Love Is A Crime

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eonserotica@gmail.com

Love Is A Crime

Her name was Melanie, and she stole my heart.
I was three.  She lived a few houses down, and used to babysit.
I don’t remember her parents, but I’ve heard they were indulgent.
I used to toddle down the street and ring their doorbell.
“Can Melanie come out to play?”
She would have been twelve.
Maybe she already had a boyfriend?
It took me until I was 16 to get my heart back.
Until then, I replaced it with a pretty purple stone.

Her name was Tanya, and she stole my stone.
I was four.  She lived around the corner from me.
Her mother was German, and made incredible coffee cake.
Tanya and I would hold hands, and pretend to be married.
I never did get my stone back, so I stole an extra piece of cake.
It filled the cavity nicely.

Her name was Thea, and she stole my coffee cake.
I was five.  She lived across the street from me.
Her father wasn’t German, but he looked like Hitler.
He was very strict, so Thea and I couldn’t hold hands.
Instead, we played doctor, and her sister Nell was the nurse.
Thea always seemed to need surgery on her vagina.
I really liked that cake, but I didn’t want it back from her.
Thea gave me my first kiss.
I knew the perfect place to keep it.

Her name was Kelly, and she stole my first kiss.
I was six.  She lived at the top of the street, in the cul de sac.
She had a twin sister named Carmen.  My friend Ed loved Carmen.
Carmen and Kelly’s parents were never around.
We would play tag in the woods behind the house.
If you got caught, the twins would kiss you.
Ed never got caught, but I always got caught, eventually.
Kelly took my first kiss, but she gave me dozens to replace it.

Her name was Teagan, and she stole all my kisses.
I was eight.  She lived a long way away, on the other side of town.
I never met her parents, but they seemed nice.
We met in school and she liked me because I said her name right.
“It’s TAY-gun,” I’d say, “Not TEA-ghin!”
And I’d beat the crap out of Nick, who always said her name wrong.
I walked Teagan home from school every day.
We would hold hands and talk about school, and homework.
She never gave me any kisses, but she blushed a lot,
Especially when I told her how much I liked her.
I kept her blushes where my heart used to be.

His name was Felix, and he stole my blushes.
I was twelve.  He lived a few blocks away.
His parents were weird.  French, and always saying strange things.
Without my blushes, I was willing to consider new things.
Felix and I explored these things together.
He gave me confusion, and took it away again.
He gave me fear, and a little stayed with me.
He gave me a better sense of my identity.
That, I kept.

I bumped into Melanie again, and got my heart back.
I was sixteen, and she was twenty-five.
Her husband was ruggedly handsome.  He said,
“Is this the one… ?” And she laughed,
“Yeah.  He was so cute!”
I scratched my head and watched them walk away.
It didn’t seem damaged in any way.  My heart, I mean.
And even with a better sense of myself, it still fit nicely.

Her name was Catalina, and she stole my heart.
I was seventeen, and still didn’t know any better.
Her mother was rarely around; she wanted to be in Australia.
Cat and I didn’t actually like each other,
Though we still love one another.

It took an awful lot of sex to discover that fact.
A lot of arguments, too.
Meanwhile, my friends drifted away (I let them go),
My family drifted away (I never even noticed),
My grades drifted away (I barely graduated).
We grew apart, and we grew up.
Life has a funny way of wearing away the rough edges.
We sort of like each other now.
Despite everything (or perhaps because of it) she kept my heart.
To be fair, I think I kept hers.

Well, that sums up early childhood through teen years, minus some odds and ends that aren’t in keeping with the tone of this poem.  I could probably do another for adulthood.  I could probably do an entire book of poems for every person I’ve ever loved, but I won’t bore you with that.  Instead, I will leave you with the inspiration behind my words, a letter from a woman (who used to be) named Felony.

Felony writes:

