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Warning the stories below are of a sexual, pornographic nature. These four short stories will be updated periodically. If you are viewing on a mobile device you may need to scrool down through the stories.

Old man sitting on bench

The Succubus

© - MAURICE O' NEILL - June 2000

She comes to me as a vision in the dead of night, a warrior traveling along the silvers of moonlight hiding herself from the stars. I’m sure she loves flowers. I’m desperately sure. She is the perfect partner that I’ve always desired to nurture the chasms of my lulling heart. What can I say about her? How can I describe this quintessence of beauty? That her face is a pearl indented with human features. That her perennial smile, delicate overbite, and rose-petal soft cheeks draws me insatiably to her side. That her presence saturates me in awe and I quiver for the naked fullness of her body and the rise and fall of her breasts sliding on my skin. Her presence gives me hope. It infuses me with a sense of wellbeing. My desires reach far beyond the expression of words and are so powerful that they defy embrace like grasping at ones’ shadow. And yet she remains aloof, as if ignorant of my torment, my pain, and the yearnings she provokes within me. Yes, she is ignorant to how she captivates me like a summer’s breath gives life to the apple blossom. Since knowing her I’ve learnt to cry. I cry with joy at the sight of her approach and I cry again at the brush of her shoulder as she departs on the last rays of moonlight. She makes me complete and shakes sense into my idiot thoughts. Once, not too long ago, while driving home from work I thought I saw her floating towards me through the grey misty haze that besets darkness. I nearly crashed my motorcycle. Her apparition personified womanly beauty. She was wearing one of those long white cheesecloth dresses so befitting her manner and physique. It was the style of dress that adorns every curve graciously while the material is sufficiently light to radiate the sensuality of magical promise. She is elegantly mature, a seductress, a succubus, a collector of hearts and I’m compelled to offer mine freely, for the persona of her aura overwhelms me. The essence of her beauty is present everywhere, like pixie dust in the air around her, it is in her glide, her grace, her presence, her smile. And her laugh is like water in a vase that must overflow as the flowers are pressed home. This is the spell she provokes that makes her so tantalizingly real. How can I prevent her from manifesting in my head and consume my thoughts? She presses me to the brink of reality as the scent of her body dances in my nostrils making me pant with excitement. She is naked with me now … in my head … in my thoughts … I feel the sticky bond of her warm skin adhere to my own and I want to cry in happiness. She touches me. I feel the stroke of her hand on the nape of my neck as she draws me into her embrace. We are perspiring … rivulets of torrent exertion … the motion of two lovers in the pureness of their act … and immediately afterwards she will leave me with my tears to face the dawn alone. How I long to feel her arms about my neck at daybreak. Her hair tossed sharing my pillow, eyes lazily looking into mine. I desire the weight of her breasts in the cup of my hands and the softness of her lips seeking the touch of my own. I crave to share toast and marmalade across a flower-laden table and to engage in the frivolous chat that makes the morning gentle and the stretch of the evening warm. I want to stroll in the evening along the banks of the canal that coils toward the romance of the moon, for in its radiant glow, I know I shall find her waiting.

