13 Comments on Memory

The intention with which you pulled against the filtered end of your cigarette, your lips sucking the death out of its spongy tip the way culture sucks down words, ignited ember-ash desire low, deep, and throbbing in my gut.

I hated that you smoked.

But every drag mimicked the suckling tug of your mouth drawing at my nipples, and no matter how sore or chafed or

just.fucking.used. they felt

from the insistent teeth-scrape milking they had received the night, or the afternoon

(on the couch, remember? ~ your swollen cock dripping hot and urgent between us; my soft breasts – red tips elongated and stinging with the pain of pleasure – swaying on either side of your hot hard before I took you in my mouth, swallowing you all the way down to the wet silk embrace of my throat),

or the moment just before,

I would watch you burn the tobacco into your lungs,

inhale the anxiety,

and revel in the hot-pain pinprick
sensations shooting lines of fire
straight to my cunt.



You loved to hear that word spill from the tip of my tongue, to see and smell and taste the cream that coated my lips, to fuck inside and force-stretch the clenching tight heat against your marauding fingers after you’d bathed my womb with your seed.

We were hot and dirty.  You were hair-trigger hard and I was never not ready.  And no matter how exhausted and aching were our bodies, the sex was raw and tender and desperate and languid and bruising.


I often ached afterward, sometimes for days,

the rub of my seam against
my sumptuously battered folds
and hypersensitive slit
both a punishing abrasion
and a delicious indisposition.


Later – much later – I would know what it meant to hurt.

To be hurt.

By you.


I still feel the biting sharp tattoos of your memory, tribal scars in technicolor, inking the tegument of my anima.

The storm-sea desire that raged in your lock-gaze silence when I sat astride your cock,

the crystal snow cold your midnight irises reflected (we cannot escape our history, but what’s the point in always looking back?) when delving into your past,

the indigo tears that stained my pupils blind when you chose to walk away…


I have never known a rending so visceral as the one you inflicted.

And through all the pain, your eyes stayed blue.


I miss you still, in ways I never knew were possible, and I {will} love you, always.  (I say that, even knowing that – given the opportunity – I would never let you back in.)


Life is all memory
except for the one present moment
that goes by so quickly
you hardly catch it


I am a journeyman crafter in the art of memory.

Through time and distance, patience and practice, I have learned how to mix my colors and fine-tune my brush strokes.


I paint the things I want to see.

Manic Street Preachers lyrics for erotica prompt

NOTE:  This was written in response to Exhibit A’s current erotica challenge.  The available lyrical options are pictured above.  Mine are highlighted in fuscia.

13 thoughts on “Memory

  1. Pingback: Share Our Shit Saturday #1 #SOSS – Domme Chronicles

  2. Indigo Byrd

    Great piece of writing MF. I love how you told lots of little stories within the one larger story of relationship. (And I appreciate how you got my name in there too! – lol) The section starting with the sucking on the cigarette rang so true. It reminded me a bit of what I wrote about in What it is… amazing how we can keep going even when on a physical level we are beyond totally (gloriously) fucked.
    Indie xx
    Indigo Byrd recently posted…The Little DeathMy Profile

    1. Mrs Fever Post author

      Ah yes… You never really know how much your body can take until you’re already past what you *thought* its limits were. 🙂

      (And his eyes were a thousand different shades of blue.)


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

CommentLuv badge