Hey Eon,

My parents named me Felony, for the way I was conceived.  The story I heard (not from my parents, mind you, but from a friend of theirs) was that in the swinging seventies they fell in with a bad crowd.
They all shared the same kinks, swapping partners, big orgies and sex parties, most of it while flying high or tripping way out.  It was natural for them to spend most of their time with the friends they made in that crowd,  but that crowd was fond of flipping off “The Man,” angry environmental demonstrations and political rallies being the least of their activities meant to undermine authority.
Some of that crew sabotaged police vehicles late at night, breaking into fenced compounds, cutting brake lines, sugaring gas tanks, setting cruisers on fire.  Others had robbed a bank or two.
My parents were encouraged to involve themselves in action against the corruption and corporate thievery of Big Brother.  High on idealism as much as anything that might have gotten up their noses, they began a series of B & Es.
They would target the wealthy homes of bankers, politicians, businessmen, even police.  They got away with it for a long time through sheer brazenness.  They were actually very intelligent, when they weren’t flying on chemicals, so they developed a system, and the system worked.  They could walk into a home, get the grand tour from the home owner himself, the whole time making notes on an official looking clipboard.  If they didn’t rob the poor sod blind during that very tour with a series of quick-fingered manouvers, or by manufacturing an excuse to separate, leaving one free to grab choice items while the other distracted the homeowner, they would use the notes they were taking right in front of their target to come back later and finish the job.
So many descriptions of my parents circulated due to the disguises they wore that it was thought, for a long time, that a crime syndicate was responsible for targeting the elite, the influential, the well-to-do.
My father once told me:  Never get too good at anything.  It makes you lazy.
My parents, so drunk on success and wealth that they spent outrageously, confident of always having more, began to take totally unnecessary risks when on the job.  My mother would seduce a police officer in his home, handcuff him to his own bed with his own cuffs, then leave him there when my father showed up to announce the house had been cleaned out.
They would set off an alarm at a mansion on purpose, drawing police and firemen to the scene, and rob the house next door right under the collective nose of authority.  When they were done, they would often go out to join the crowd that had gathered from around the neighborhood, all the looky-lous who came to stare, and start asking questions of the police, riling everyone up about slow response times, lack of leads or suspects, questioning what was being done to make the area safe again.  They implied that tax payers paid police wages, and these taxpayers paid more than anyone.  In essence, they were the officers’ real employers, and they deserved special attention.  Capitalizing on the deeply distrustful spirit of the times, when so few people believed in the leadership of the government, these scenes could rapidly devolve into entire angry neighborhoods ready to crucify what they now saw as lazy pigs, when in reality the poor men and women trying to placate them were just trying to do their jobs.
Still, it wasn’t until they joined in on a bank job (something they had once sworn they would never do) that they got caught.  True to form, they failed to take the task at hand seriously, and when the crew on that job realized my parents were a liability, they cut and ran.  With no escape, trapped in a bank vault, my parents did “the logical thing,” as they put it, to pass the time:  they made love.  For hours, over and over again, they  made love, reaffirming their devotion to one another with passionate kisses and tender touches.  By the time police had located a bank manager to open the vault, my parents were fast asleep, tangled naked in a mess of documents torn from the steel womb of the vault.
My mother gave birth to me in prison.  I was immediately given over to state custody and placed in an orphanage.  One last “screw you” to The Man, I think, forcing him to raise the child of crime, change my diapers, feed me, clothe me.
My mother dubbed me Felony.  It said so right on my birth certificate.  When I was growing up, everyone called me “Lany,” and I’ve since had my name changed legally.
I do everything legally.  I often wonder if my parents would be disappointed in me, but times have changed.  Surveillance technology, forensic science, police powers; there’s so much today that would prevent my parents from living the life they lived back then.
They did leave me with something, though.  A thing only a few people have ever known about me.  Something I’m sharing with you now because part of why I’m writing is to try to understand.  I hope this is the first steps towards knowing why.
Throughout my life, I have fantasized about being trapped.  Locked in a bank vault, like my parents, put in a cage by cruel men, tied to beds, chained to the desk of a powerful company president.  When I became sexually active, I found myself unable to reach the peaks of arousal, or orgasm, without some sort of restraint preventing my “escape.”  This always made me feel very embarassed, because I never really wanted to escape, I wanted to have sex, but I couldn’t find the words to make myself understood, and not many people knew the story of my parents and my birth.
Telling a man, “Hold me down.  Don’t let me get away.  Pin me,” was sometimes enough for the pleasure to crest, but not often.  I had a chance to get away, then.  Tied up, chained to something too heavy to move, I could submit more fully and allow myself to be brought to climax.  It hasn’t ever been difficult to convince men to do this for me.  Most men secretly want to dominate women, I think.  Control us.  I haven’t suffered from want of sexual satisfaction.  But there is another satisfaction that seems to be missing from my life… no matter how many men I get to constrain me, cage me, chain me, pin me, truss me, keep me, neither they nor I truly know why I need this.  I am not truly a submissive, by nature.  I enjoy giving my man commands, and I sometimes hate my inability to climax if I don’t submit to restraints.  It seems there is something sad being said about my life when my bed is equipped with leather straps.  Like the cage I’m truly trapped in is my own fear of living outside the lines, of breaking rules, of defining myself without reference to the expectations of society and authority.
Thank you for reading, Eon.  This has been… helpful.  One can’t really redefine oneself without first knowing what needs to be redefined.

Love,
Felony

*Image from Internet*

The Beast Within

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This excerpt comes from Christina, somewhere in Canada.  She is a single mother of a teenage boy, and has always striven to keep her private life separate from her parenting life.  But a woman has needs, and sometimes these needs must be satisfied.  As a result, she often finds herself in strange situations, taking her pleasure where she can get it, and hoping she’ll be home again in time to see her son off to school.  She has sent me a number of stories over the years, but this one was particularly vivid.