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Gordon King of the Swingers

© - MAURICE O' NEILL - Janurary 2019

On Christmas day in the year 1717 Liz Whorewell, Queen of England executed Noel Macdonald, the King of Scotland in his own castle and used his blood as gravy over her turkey dinner. “Delicious,” she said smiling at her silent entourage. Like most disagreements, it started simply with a gift that weaved a cloth none could have foreseen. The scribes of the times were fearful of telling the tale, but the Irish are said to have an ignorant heart, fear none, hate less, and love a good yarn. So feel fortunate for this opportunity to read on. It all started as I said with a gift, when the King of Spain, Don Carlos Longdick presented Gordon, an Alzheimer’s suffering Colobus monkey to Liz as a gesture of friendship, while actually, he was just hopeful of getting into her bloomers. Not to drag a long story out, Liz took an exceptional liking to the black monkey with a white stripe running down his back disappearing between the cheeks of his ass. The monkey and the Queen became inseparable. Don Carlos was peeved and returned to Spain in a huff, while to Liz’s annoyance, the monkey was abstemious, forgetful and befriended any hand that fed him. One summer day Gordon swung through the Queen’s forests to the lower highlands of Scotland and thinking the trees were taller on the high ground, and what a smart monkey he was to realize this. He proceeded onwards swinging branch to branch, tree to tree until he couldn’t remember his way back. Instincts compelled him to seek higher lands and on reaching each plateau, to seek out those trees that loomed still higher. Three days passed and Gordon kept swinging. Back at Buckingham Palace, Liz was so devastated her menstrual cycle kicked in early, and with a fury. Gordon in fairness was also somewhat distraught, as there is little fruit on the trees in Scotland. He was quickly starving, and the few hard apples he found turned his crap green. Six days passed. There came a full moon in a clear sky. This rare event that sent the Druids and AJ running for the spell books. Queen Liz was in mental disarray and at the pinnacle of physical frustration– a time when a lady is at her most vulnerable and dangerous. Teary-eyed she dispatched her armies in search of Gordon, and posted a reward on every lavatory door in the Kingdom, thus ensuring all her subjects would rally to her aid. Emaciated and emancipated Gordon sought his way home. Exhausted and fingernails blackened by dirty Scottish bark Gordon fell out of a tree and ended spread-eagle and winded on his back. He lay like this on the hard earth for a while. Above him, he saw tree branches and the blue sky. He pondered a moment as to why the trees had no fruit. While pondering this problem, King Noel and his horse passed at a gallop and nearly trampled him to shreads. It was a close shave. The King halted his steer to apologize. King Noel, a man who liked men in a likable way, was agog. Never before had he laid eyes on such a character and like Liz, he was smitten. The King’s court became a jolly place, and Gordon fond of heat found himself an agreeable niche by the fire. The King dined him on exotic fruits from the royal greenhouses, graciously heated by the night fertilizer of his loyal subjects and cattle. Convinced that Gordon was a wandering foreigner to those parts, it didn’t take long before word of this most interesting nobleman, who apparently only spoke in grunts that nobody could as yet decipher, reached the ears of Queen Liz in Buckingham. She was f…ing furious and knowing King Noel’s manly ways and insidious antics broke into an almighty rage of jealousy, and she smashed her marble goblet over the court jester’s head leaving the poor man cross-eyed for life. She immediately marched her armies north by half-east, and she was carried behind them on a gigantic red silk cushion called ‘clitoris’ for it shape resembled such. It was said that ‘clitoris’ was weaved by a Greek artisan, who stitched with needles made from the bones of the Queens’ former lovers, and that the thread was preserved by boiling in a concoction of bile, honey, and urine. It was further rumored that Liz had slain each lover at the pinnacle of climax, for at their most manly powerful they are at their weakest, but this tale is for another day. Her army crossed into Scotland in a noisy rattle of armor, while Liz, exhausted, snoring like a sow on the clitoris. The resistance the English Army met was fierce. What a battle. There were bodies scattered and strewn through the burrows and in such numbers that the rabbits had to take care where they placed their dainty feet. And still, the battle raged. Vastly outnumbered the Scots resisted bravely. Kilts were fanned open and used as parachutes as the Scots swooped from the mountaintops and shit on their oppressors. Domestic animals were slaughtered, women killed, and one enterprising Scot opened a MacDonald’s on the peripheral of the battlefield. Holy murder continued with unabated persistence. The battle lasted nineteen days, four hours and thirty-two minutes until King Noel, capitulated, and invited Queen Liz for a banquet where he promised to lay his greatest treasure at her feet. Graciously, Liz accepted and being the woman she was, she called a round of drinks for everybody, friend and foe alike. All the soldiers got buggering drunk and fell easily into a happy state of regaling. Upholding the Scottish tradition of displaying ones defiance in defeat King Noel made the greatest sacrifice. He knew Gordon would be transferred from his chambers to hers. The thought was too repulsive to endure. In one of the upper castle chambers, he drew a blade across Gordon’s throat, silencing forever those grunts that so irritated the servants whom always reticent, thought Gordon to be a rude and disrespectful guest who crapped wherever the mood took and never wiped his ass. At the banquet they served Gordon’s brains sweetened with bananas and mead for starters, and from his pelt, they wove the finest most delicate, most beautiful bathmat and presented it at the Queen’s feet. Deliriously enraged her tears flowed. As she rose from her seat, her breasts wobbled like a Shakespearian actor’s voice. She felt a terrible tightness develop in her crotch. Her madness invoked she knew no bounds. King Noel who was himself in the throes of despair never noticed her walking quickly over to him. She plunged a dagger deep into his heart and twisted the hilt anticlockwise a quarter a turn, which for Royalty signifies good luck and goodbye- forever. There was a fierce letting of blood. It all happened so quickly King Noel thought it was just the pains of love and loss as he slumped over the banquet table and rolled dead to the floor. Fitting of the times the Celtic Scrolls, those men of quills and devious education were summoned to commit this act of treachery to history. They busied themselves for three days recording the matter in exacting detail. And the last line of script which they wrote related the following; “Here forthwith let all be warned of monkeys who fall from trees, for they have bananas for brains and will bring disharmony to any home they enter.” And that is the story of Gordon, R.I.P.

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Alice R.I.P.

