the door just in case Sir arrived home early, she gooed her fingers in shiny faux cum. Kitten shoved her own two digits inside as far as she could, past in her ruched and pleated rectum entrance. Again and again until well coated, until personal lubricant oozed and the entrance to her bunghole felt well-stretched, ready for pickled penetration.

Returning to her back, head resting on her pillow, Kitten used the garden schlong for self service at her feminine entrance. She quivered at the cold, but her hot, steamy body quickly warmed it. Gently she rubbed the wet, chilly masculine shaped protuberance against all the seams of her needy lady beaver. Despite the unfortunate incident with her teeth, her nethers were sensitized and leaky, aching for more pressure and deeper penetration. One hand held the pickle, one hand found her breast, as she did as she was told, teasing herself again in the direction of that most prohibited peak.

Kitten circled her hill of Eden, manipulated the nerve bundle center with the purchased vegetable in her right hand, while her left pulled and tugged the rounded pink cherry of her tit. Desire bubbled and built until she was just to the perilous point of plunging over into gasping glory before lowering the pretend tallywacker to the gaping, begging, beginning of her snatch. The tool was wet, but she was wetter, always ready to cum for Master. Moaning and groaning, plucking nipple and thrusting pickle, she tormented her crying cooter. Before deciding she felt ready to breach the deeper pink of her arse hole and discover if the chosen pickle could penetrate her log-pinching peach.

Her need had grown so greedy, Kitten wanted something firm and hard and certain. She wanted push-deep, a little pain to make her whimper, while her attentive fingers would keep her circling the highest summit of that almost-not-quite-erotic spike. Riming the ruffled ridges of her darkest, dirtiest, secret place, she forced herself to pant, relax, and just push back as she pushed the precocious pickle in.

It took great effort not to strangle the Mister Masters greeny monster, effort that slicked Kitten’s body from head to toe and wrecked her make-up with feminine sweat. Tears came to her eyes, as vinegar, garlic, and dill, mixed with the organic slip and slide, until at last the wide round end of the preserved gord sank into her pre-moistened dark back-passage portal.
“Oh, don’t clench,” she warned herself, her body wanting to do just that. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t, for she was sure if she did, she’d squish that giant pickle from firm and fine right down to smish-smashed splooge, and have it oozing from her ass like too much condiment from a bun.

Just then the door unlatched, pushed in with her work-suited Sir standing in its frame. His smile of greeting faded quickly to baffled, as he smelled woman, dill and distinct vinegar in the air.

“Kitten.” He said.

And that was all it took. Her body, caught on that never ending verge of pleasing him. His name for her completely did her in. With a gasp and a shudder and helpless surrender, her muscles seized, her back end squeezed, and she came hard, jerking all over like a landed fish, with a side of relish but without the dish.
9th March
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Thoughts On Isolation

Can the soul die from a lack of caressing, from a dearth of touching? Will science one day discover in some study that the light of the soul is maintained bright by human encounters, by touching, talking, knowing – by that friendly tap of fingers on the back of a hand or nudge of a shoulder, or the emotive sounds of tears and laughter.

I have never studied it, but there is something unique and powerful in the energy of the soul, the light caged within flesh. We are all a unique power source. A torch. A mobile charging station. And mobility, the movement into rooms filled with burning, living, breathing, is what charges us, keeps us running, keeps us going, keeps us human.

Will science one day discover that our fears, anxieties, insecurities, our taking sides for tribes that separate instead of unifying and even the shape of our individual identities were harmed, bruised, wilted, by the years of fear and enforcement of isolation?

We are souls, and we did not know it-before it was taken from us-how much we needed to stand in the grocery line, almost touching strangers with our energy, their frown, their grin, the whine of that demanding child. It was once an imposition. Lines and crowds and waiting too long for waiters at restaurants. But now…how many of us ache for the brush of stranger’s shoulder against our own?