Christina writes:

I’ve been tied to the bed for more than an hour now.  My skin prickles with goosebumps.  The breeze that whispers through the room is not warm, and it lifts the edge of my barely-there negligee as much as the lacy white curtains of the four poster on which I lay.  When those curtains billow I can sometimes glimpse squat and shadowy shapes in the dimly moonlit room beyond.  The massive wardrobe.  The bedside table.  The divan.  Like perverted old gods, hunched over their phalluses, intent on my spread-eagled helplessness.
There is a clinking sound.  Ice cubes in glass tumblers?  Chain links rattling?  My host is in another room of the house somewhere, preparing a surprise.  He promises I will like it, but by now I’m cold and numb.  This is beginning to feel less like risque play and more like risky business.  My nipples are chafing painfully against the fabric of my sheer nightie.  They’re frigidly erect, and have been for a long time.  At first I was thankful for what little warmth my thin panties and thigh high stockings had to offer, but they’re no real protection.
The red silk ropes that bind me to the bed look black in the moonlight and are very thoroughly tied.  I gave up trying to wriggle free half an hour ago.  I watched him tie me up and marvelled at his strong skilled hands.  At his knowledge of knots.  His broad palms and long, dextrous digits.  The clever way they moved.
I thought, he’s so good at this… I can’t wait for him to have his way with me… I can feel myself moistening already… he’s so beautiful, the way the light plays across his dusky skin and stern features… please, please, stop playing with that rope and play with me!  Touch me you cruel patient man!  Take me!
Maybe I should have been concerned.  Where did he practice these things?  On whom?  I knew him fairly well, at least I thought I did.  But how well do we really know anybody?
He hadn’t been in town more than a few months.  He worked with some people I knew, odd jobs, construction, carpentry, finishing work, some cabinetry.  He was capable and efficient and pleasant, in a quiet, reserved sort of way.  The rumor was that he had money, and oodles of it.  Playing the stock market, something like that.  His choice of car, his home and clothing, all spoke of tasteful wealth.  Nothing ostentatious about him, nothing alarming.  Just a slow, deliberate self-assuredness that had me fantasizing about him within moments of meeting him.  Some highschool meet-the-teachers function or something – his daughter is my son’s age, but doesn’t live here.  I think he was checking out the school on the off chance his daughter decided to move in with him; I gather the ex-wife is a bit of headcase.  His daughter, Macy (short for Intimacy!), was visiting around that time, and she seemed like a charming young lady, if a bit sharp-edged.  One of those pretty kids who ruins her natural beauty with gothic getups and enough black eyeliner to be mistaken for a raccoon, though she was free with her smiles.  She wasn’t there when I met him, I met her later, but he was there.  Of course he was, but I mean… he was there.  Present.  So totally present, in a way none of the others attending were.  He drew the eye, the attention, like the sun exerting a pull on planetary bodies.  Everyone there orbited around him.
When I drew near him that first time, the first thing I noticed was the way his voice resonated inside my body.  A deep, oceanic voice.  Just by speaking he made my clitoris vibrate.  Not his fault, actually.  I had it pierced a few years ago… but the effect was startling, to say the least.  Incredibly arousing.  I wanted him to speak more, but he was so self-contained.  Concise in his speech.  Polite, sure, but he said much with few words.  It wouldn’t be enough to get me off, and frankly I was hornier than a bull elk.  So I tried to draw him into conversation, tried to get him to pleasure me with that vibrating voice, without letting him know it.  The more we spoke, the more I noticed the way his firm muscles moved under his skin.  This was a man who worked out, or practised martial arts.  And his skin!  Oh, my goodness, such a beautiful, dusky brown.  I couldn’t place his race, but I’d hazard South America somewhere.  He was broad-chested and slim at the waist.  His trousers were well-tailored and accentuated his firm bottom nicely.  Naturally I wondered about the bulge in front.  It seemed more than enough to make me happy, but was he a show-er?  Or a grow-er?
That clinking sound again.  Come on, C!  Get a grip.  Keep your head in the game.  What is he up to out there?
“Reg?” I call out.  “Reg, honey, it’s cold!  Come keep me warm!”
Does he want me to beg?  I’ll beg, if that’s what he wants.  I will kneel and worship every last inch of him with hands and mouth and spread wide any hole he asks, but I can’t do that if he’s out there.  I’ve got to make him come back in the room.  I’ve got to get him to untie me and pleasure me or let me go home.  I can’t take any more of this.  I thought I was adventurous, but I’m just bloody cold.  This isn’t what I wanted tonight.