© - MAURICE O' NEILL - March 2017

Growing up white and of Irish descent in the sprawling tenements of Queens, my mother’s best friend was a large, non-competitive, African lady, who spoke so slowly as to leave you waiting for the words to dribble from her tongue. Simply put, a conversation with Alice was a nightmare. She moved like she talked and it didn’t help that she lived on the fifth floor of a nine storey building, where the stairs were non-compliant at five inches wide and elevators were the marvels of ritzy city hotels. We lived on the first floor and every Wednesday and Friday I was tasked to carry Alice’s shopping to her kitchen. I was innocent to the birds and bees when Alice first touched me. Perhaps she thought she was pleasing me because I certainly got a hard stick as she jerked on me more strong handed than loving. She always managed to somehow flip her big tits out over the top of her blouse, and to this day I don’t know how she managed it with one hand. They were enormous. Her nipples were huge like thumbs and her areolas darker than the surrounding skin. As she attended me, I watched them wide-eyed in amazement with absolutely no idea what to do with them. We never spoke a word or made a sound. I would place the grocery bags on the kitchen counter, turn around, and she would be on me undoing my pants. She jerked on my pecker like a machinist paid per garment. The first time it happened I thought I had done something wrong and she was trying to yank out my intestines. My eyes were golf-balls of pain and pleasure combined, I would grip onto the countertop with both hands to steady myself until my eruption would come splattering over her clothes. The she would immediately sweep me to one side with her imposing bulk on the way to the sink. First she would wash her hands and then towel off her clothes. I would stand pants still around my ankles watching silently and feeling as humiliated and strange as any twelve year old might. It was perhaps eight months later when we first had sex. She brought me to the sofa hiked up her skirt and pulled me on top of her. She was so frigging wet I thought she had peed herself or was leaking. It ran down my legs between hers and I wiped it away with the side of my hand like a squeegee. Sex felt wonderfully good. It was like a hot bath that tickled you at the same time. I remember she made a low slurping sound that seems to hang and echo in her mouth and I believe that is the first sounds either of us ever made. Her sounds make me think of dolphins riding the waves and shortly afterwards my ass started flapping to some involuntary rhythm of its own. I wasn’t quite sure what was happening or why but I definitely didn’t want it to stop. When I came it was amazing. My ass clenched waterproof like a duck and I quivered along the length of my spine like a tin of paint on a HomeDepot mixer. When my penis started squirting like that I wanted to scream the names of my favorite teachers in school. My mother became suspicious some months later. A child should never relish his chores. She never challenged Alice or me, but soon afterwards the errands petered out and Alice would just smile with her eyes when we occasionally met around the building. Alice died last month at the grand age of ninety one years. She spent the last seven years bed bound to the agonies of cancer in an old folk’s home. It was a journey she never deserved. She never married, never had children, seldom had visitors and to all intensive purposes lived the solitary life of a librarian. I feel worthless for not knowning she was in care. Seven years should never escape anybody. I feel as if I have abandoned a part of my own past. Alice was a lovely woman who saw the world slowly without malice, and me as someone worthy of touching with pleasure. Alice I throw you my kisses and invite others to contribute a prayer of good intentions. Goodbye Alice and God bless you.

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Think Sexy

© - MAURICE O' NEILL - March 2017

Before you start reading take a deep breathe hold it for a few seconds and then calmly exhale allowing yourself become even more relaxed and to let your mind drift into a peaceful place in your thoughts as you relax further while consuming my words. Your sexuality is a beautiful thing, treasure it. Displaying sexuality and appreciation is not a sin. To enjoy the pleasure of sex is not a sin. To indulge in your desires and fantasies with willing partners is not a sin. Your sexuality is a gift just as life is a gift. So always appreciate yourself for who you are. Imagine your heart beating strong for me. Imagine it is pumping estrogen or testosterone along with oxygen. Feel it rumbling through your veins so powerfully you can hear it. Hear it in your mind. Feel the force of its energy. Enjoy it. Feel alive with good energy and zest. Imagine that the succulent scent of your sexuality is bubbling through your pores and carried on the air to others around you. Be happy and comfortable in your own skin. And as you continue to breath and relax, I'm going to present some more suggestions – and finding my suggestions reasonable, sensible and in your best interests allow them roost in your subconscious and to ignite with excitement when you become aroused during sexual play. Enjoy the beauty of your own sexual expression. Yes be proud of your sexuality, your stamina and recognize that it is a beautiful and special part of who you are. Romance and lovemaking are not defined by age, or how long you have been a couple. It is an expression of good communication, respect and the sharing of pleasure. Sex is enjoyable. It is caring. It is healthy. It draws people together in emotional pleasure and I wonder now if you will allow yourself feel sexy. Yes to actually feel sexy with yourself and let show it to your partner in your eyes, in your smile and also allow your body behave as nature intended and desire motivates. Don’t be afraid to shed inhibitions. Being sexual is OK. Making the first move is OK. You control your choices, and sexuality is a normal and natural choice in life. Allow all past fears and all feeling of guilt and all reservations to simply fade away. Trust in yourself. Take the reins off your sexuality. Release yourself to pleasure and experiment. Yes take the reins. Doesn’t it feels good to be in control and enjoying what you feel? When you make love let the sounds of satisfaction be loud in your partners ears and let your sounds heighten your experience. Feed each other with the moans of love and actions of body and allow your inhibitions to fade away. Breathe easily and calmly and feel for a moment. Feel and enjoy your liberated sexuality tingling with excitement, like pins and needles on your skin. Feel your whole body alive and willing. Chose to love those who love you without inhibition. Be adventurous and daring. Seek out new pleasures. See yourself now making love to your partner. See how happy you are. And this satisfaction and happiness occurs simply by freely expression your sexuality in pursuit of pleasure. Hold these thoughts close in your mind and enjoy them as I stop writing and you continue to breathe peacefully savoring the wonders of your own sexuality for we are all creatures who truly enjoy pleasure.

FOOTNOTE Did you enjoy? Say hello to the Author.