My soul won’t die. Nor will yours. But I hope I do not forget. I hope one day, being out and about and the sharing and collecting of human energy, will be a privilege I can be grateful for.
25th January
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Granny Panties

I told this story on my podcast during an interview with May More. Here is the written version:

My grandmother had passed and it was time to clean out her room at the nursing home. We had to go through her things, without holding onto every scrap like it was treasure, without getting emotional. My mom’s mom, Maxine, Grandma Fire Engine (because she lived across the street from a firehouse). My kid’s great grandma.

She was my laid-back grandma. I spent a good portion of my childhood at her house, dragging out the toys, watching cartoons, eating my Grandpa’s grapes and the ding dong cupcakes he liked to take for lunch. I don't ever remember being yelled at for any of it. Only lightly teased. There are a few photos she snapped of her living room after the over-nights with the trash-fire that were visits from my brother and I - the couch had lost it cushions and the picture on the wall above it hung tilted.

Grandmas was tall, not fat, and sturdily built. I don't remember her having hips or trying to pull off something as sophisticated as "lady-like." She smoked heavily, bowled a great game, and canned all the vegetables Grandpa brought in from the garden.

A survivor of the depression, she was a strong woman who rarely complained, except about things that were very distant. Her childhood, being one of them. She told me one of her favorite birthday gifts was a broken lamp and explained to me with how she had set up that lamp and pretended to read from its light. She was so happy to have gotten her very own lamp. She loved that lamp.

Grandma was an excellent storyteller. She also told me about the angry Chief Falling-Rocks who threw rocks at cars from the tops of highest hills. This explained the highway signs, BEWARE OF FALLING ROCKS.

When she passed in 2010, I realized there were five of the same white and turquoise blue polyester suits from the late 70’s early 80’s in her closet, and that she had worn them to every, “nice,” event over the last 25 years that I could remember. My wedding, graduations, birthdays, big family dinners and church. Blue pants, white shirt, blue vest. One had a blue jacket. The white shirt was that wonderful durable polyester that never gets soft and never wears out. A little stretch–no ironing required.

Most of her clothing was that way, out-dated. Well used. It wouldn't be good to donate.

The drawers of her dresser had innumerable socks. So many socks. Several lonely, mateless ones that had likely been missing the other half for years. I sorted through underwear, scarves, pajamas, and a few little stashed boxes of grandma's memories, when I suddenly came across the item of my dreams.

It was the most amazing find.

In perfect mint condition. Never used.

Never worn. Just my size.

Padded underwear!

I never connected the dots, but grandmother was top heavy, without much of a waist, and had a wide, flat, backside.

Just like me.

Grandma's personal sitting pad was as flat as a cookie sheet. As flabby as a pancake. As straight up and down as the backside of a barn.

I'd spent my younger life thinking I had a nice little butt, but post kids, that little butt melted away to nothing. Not that I had lost any weight or fat. No, the back bulge migrated to the front bulge, complete with dimples and a center crease. You know what I am talking about. I guess this generation calls that a fupa. I call it front-butt.

Everyone laughed when I said my butt was on backwards. But, let me tell you, this is very easy to prove. I got nothing in the trunk and everything in the front!

Apparently, butt migration is a family trait.

My grandmother, my own mother, and now here I was. But Grandma had done something about hers. She had not just settled for flat, flabby and bony. Enterprising woman that she was, she had found underwear to correct the issue.

Padded granny panties.

Literally more cushion for the pushin’.

I held them up like treasure.

Do I dare?

Oh, you bet your booty I dare.

I grabbed those babies as if they were worth millions and put them in my stack of things to take home.

My heart beating with giddy joy, my flat booty swishing side to side with determined hope.

Finally, I hoped, I could wear clothes that filled out the back side and wouldn't catch on the flub of my front side because I would have a juicy-licous booty to hold them up! What a gorgeous legacy Grandma had left me.

Yes! I could shake it like Shakera. I would work it like Jay-Lo.