“Reggie!” I shriek.  “Reggie, there’s an animal in the room!  REGGIE!”
I hear his hurried footsteps and the sinister sound of chains rattling.  The door flies open, making the curtains billow.  They scrape across my frigid skin.  Any other time the soft fall of lace would be erotic.  Now?  My skin is so icy the touch of the curtains is painful.
Backlit in the doorway, Reg is a monstrous silhouette seen through thin white fabric.  Something is wrong with his head.  It’s shaped funny, it’s like…
He pushes the curtain roughly aside and the light from the next room stabs my eyes.  Before they can adjust he’s straddled me on the bed and put his face right next to mine.   Something cold slithers across my throat with a quiet rattle.  Is he wearing a leash?  He’s too close and it’s too dark to make out all the details, but he’s wearing a mask.  A panicked glimpse of fur.  Yellow eyes.  Canine snout.  Lolling tongue.  Sharp teeth.  His cock is a thick line of fire from my belly button to my breasts.  Omygod, it’s huge!  He growls menacingly and I can’t help it, my body arches under him.  My clitoris shakes in terror as his bass drum rumble rolls through me.  Fear and pleasure race along my veins in equal measure.
“Did you just lie to me, little girl?” he growls.
His voice is warm cinnamon chocolate poured over my vanilla icecream skin.  Goosebumps prickle my body in waves.
“N… no.  No,” I manage, “I thought…”
Reginald throws back his head and howls.  Not like a man imitating a wolf.  Like a wolf struggling to burst free from a man.  I scream with him, all the impatience and tension and fear of the past hour let loose at once.  I’m taking a breath to scream again, scream like my life depends on it, when he bounces away, laughing this crazy infectious little boy laugh.  I’m so startled I hesitate, and that’s when he reaches up and grabs a rope hanging in the shadows and he pulls.  My bonds stretch taut and then slide up the four posts of the bed, stretching my limbs and lifting me into the air.  I’m suspended, spread wide, straining.  He loops the rope around my waist a few times and deftly secures it, supporting my middle.  It takes a little of the pressure off my burning arms and legs.
“Reg, I don’t, I can’t,” but that’s all I manage before the silk slides between my teeth.  He ties off the gag as quickly as he did the ropes, then crouches low beside the bed.  No amount of desperately turning my head lets me see him, but I can hear him.  He’s crawling around on all fours, snuffling loudly.  The chain of his leash drags on the floorboards.  He pauses at the foot of the bed, panting like an animal.  I feel the mattress sag as he puts his hands (front paws?) on the foot of the bed.  A dog, sniffing.  Curious.  Is this a bitch in heat?
Oh god, I am.  I think it was his jubilant laughter, but I don’t fear for my life anymore.  I’m still terrified, I still don’t know if I can trust him, my heart is hammering in my chest, my breasts are heaving as I gasp for air, but… I think… I think he will listen if I say the safe word.  Sunflower.  I sag in relief when I recall it, as far as the ropes will allow.  I’d almost forgotten in my panic.  But: I have the safeword.  This is just a game.  I can say the safe word and he will go back to being Reginald the gentleman.  So I can wait a little bit longer, and see what happens, can’t I?  Oh god, no I can’t.  He just gagged me.  Nobody knows I’m here, maybe I should…
He’s snuffling around the four-poster again.  I’m beginning to panic, pushing at the gag with my tongue, frantically trying to work it down over my lower lip. The gag is slowly coming loose.  He didn’t tie it tight.  I latch onto this fact like a drowning woman grabs at her saviour.  He gave me an out.  This is a game.  It has to be a game.  Maybe it is, but I’m still on the verge of hyperventilating.
Reg finishes a slow circuit of the room before making his way back to the foot of the bed, sniffing and panting.  He lifts his head as I lift mine, and the creature that stares back at me is like a werewolf.  I can’t see his body in the shadows, just this dog’s face at the foot of the bed.  A whine escapes it’s throat.  The tongue lolls out as he pants.  He sniffs closer.  This horny dog smells pussy, and he wants it.  He begins to climb onto the bed, slowly, cautiously.  Like a dog who knows his master won’t like what he’s about to do.
With a last push of my tongue, the gag falls free.  I gasp a ragged breath and shout at him.
“NO!  BAD DOG!”
I think it surprises him.  He withdraws for a moment, then moves to climb onto the bed again.
But two can play at this game.
“BAD DOG!  DOWN!”
He thumps to all fours and whines piteously.  His leash rattles.
Such a sensation of sensuous, feminine power rushes through me that I nearly come with the electric shock of it.  My cunt throbs and drips.  My clit is swollen with magic.  I have never, ever, done anything like this before.  The thrill of it fills me and reassures me.
He’s my bitch now.

Ow, ow, awoooooooooo!
Thank you for that, Christina!
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*Image from the internet*