I could now go forth and change the world with my delightful, artificially, but not surgically, plumped behind! Just like my beer-swiggin'- story tellin'- great- game bowlin' Gramma Fire Engine.

I could just imagine her wearing them under her blue pant-suit. They looked brand new...but maybe she had worn them to my brother's highschool graduation, maybe she had them on at her 50th anniversary celebration?

But would they work? Would anyone see a difference? Would I feel different? Full of swaggar and confidence, just like my hard-working, tough Grandma? Were all my dreams about to come true or be deflated forever. Was this just wishful thinking?

Would I look utterly ridiculous?

I don't have much in the way of a bottom or hips. My curves are a little higher on my body and end at my ribs. Top heavy.

Can anything short of duct taping silicone to my butt save me from my flat sitting pad and long thighs? Did I just find deliverance among my dear grandmother's things?

I took my wonder-ware to Reno, Nevada with me – I’d test drive these babies publicly at my nephew's graduation. Would there be a difference? Would people notice? And yes. I really did this.

I have photo proof.

Isoellen Writes Isoellen Writes

I wore them more than once.

It isn’t a big difference.

Just a butt boosting, curve of possibility.

And there are times when we can always use a little of that. My grandma, for all her indomitable spirit, survivor of the great depression, part of the work force of WW2, and mother of three, even she needed that.

Plus, wearing them made me feel like I had a secret. And that was endless amounts of fun.
6th January
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Long Winded Musing

Every writer needs a website, a landing place, that helps people find them. I often quip that I've spread myself all over the internet, like butter on toast. I should be easy enough to find. Why on earth do I need a blog or a website?

For people to find, of course. For the person who investigates, follows links, wants to know more. And yet, I am rather shocked when anyone clicks the link and comes to visit. It's like a stranger stumbling on my doorstep who isn't a stranger. If you have come here, you know enough to know my weird name. You know enough to search me out.

So Hello. Thank you for visiting. A couple of gentleman writers have visited, scrolled through these sloppily drafted musings of mine. Hello to you, Sirs. My target audience is female, gents are the curious breed I only pretend to understand

I recently received one of the best critiques I have ever gotten from an anonymous gentleman. If that is you, thank you. Thank you very, very much.

Wait, that's not true. I was in a critique group a decade ago and received similar detailed responses from men who later became established traditional writers - I got to read some of their chapters in the raw. This feels like a claim to fame.

Men think differently than women, are wonderfully clear and straightforward. They connect with the writing in an analytical way that most women do not - even if it is romance, even if it’s romantic erotica. Men tend to see in a clear, linear way that most of my women beta readers do not express. My women readers connect on an intuitive, emotional level. To have a man read through and carefully and give his all to the reading, can be scary. Line by line. But how can I improve my writing if I don’t get feedback.

This isn't an insult to my women readers, I need women to connect emotionally to what I write. If I don't, ladies if you don't connect, frankly, it's trash and not worth anyone's time to create. Scene by scene, my goal is not to waste my reader's time.

But the male perspective differs from the female and getting a chance to hear it is fabulous.

Writers WRITE

I'm still struggling a bit with embracing the whole "good writer" thing. I don't want to give myself the "impostor syndrome" dejour label. Because I'm old enough to know that skill takes time and effort. Mastery of a skill takes ten years or more. NO SHORT CUTS. I've been writing my whole life, but I'm rusty, lazy, and out of practice. I have not spent my time challenging myself, growing, learning.

I want to do more than sell books. I want to peddle fantasies, shape words, weave dreams. I want to give women the impossible love experiences we all long for, the fairy tale with the happy ending, filled with readable, intimate, emotional and sexy moments. And I want to do it well. Show don't tell. Find poetry in eroticism. Find the music in the words. It sounds awfully arrogant to say it - but it is the dream I have always had. I ache to be good at something, to be significant.

And you, making your way here, to discover more about ME. Makes me feel significant.

Thank you.

Sincerely,

Iso
17th December
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